Northstar Boys (Regie×Oliver)

Chapter 7

Just another stage of Drunk Oliver - tequila shots equals stripping. There is no power on God's green earth which can stop him. The moment the limes come out, Oliver disappears and in his place stands an exotic dancer named Candy. He is already working the belt, leather mostly undone by the time you rush into your room.

"Whoa, whoa!" you blurt, grabbing his hands with your own. "Let's just go to sleep, okay? Keep all your clothes on."

"But it's hot," Oliver complains, blowing hair from his eyes. It is unfair that, even sweaty and drunk, Oliver still looks amazing - he stares back in your bedroom, gaze dark with frustration and it is hard not to imagine the situation as different.

This thought makes you shiver, a hopeless emotion you disentangle yourself from quickly. "Fine," you agree. "Leave your boxers on, okay?"

Oliver nods happily, pushing his jeans to the floor. When they are gone, he flops down on your mattress, rolling upwards to face you. "Regie." Oliver lifts his hand in the air; an exact replica of the Creation of Adam. "Aren't you coming?"

Hesitating, you glance over your shoulder. It would be best to sleep on the couch because Oliver is big, your bed is small and if you slept pressed against him, you might not survive. That would make two separate occasions of being held in his arms and you do not think you could survive being torn from another.

"I," you hesitate, shaking your head. "No, Kookie. I'm going to sleep on the couch, okay?"

Oliver's lower lip protrudes. "But we're best friends. Best friends share beds."

Stifling a laugh, you cross your arms over your chest. "No, they don't."

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Yeah-huh."

"Nu-uh."

"Regie," Oliver exhales, falling suddenly quiet. "Please?"

He says this so simply, something inside of you caves and unable to think of a response, you walk over. Oliver watches you carefully, hair mussed from his hands before he rolled onto his back. He watches you gently, eyes no longer as glazed as before. You take a deep breath, unbuttoning the top of your jeans.

"Don't look," you mumble - it is too late to hold any sort of conviction but Oliver nods despite this, following instruction.

He drapes one arm over his face, revealing the flat strip of his stomach while you try not to stare. The sight inspires dubious thoughts in you, like licking various parts of your best friend's body and you cannot allow such images to continue. Shaking your head, you step free of your jeans and walk to your dresser. You are careful to pick the least sexy pair of pajamas you own - tattered, raggedy bottoms with a plain white camisole and, pulling your blouse overhead, you hear a quiet intake of breath.

Craning your head, you spot Oliver staring - he does not even try to hide his guilt, gaze locked on your hips. "Oliver!" you scold, making him jump.

"Sorry!" he blurts, ducking his head.

After another peek to make sure he really is not looking, you unhook your bra and toss this fall to the floor. Tugging the camisole down, you grab your pants to hop, nearly falling as you yank them up to your waist. Facing your bed, you find Oliver's eyes firmly shut.

"Can I look now?" he mumbles, voice low.

When you nod, you realize he cannot see. "Yeah," you inform, pulling back your covers to sink down beside him. "You can look."

His eyes open. It is odd, you think, roaming his face. You are not the only one being careful, not the only one being safe - Oliver seems cautious as well, holding himself to the edge of your bed. His body is tense, back nearly pressed to the wall. When you lower yourself onto the pillow, he stares for a moment.

"Regie," he whispers.

"Sh," you respond, scooting closer. "Go to sleep, Oliver."

He nods, lowering his head to the sheets beside yours. He is too big for this, you realize. Your mattress sinks to the center and after several long moments of fighting gravity, you decide to give in. It is like sinking into quicksand; your body slides forward to mold against his.

To his credit, Oliver does not respond - the only noticeable reaction is an exhale, a tiny sound you know will haunt future dreams. He shifts and it is obvious to you both what he conceals but neither one of you mentions it, neither one of you says it out loud. You are not sure how long this moment lasts, a stand-off of wills but eventually it dissipates and your eyes slowly close. It is during the strange, drifting moment between sleep and awake you feel Oliver's arm slip over your waist.

"Regie?" he whispers, near the side of your face.

"Shut up," you mumble, pressing closer.

He chuckles, breath warm at your ear. "Are you awake?"

"I guess so," you mutter, "thanks to my dumb drunk best friend."

"Not so drunk, anymore."

Finally, you open your eyes.

He stares back at you, the room quiet but for the buzzing of the air conditioner in the corner. A car horn honks, dim in the distance and you hope it covers the sound of your beating heart because Oliver can probably feel it, lying here next to you.

"Tequila move through you that fast, huh, Oliver?

The mac and cheese helped," he admits, toes brushing your shin. You forgot this fact about him; Oliver sleeps like a child, curled into himself like a ball. It was something you found endearing that night on the couch - before he kicked you off it, of course. "I can't fall asleep."

"Oh," you say, blinking back at him.

He smiles, the sleepy kind which crinkles his eyes. "Hey." Oliver changes the subject. "How are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" you say, expression shuttering. "I'm tired, I guess."

"That's not what I meant," Oliver whispers.

When he says this, you sigh because you know what he means - but you do not want to talk about Justin. "I'm fine," you mumble, as he shifts closer.

"When I broke up with my ex," Oliver starts, and you make a noise of surprise.

Oliver never talks about his ex - a girl from your high school, someone you knew only vaguely. Her face is familiar but if you placed her in a lineup, it would impossible to single her out. Oliver was wild about the girl; you would see them in the halls between classes, hanging over each other while they sucked face at the lockers. You remember hearing something awful happened between them, something which broke them up senior year, but in the entire three years you have known Oliver, he has never once mentioned her name.

"When I broke up with my ex," Oliver repeats, quieter. "It was because she cheated on me."

"Oh, fuck."

"Yeah," Oliver nods. "We did that, a lot. Problem was she fucked my best friend, too and I didn't like that."

"kane?" you gasp, surprised.

"No." Oliver rolls his eyes, his arm still draped over your waist. "My best friend from high school - Sungmin."

"Oh," you allow, relaxing into his grip. kane is on the hockey team with Oliver; he is the star right winger and an absolute sweetheart. "I didn't think he'd do that."

Oliver arches a brow at your mistake. "Anyways," he continues. "She cheated on me, I found out over text and it was awful," he says, looking down at the sheets. "All that to say I get it - sometimes you love someone and it doesn't work out. It works out in the end, though," Oliver mumbles, voice heavy. "Things will always get better."

"Will they?" you mutter, though you do not really mean that.