Oliver let a soft laugh escape. He walked over to the bathroom and leaned against the door. Matt stood in front of the mirror in a small pair of black underwear that hugged his small, tight ass. His legs were long and thin. He wore a tight, baby-blue shirt that made his green eyes look a shade closer to blue.
He ran his hands through his hair, styling it by ruffling it and making it look messy. He was such a fucking contradiction. He knew Matt felt uncomfortable with too much attention on him but in a way, he called for it. He’d always flirted and looked to hook up and made himself look good in ways Oliver himself had never given a shit about. It wasn’t because Matt was conceited. People thought that of him, but Oliver had never been blinded enough to miss the self-doubt hiding behind Matt’s beauty.
“You’re looking at me funny. Why are you looking at me funny?” Matt’s brows knitted together.
Oh shit. He had been. Goddamned wandering mind and eyes when it came to Matt. “Because you’re funny-looking, pretty boy. Now get some fucking pants on before Miles and Chance show up here looking for us.”
“People usually want me to take my pants off, not put them on.” Matt winked at him and Oliver rolled his eyes. He should have seen that one coming.
“Not me. Your butt is too small for my taste.” Total fucking lie. Matt’s ass would fit nicely in his hands. Who didn’t love a small, tight butt?
“Really?” Matt looked over his shoulder as if he’d never seen his own ass before. “It’s proportionate to my body. If it was much bigger I’d look lopsided.” He turned back and eyed Oliver again. “And I have to tell you, I’ve never had complaints before. I’ve made many a strong man scream with this ass. It should be considered a dangerous weapon.”
Oh Jesus Christ, he was ridiculous. “I’m going to strangle you and then my hands will be the only dangerous weapon. Get your damned pants on before I leave you behind.” Oliver pushed off the counter and walked out of the bathroom before he bent Matt over and showed him a dangerous weapon of his own, that most definitely wasn’t his hands.
Matt sighed before Oliver heard him click the light switch. By the time Oliver made it to the door Matt said, “It’s going to feel weird seeing Miles and Chance again.”
Yeah…yeah, Oliver figured it would be. Still, he turned and asked, “Why?” as Matt grabbed black pants that lay on the bed and began pulling them on.
“You know why, Ollie. Come on. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
Matt was right. He shouldn’t have. “They’re your friends. They missed you too. I don’t know why the awkwardness is there between you and Miles, but it’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Oh, fuck. Now I feel like an asshole. You just sounded like you were talking to an eight-year-old. It’ll be fine, baby. I promise. Daddy will take care of you.”
“Can you please never call me that again?” Oliver teased, making them both laugh.
“Fucker,” Matt said before pulling out a pair of socks and slipping them on. He pushed his feet into a pair of black shoes next. “How do I look?” he asked.
Matt really didn’t want Oliver to answer that honestly. Oliver didn’t want to answer it honestly, either. What he wanted was to go out with his friends and have fun. To enjoy Matt while he was here, not to want him so damn much and to feel okay about it when Matt left for New York.
So he lied and instead of telling Matt he was a wet dream, he shrugged and said, “You’ll do. Now, let’s go.”
*
Wild Side.
The sidewalk outside of the bar Oliver went to every Friday night was packed with people. This, of course, wasn’t anything new in West Hollywood. Matt remembered being a kid and talking about when they would be able to hit some of the bars here together. He felt a little twist in his chest that Oliver, Miles, and Chance had been doing that together for years without him. He had no right to feel it because he could have been here with them—even if it was just when he came to visit—but as much as people liked to pretend they did, emotions didn’t often make much sense.
They got out of the car and the Uber driver sped away as Matt heard the faint competing beats of music from neighboring bars. He would be lying if he didn’t admit that his pulse kicked up a notch. Maybe he didn’t play anymore, and yeah, the style of music was different from what he’d written and played himself, but any kind of music felt like its own heart in his chest. Like he had one to keep him alive and one for music.