Opposites Attract ━━ Paul Lahote

//. 𝕍𝖎 . //

Oliver would like to fuck his doctor. Or more precisely, he'd be more than agreeable in getting fucked by this blonde haired, golden eyed, oozingly sexy, white doctor coat wearing god.

His second thought upon waking up in Forks Community Hospital is thank fuck people can't mind read.

"Vitals all good, temperature returning..." Well hello gorgeous "...you've had a rather lucky escape, Mr Wicca." Oliver shakes his head. He must be drooling.

Right, now he remembers. Ocean. Freezing. Near drowning.

Brown eyes

Wait, what?

"Thank you Carlisle, for seeing to my Nephew at such late notice."

It's Polly. Oliver turns towards his Aunt, eyes begrudgingly adjusting to the buzzing fluorescent lights above before zoning in on her. Unlike him, Polly is dressed for the weather, impeccable red leather coat and matching brown boots a stark contrast to the sterile ward. It's only then that he realises the time of day, glum sunshine replaced by even dimmer evening gloom. He tries not to wince as he sits up, suddenly feeling bruised on his...come to think of it Olivers not quite sure where he's not bruised.

"What happened?" He asks, blue eyes flickering to Dr Cullen's name tag before zoning in again on those beautiful eyes, trying not to stare.

Yeah, his doctor is a dreamboat.

Oliver cocks his head as Dr Cullen chuckles. Maybe he knows he's Roman statue-esque and used to the stares. Bet he's a real hit with the geriatric ladies at the hospital. Oliver tries not to bristle, staring to feel self conscious in his skin.
His jeans are ruined, acid wash blue now a murky brown and stiff with salt. His shoes are missing, along with his T-shirt. He's wearing a blanket, which on second glance seems to be a large fleece coat. He leans down, cheek rubbing into the soft lining material and he feels the sudden sensation of devastating loss. As if there is something horribly wrong right now, something missing, there's a burning question on the tip of his tongue, he needs to know, to know who, who-

"Who wears red fucking tartan?" Dr Cullen stares at him, eyes flicking to the jacket then to his Aunt. Polly roles her eyes.

"Glad to see your impeccable taste in fashion hasn't been disturbed by your fun little day at the beach!" Polly thumps him non too gently on the head with her umbrella. She turns to Dr Cullen, picture perfect smile on her red lips, "I'm sure you have many a patient requiring your attention, it seems my Nephew will survive his ill fated suicide attempt into the Atlantic Ocean." Which, weird. Oliver is fairly certain he wasn't trying to kill himself. Toaster in the bath would be his forte, not running into freezing September water. That's a little too 5 year old unaccompanied at the beach for his taste thank you very much.

It's only when Polly has checked his paperwork, agreeded that she'll be on suicide watch for at least 48 hours, and paid in cash for his visit (because of course Polly doesn't do insurance, and carrying that much cash is normal) that Oliver starts to remember. Crashing Waves, and shouting. Thoughts of crossroads and family. A sudden sensation in his chest. The need to get into the water like his life depended on it, or someone's life depended on it. Someone else's heart, a boys heart, a boy-

Polly catches his panicked thoughts as they exit the hospital into the twilight evening. She grabs his arm, steel gaze meeting his and before he can utter even a word she's speaking, small frown lines decorating her sculptured face.

"Oliver. Now this. This is important- eyes on me, good. Now sweetness, I need to talk to you about something important-"

As she speaks all Oliver can think of is-

Eyes. Strong arms, strong heart. Brown eyes.