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Victor managed to get his legs to still long enough to crawl to the bathtub. He started the water hot enough to scald, dumped in a bunch of soap, then heaved himself over the side. His muscles protested at the sudden change in temperature, and his head swam from the heat, but it wasn’t long before his muscles relaxed as much as they were able—fractions at a time, but the spasms stopped, and he could curl his fingers into actual fists by the time the water started to cool.
He looked over to see the trail of clothes he’d left behind. The last thing he felt like doing was tidying up after himself, but he couldn’t hide forever—and Oliver would eventually come looking if he didn’t show his face.
He wasn’t as much humiliated as he was exhausted and angry that the morning had to start this way. Losing Oliver was going to feel like ripping his own heart out, and this wasn’t how he wanted the man to remember him.
His chest ached.
He took several deep breaths, then attempted a few of his stretches while still immersed before finally pulling the drain plug and propping himself on the edge of the tub. There were two massive towels within reach, so he got himself dry before attempting to stand, and he found the strength to pile his clothes and shove them into the bathroom linen closet to handle after Oliver was gone.
He stood up, using the wall to brace himself as he took careful steps toward the bed, and thanked whatever god was listening that he didn’t fall again as he sat down on the messy bedspread. It smelled like Oliver. Like his sweat, and his come, and also a bit like when he was fresh out of a shower, crawling into the bed with damp skin and soaked hair.
And God, he wouldn’t trade it for the world.
If only he had the world to give.
He dressed in the most casual clothes he owned, still feeling absurdly overdressed for what would be an inevitable day at home, and he decided not to bother with his damn leg braces because he was just over everything. He leaned heavily on his crutches and let the tops of his toes drag along the polished wood floors as he made his way to the living room, where Oliver was sitting with coffee.
There was a second cup sitting on the table for him, still steaming, which meant Oliver had likely been listening for him.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Oliver sighed but said nothing until Victor sat with his hands in his lap. “So…are we going to talk about it? Or are we going to pretend like everything’s fine until you collapse again.”
Irritation skated up Victor’s spine. “Do you really think it’s your business?”
“For”—Oliver held up his empty wrist like he was checking a watch—“twenty-four hours, everything about you is my business.”
Victor’s shoulders tensed, and he felt them rising up toward his ears. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I can tell.” Oliver sipped his coffee once more, then set it down next to Victor’s. The handles touched, and Victor tried and failed miserably not to see it as some sort of metaphor. “So, if I can’t irritate the fuck out of you, what’s on the agenda?”
Victor attempted to hide his smile, but after a beat, he burst into laughter and fell back against the cushions. Oliver took that as permission to scramble on top of his lap—barely covered by a thin, white T-shirt and a pair of blue cotton panties that cupped his dick and balls so perfectly. Victor ran his hands over the tops of Oliver’s thighs and stared at the contrast of their skin tones.
“Do you tan?”
Oliver snorted. “Uh. I burn. Then I turn sort of a mottled dark cream before these sweet, sweet European genes turn me back to pasty.”
“You’re lovely.”
Oliver let out a groan and dropped his forehead against Victor’s. “What about you, pretty boy?”
Victor snorted a laugh. My mother was born in Turkey, and her mother’s from Egypt. My father’s from England, so I think my body’s constantly at war with itself.” Victor eased Oliver back and kissed him slowly, then pressed the tip of his finger against a freckle and traced one to the other in abstract shapes. “Can you decide what we do today?”
“Are you sure? You’re the boss here.”
Victor looked up into Oliver’s doe eyes. “Weren’t you just saying that everything about me is your business?”
Oliver raised a brow at him. “You think that means you’re not the boss?”
“Oh, angel,” Victor breathed, unable to help himself. “You and I both know I’d set the world on fire if you asked me to.”
Oliver said nothing to that, and Victor didn’t really expect him to. After a long beat, Oliver tipped his chin up and kissed him again. He tasted like coffee and brown sugar, and Victor let it linger on his tongue even after he pulled away.
“How do you feel about motor scooters?”
Victor blinked in confusion. “Like…”
“Like the ones you zip around in when your legs are being assholes,” Oliver said.
