Four Times Oliver Sallow Got Caught Staring at Finn O'Connell

(+1 Time He Didn't Look Away)

+1 In The Future

Twenty years old. A room on the second floor of a uni accommodation in Reading. Finn O'Connell, in the flesh, for the first time in a while.

Although, as Aarun was quick to point out when he walked in on them kissing against the kitchen counter, "It's only been three fucking weeks, you wankers! Get a room!"

They got a room. And now they're here, sitting on Finn's twin-size bed, catching  up before they go out with his—their—friends. It's a spontaneous thing—Kavi won tickets for some underground indie band's gig, Finn called Oliver about it, and next thing he knew he was sitting on a Great Northern service to Reading.

"You probably won't like them," Finn told him on the phone. "James says they're a bit shit."

"I really don't care," Oliver said.

And he doesn't. At all. Because he's in Finn's bedroom, et cetera.

The accommodation Finn and his friends share is honestly pretty nice (even though, as Finn likes to tease, it's not Cambridge?). James has them all on a strict cleaning regiment, and the previous residents left them with a few actually decent pieces of furniture. Finn's room is about the same size as his bedroom back in Blissby, and he put up most of the wall decorations he had there. Whenever Oliver visits, it feels like coming home—though that might just be Finn.

When Finn first came to Cambridge to visit him, Oliver was afraid it would be awkward; that, somehow, their dynamic was dependent on the forced proximity that comes with living in a small town and seeing each other at school every day. He quickly found that it was not. Every time they see each other, they pick up exactly where they left off. Literally.

"Ollie," Finn murmurs against his neck. The feeling of his breath makes his skin prickle. "We really need to get ready at some point."

"It's fine," Oliver returns, smiling as he noses Finn's cheek. "I set a timer."

"You did what?"

"I set," he runs a hand through Finn's hair; it's gotten long enough to curl slightly above his ears, "a timer. So we don't run late."

Finn leans back a little, resting his head on the pillow beneath him to give Oliver a disbelieving look. "When?"

"Before I rang the doorbell, if you must know," Oliver tells him. "Because I am a responsible adult who's fucking sick at time management now. Can we get back to the kissing part?"

"No! You set a timer!" Finn exclaims. His expression of betrayal is somewhat undermined by the way his hand is still resting on Oliver's lower back, having slipped under his shirt a few minutes ago. His palm there is a warm weight. "What happened to romance?"

"I didn't want us to be late and have James be mad at us." Oliver drops another kiss to the corner of Finn's mouth. "And, as dear William once said... Pleasure and action make the hours seem short."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Finn laments and reels him into another kiss. Oliver gladly lets himself be shut up, humming a little in approval when Finn's hand leaves his back and returns a moment later to run gently through his hair. "You're so needy," Finn whispers with so small amount of smugness.

"I'm touch-starved," Oliver says primly. "There's a difference."

With the way he's all but covering Finn, Oliver can feel his laugh as a low rumble in his own chest. "You know," Finn says in a low voice, "maybe when we get back, we can..."

Oliver has to briefly drop his face against Finn's shoulder to hide his face. "Yes." Because this is a thing. That they can do now. That they have done. Several times. And rather successfully, if the full-body shiver that goes through him at the memory is any indication.

"Are you going to set a timer for that as well?" Finn asks sweetly.

"I think you greatly overestimate my stamina."

"Ah, yes." Finn gives a solemn nod. "Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. Or was it the seconds?"

"I despise you."

"Sure you do." Finn drops a kiss into his hair.

Oliver does the only thing one can do when feeling flustered and vulnerable while being cradled in a lover's arms: he bites down on Finn's shoulder, hard enough to elicit a yelp.

"Ouch! What was that for?"

"You know what that was for!"

"I'm sorry," Finn laughs, not sounding very sorry at all, "I just think it's sweet that you get so flustered whenever it comes to this."

"Not everyone was exposed to filthy locker room talk in their formative years," Oliver mumbles into Finn's t-shirt.

"Didn't Shakespeare also write about people shagging?"

"Yes, but those were innuendos."

Finn's fingers gently scratch his scalp in a way that makes his bones feel like they're melting. His voice is unbearably fond. "I see. Next time, I'll just resort to Old English, then. That'll seduce you."

"Please do not."

"You don't think you'd be into that?"

Unfortunately, Oliver is quite certain he'd be into anything to do with Finn. He is spared from having to voice this out loud by the sound of his timer going off. Reluctantly, he disentangles himself from Finn in order to grab it from the bedside table.

While he does, Finn gives him a quick once-over and says, "Your system has a flaw. You haven't done your make-up yet."

Oliver tries (and fails) to hide his satisfaction with himself. "Obviously I included a thirty-minute make-up window. Come on now."

"I see where your priorities lie," Finn sniffs.

Oliver can't help but laugh. It's all he ever seems to be doing whenever they see each other now. Even when they're—he can think the word, he's not that much of a prude—having sex, it's all muffled giggles and smiles pressed into necks, soft reassurances trailing off into breathless laughter, as if neither of them can believe they're lucky enough to have this. This being absolutely all of it.

Finn has been different ever since he left his parents' house. It's as if with every day away from home, something in him uncoils, a year-long tension leaving his body. He hasn't had a panic attack in a while, even after deciding with Samira that he no longer wants to take antidepressants. He's doing well enough that they've put a hold on therapy, though he still has her number in case he ever feels like he needs another session.

Oliver is different, too. The first few weeks in Cambridge were strange. He never expected to make it to twenty—his visions of the future only ever reached as far as eighteen, and when he was dead, he didn't dare think of the future at all. For a few days, it felt like he was inhabiting another person's life; as if he was the stand-in for some other guy who would come back any second and kick him out of his room.

Now, he's... happy. Really, truly happy. Of course classes are hard and he misses his family more often than he doesn't, but he's here. He's twenty years old and he goes to uni and he has a boyfriend who he has sex with and who makes stupid Shakespeare jokes with him while they're making out. He's so grateful for this life he gets to live, he sometimes doesn't know what to do with himself.

While he gets out his make-up bag, Finn shuffles around so he's lying on his tummy, the music from the game on his phone filling the quiet. Oliver settles into a cross-legged seat on the mattress, his hand mirror propped in front of him and his knee pressing against Finn's shin.

He decides to go for his usual look, only adding some more dark green glitter to the corners of his eyes for the occasion. It's as he's cleaning up his lipstick that he notices Finn's eyes on him.

"What?" he asks.

Finn's cheeks turn a little bit rosier. Figures that he can talk about having sex without batting an eye but blushes at being caught staring. Oliver loves him so much it hurts a little. "I love watching you do your make-up. You're so... competent."

Oliver raises an eyebrow. "Competent."

"Yeah." The blush deepens. "And you've got really nice hands."

"I see." Oliver slowly lowers the hand mirror. Still holding eye contact, he tilts his head. "Would you let me do yours?"

Finn blinks. Thinks about it for a moment. "Yes."

That's another novelty: the way that Finn now communicates, easily and with confidence, what he wants. It honestly does things to Oliver. All hail the wonders of therapy.

Smiling, he clears away most of his make-up to make room for Finn in front of him. "C'mere."

Finn shuffles closer so he's sitting cross-legged in front of Oliver. His hands settle softly on Oliver's knees as he gives a crooked smile. "This feels familiar."

"No moustache this time," Oliver promises, and picks up his mascara.

Finn stays obediently still as Oliver does his lashes. They're ridiculous, honestly—they're a light strawberry blonde that makes them appear shorter than they are, but with make-up it becomes obvious how long they are, curling up all on their own.

"Beautiful," Oliver murmurs.

Finn shivers a little, his dimple deepening. His face feels warm beneath Oliver's fingertips as he gently takes his chin in one hand and sets to work on his eyebrows. There's a colour in his eyeshadow palette—because of course he brought his entire eyeshadow palette—that works perfectly for them, enhancing them a little bit but still keeping it much more natural than Oliver's own. After that follows some dark green eye-shadow on Finn's water line, and a little bit of blush on his cheeks.

All the while, Finn sits with his hands resting on Oliver's knees and his breaths coming soft and slow, features relaxed as he lets himself be handled.

"Are you going to fall asleep?" Oliver asks with a small smile.

"No," Finn says, though his eyes remain closed. "'s relaxing, is all."

"We could've done this much sooner, you know?"

Finn's only response is a small hum.

The finishing touch is a little bit of lipstick—not the dark purple one Oliver usually favours, but a cherry-red colour that he carefully dabs on with his finger to make it look somewhat natural. Finding that he isn't quite ready to let go of Finn yet, he spends another few minutes fussing with his hair, until Finn's head softly butts against his hand.

"Can I see?"

Sitting back on his heels, Oliver offers Finn his hand mirror. His breath hitches the moment Finn opens his eyes. Finn without make-up is beautiful; Finn with make-up is downright devastating.

His voice comes out a little faint as he asks, "D'you like it?"

Finn turns his face this way and that as he studies his reflection. Eventually, he grins. "Yeah. I look like I could be in a shitty indie band myself."

"You look..." Oliver rasps, and then abruptly breaks off when he realizes he has no idea how to finish the sentence. He does the only thing he can think of: he slides a hand to the back of Finn's neck and pulls him into a kiss.

Finn kisses him back, soft and slow and perfect, before leaning back with a mournful expression. "You smudged my lipstick."

"That's never stopped you before," Oliver snorts. With his thumb, he gently wipes away the smudge.

Finn is about to say something when there's a thump on the door. "Oi!" Kavi calls out. "Are you two shagging or is it safe to come in?"

Rolling his eyes, Finn returns, "Come in!"

Kavi immediately rips open the door, only to freeze when his eyes find Finn. "Holy sh—Birdie, you're hot!"

Oliver's laugh sputters out of him without his permission. Meanwhile, Finn gives Kavi a wounded look. "You say that like I wasn't before."

"No, I mean, don't get me wrong, you were fit before, but this..." Kavi takes a step closer to the bed, studying Finn with the look of a man going through some kind of internal re-routing. Oliver has to press a hand to his mouth to stifle his laugh.

"I'm sure Ollie can do yours as well," Finn says after a moment.

Kavi's gaze darts over to Oliver. "Seriously?"

"Sure," Oliver says generously. "Sit down."

Finn gets out of the way by planting himself next to Oliver, their shoulders pressing together as he helps Oliver pick out eyeshadow colours. After a while, Aarun and James join them, followed by two of the other boys they live with who Oliver can never quite keep apart.

In the end, they don't end up going out; they stay right there, sprawled across the furniture and floor in Finn's tiny room, taking selfies and getting tipsy on the cheap sangria one of the boys bought in bulk. It's not a scene that Oliver ever would've imagined himself to be a part of, but it feels right all the way to his bones. He doesn't know if he'll ever take the future for granted—right then, he can hardly comprehend that this is his present.

But it is his. From Finn's tipsy clinginess to the blurry pictures Kavi forces him to post on Instagram. All of it, Oliver's.

**************************

i had so much fun writing this chapter :,)

this is the very last time you'll hear from the boys. what are your thoughts on this little glimpse into the future? did i do them justice? 🥹

thank you so much again for reading until here. i honestly don't know if/when i'll post anything on wattpad again, which is honestly a bit scary, but i hope to see you on one of my other books! also, make sure to keep an eye out for LOVE AND OTHER WICKED THINGS which will be in bookstores on august 22nd! i just got a box of paperback copies a few days ago and they're GORGEOUS

if you'd like to keep up with me, you can follow me over on instagram @/phillineharms! if this book ever gets published, that will be the first place i'll yet about it 😌 (manifesting!!) see you there! <3