Ollie Always (24 page)

Jesus.

Oliver Fitzroy does, indeed, do it again.

Ollie had just turned around and smacked, once more, into his sociopathic stalker.

He tipped his head back and huddled into the warm jacket, which, of course, smelt faintly of Tom. Just as with the waffle stand and Mad World moment, real life was conspiring with fiction to undo him.

As he shifted, however, the dog succumbed to gravity and three-leggedness and sank entirely onto Ollie’s lap. He patted him miserably, sunk to lassitude with dejection, watching Tom enlarging the hole in his jeans with a furious picking. Ollie wished he had a beer mat to offer him. Perhaps Bartleby…Ollie, for once, reined in his thoughts and wound them back a step.
Bartleby
. He glanced down and then reversed everything back to the beginning of this horrible argument. Conversation.

Ollie had spent his entire life trying to differentiate between real life and fiction, to separate himself from a character who haunted him. But here he was again. Oliver Bloody Fitzroy. It suddenly occurred to Ollie that instead of running from Oliver, trying to find a real life for himself from the fiction, maybe he should…use fiction to create his reality…

Ollie grinned and pressed his face into the warm fur then wrinkled his nose and withdrew—this Bartleby needed a bath before he came out of his metaphorical trunk and joined Ollie on the kill Oliver adventure.

He turned to Tom, who had by now made the small rip into a very satisfactory hole and appeared to be wondering why. “Come on. It’s late. Can we…put this on hold?”

Tom seemed immediately brighter. “You’re not going to…?” Ollie heard the
run off and leave me again
and allowed Tom a get out of jail free card for not actually saying it.

He simply gave Tom an awkward punch on the arm and waved imperiously toward the mountain.

§§§

As they drove, Ollie wished he had his laptop. He wanted to find a bit of paper and make notes on his plan as he had with his novel. There was an outpouring in his head of schemes and dialogue. But he supposed it could all wait until he got home.

He had the first scene plotted, after all.

At a suitable juncture as Tom was indicating to pull into the bottom of the long driveway, he mentioned casually, “Will you see James soon? Thank him from me?”

Tom only nodded, still apparently deep in his own thoughts.

Ollie pursed his lips as if he were thinking of something to say and said what he’d been carefully planning for some minutes. “It’s a pity about the dog, really. He seems nice.”

“What?” Tom was staring at him then jerked his head back to the dark driveway ahead as they hit a bump. “Pity about what?”

“Oh…James said…didn’t he tell you? He could live quite a long life with…you know…three legs…but he won’t survive another winter in that shed. His joints can’t take the cold.” Ollie knew less about dogs’ joints than he did about sheep or tools, and even he could hear this wasn’t one of his best fictions.

Tom didn’t seem to hear the fallacy though. He kept glancing at the dog and eventually admitted, “I know it’s not very comfortable for him there.”

Ollie could have pointed out something very obvious, but he refrained. “Oh well.”

They pulled up in front of the house, and Ollie quickly climbed out and strode toward the door, calling back over his shoulder, “Let me give you back your jacket,” and deliberately not allowing Tom to actually catch up to him until they were in the kitchen, the incredibly spacious, well lit, warm kitchen. Naturally, the kettle went on, and then they were seated on stools with un-chipped china and a plate of biscuits. Tom was about to announce the inevitable when Ollie said slyly, “They’re paleo.”

Tom’s eyes widened, and he picked one up reverently then bit into it.

Ollie slipped out to the hallway while he had Tom distracted and rummaged in a cupboard. When he returned, he placed an armful of blankets in a corner. Bartleby, clearly well read into his script, immediately made for them and sighed with contentment as he sank into them and nested.

Tom was on his second biscuit and hadn’t apparently noticed the deviousness going on around him. Ollie sneaked the dog a bowl of water and then found some scraps of chicken and ham and put them on a china plate.

Tom suddenly emerged from almond-flour heaven and saw what Ollie had done. Ollie waved his hand in dismissal. “You can take the blankets if you like when you go, but I thought a few minutes of warmth and comfort…”

Tom nodded, eyeing the dog. Then he looked around the kitchen and slumped once more.

“Do you want to…?” How did he finish that? Stay the night? Take a shower? Go to bed with me…?

Tom swallowed visibly, and then they were kissing. Ollie honestly couldn’t work out who’d made the first move this time and didn’t care. They tipped off the bar stools as the intensity of the kissing increased. Tom pressed him back into the counter and fumbled at Ollie’s zip. Ollie did the same to Tom, and at almost the same time they found what they were searching for, yearning for. Ollie groaned. Tom grunted his agreement. There was something very hard and surprisingly hot in Ollie’s hand, something of velvet smoothness like the finest chamois leather and there was a tiny pulse and worry he wasn’t doing it right, and he couldn’t concentrate on the pleasure Tom was giving him until suddenly it was all he could think about as he erupted, knees weakening, whole being sagging into the release and relief, and then holding Tom as warm spurts were wetting his hand and making the grip on the velvety softness slippery, as last, residual sparks fired off all over his body.

Ollie sighed and leant against Tom.

It was a mutual lean. For once, Tom Collins seemed almost frangible. Ollie wanted to tell him this but was fairly sure he wouldn’t get it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It was a very short step from attempting to tidy themselves up in the kitchen to Ollie suggesting a shower. He would have congratulated himself gleefully on his plan—dog ensconced; Tom almost caught—except that he realised corralling life was not like creating fiction—you couldn’t take a break, read back through what you’d written and amend it. Improve the pace, slow it down. Ollie was totally beside himself—literally. He was merely a character in his own fiction now, caught in the trap he’d set for Tom, and with no more ability to slow things down or analyse them rationally than Tom apparently had.

They were undressing now, sharing the work, undoing buttons for the other unnecessarily, ripping off socks and shoes until they stood naked in the dark of Ollie’s bedroom, kissing.

Normally, Ollie detested being dirty in any way. It was his controlling thing again. But for the first time in his life, he wasn’t desperate to wash his hands. He could smell Tom on him as they kissed, his hand wound around the back of Tom’s neck, and the evocative scent made Ollie swell a little once more, a very pleasant filling and rising sensation. He rubbed his hand all over Tom’s hair and then pressed his nose right into the hard scalp, breathing him in. He heard Tom moan in amusement, and he was seized into a hot, tight hug of bare skin and hard bones. He ran his hands down Tom’s back, sizing him up, feeling every knob of spine and bump of ribs until he came to the softer division of rounded flesh and parted it more, exploring.

He glanced down and saw Tom’s cock fully for the first time. It rose a little to the observation, but possibly because of the roving fingers behind. Tom, equally, was admiring him. One finger was wonderingly swirling around the very tip of his cock, and Ollie leant back with a harsh laugh of pleasure. He caught the finger and led Tom toward his shower.

Ollie wondered when Tom had last luxuriated under cascading hot water. There was a limit to what you could achieve with a bowl and a bluey.

Tom stood for a very long time with the water sheeting off his face and hair. He seemed bemused by Ollie’s various selections of shampoos, conditioners, and body scrubs. Bemused but apparently very willing to make full use of them. He enjoyed them even more when Ollie took over the washing for him. Ollie knew a great deal about cleanliness. After all, he’d been taught this at school. Along with bowling and batting. Ollie knew that Tom was remembering this story as he eased Tom’s foreskin gently down and soaped around. Tom seemed utterly lost to the wonder of the moment, and Ollie pictured what Tom’s experiences of showering had been, once he’d paid his money for the privilege. Or showering in the army, come to that. How did you live cheek by jowl with other men, thinking what you were about them?

Very slowly, keeping eye contact with Tom for permission, Ollie sank to his knees under the flow.

Everything ran with water and flesh rippled with illusory movement. He continued to soap Tom, down his shaft, and then further. Tom opened his legs, and when Ollie’s slippery fingers teased around his balls, all Ollie’s earlier ministrations were wasted as, once more, Tom came, shuddering and releasing small shots of fluid into their tiny, liquid world.

Ollie didn’t even hesitate. He caught the bobbing cock and slid his mouth around it, tasting it and catching the last few drops as he ran his lips over the softening length.

Tom swore, his hands on Ollie’s head like a blessing, his face raised to the stream, eyes closed, and for the first time, seeing this, Ollie wished he wasn’t a writer, but an artist.

At last Tom came back to a remembrance of where they were. He grinned down at Ollie and heaved him to his feet. They rinsed and finished off with casual meaningless chat about the heat of the water and such like, so it was very easy for Ollie to ask in the same manner, “Stay for supper? I’ve got some steaks…barbecue’s ready to go. It’s no bother.”

He was so hungry he’d been tempted by Tom’s cock in quite another way to the way he had eaten it. He knew Tom had to be even more starved. He agreed. Ollie left him rummaging for some clean clothes of his that might fit and went to fire up the pit.

They pottered around the kitchen, making salads and dressings, pouring and then drinking wine, and all the while Ollie was crying out inside his head,
this, Tom, this is what it could be
, but he didn’t say it. He was noticing a very distinct smouldering and smoking from his nemesis. Fighting demons took cunning and good strategy.

Bartleby seemed torn between thick, merino wool blankets and steak, and Ollie sympathised. The mutt would have to get used to such choices. So successful had his dog ploy been Ollie was almost tempted to turn fictional Bartleby into a dog, too, but little Freddie having a shaggy dog at his boarding school was firstly logistically unlikely, and secondly might enable Ollie’s readers to work out formative influences on his creative genius. It didn’t really do for a PhD from Cambridge to claim
Five On a Treasure Island
as his favourite book ever.

Tom had managed to find a T-shirt and thick sweater, which not only fit him admirably, they actually looked better on him than they did on Ollie. He’d re-donned his own jeans, being bulkier still than Ollie was. He was utterly edible, and Ollie’s mouth actually watered, until he realised the smell of cooking meat had just reached him.

They sat side by side at the patio table, and Ollie took Tom’s hand with a wry, “Is this allowed?”

Tom twitched his nose and replied equally dryly, “You’ve had my cock in your hand, Ollie, so, yes, I guess it’s okay.”

“But you’d rather not…?”

Tom sighed and changed their grip so he was examining Ollie’s fingers as he spoke. “Have you done this before? I mean, have you had relationships before?”

Ollie found this hard to answer. It was like attempting to distil pointillism down to a single dot and define it that way. It was rather missing the point. “Not like this, no.” Clearly, this didn’t please Tom, so he added, “No. I’ve never really dated anyone. There’s sort of been this succession of men through my life. Not through me! My life! Weekend house parties, the holidays we took—she always had this buzz of men around her.”

“And you.”

Ollie nodded. “Do you know, one of the reasons I held back was because I kept thinking that one of them could have been my father. Imagine that.”

“No, thank you.”

Ollie curled his lip in agreement.

“So…you’ve never…” Tom grimaced. “Fucked another man?”

Ollie shook his head. “I’m a sad disappointment to the Fitzroy name.”

Tom began to laugh, giving him sideward glances of incredulity, but the grip on Ollie’s hand increased. Ollie got that what he’d admitted wasn’t a disappointment at all.

“What about you?”

Tom did release Ollie’s hand then, but only apparently to pat the dog. Ollie began to see a pattern here—stressful question…dog. He foresaw Bartleby being very well patted for a few more days and nights yet.

“Sort of.”

Ollie snorted. He couldn’t help it. Tom appeared aggrieved, but Ollie could see he was play-acting a little. No one could answer
sort of
to
have you ever fucked a man
and not see the funny side of it. Grudgingly, Tom added, “I tried once or twice, but I was always so drunk it didn’t go too well.”

“It didn’t go in?”

“Thank you, Ollie. What would I do without your helpful additions?”

Ollie sipped his wine, thinking. “Did you try it the other way around?”

Tom seemed to seize up like a slug encountering salt. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Is that what you want?”

He turned slightly aggressively toward Ollie and Ollie answered lightly, “I want to eat my steak and watch you eating yours. Having you sitting next to me and chewing is far and away going to be one of the best moments of my life.”

Tom’s jaw dropped slightly. He seemed at a loss for words as usual, but then he replied simply, “Me too.” Then he frowned. “But you chewing…I mean eating anyway…not me.”

Ollie had got that, but he only smiled and took back Tom’s hand for a moment, giving his fingers some gentle encouragement. “Go get them then. I’ll fetch some more wine.”

§§§

Freddie conquered his enemies with flamethrowers, homemade explosions, and roasting sixth-form flesh which, Ollie reflected, suddenly puzzled, was why he’d been sure no publisher would accept him. Who knew? Perhaps they thought the books were allegorical. He assumed they knew what it meant, after all. But being an adult, he much preferred this mature battle with steak, canopied stars and very good wine. Tom, he noticed with great interest, didn’t extend being paleo to being teetotal. Neither had it apparently occurred to him that he had to drive later. Ollie topped him back up, generously, because, obviously, this had not only
occurred
to him, he’d planned it.