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It’s well past midnight, one of the rare times when Saltburn actually rests. From dawn until dark, there are always people bustling about the grand house, straightening curtains, turning down bedcovers, polishing the already sparkling silver. When Saltburn is finally his, Oliver plans to kick them all out and allow a few well-earned cobwebs. He can just picture himself, dancing naked through the halls, the curtains pinned back and the sunlight illuminating his flesh and swirling motes of dust.
For now, Saltburn is occupied, but quiet. Oliver is in his night clothes. The stone floor is cold beneath his knees. He’s got Farleigh bent over the sideboard at the bottom of the Red Staircase, hands braced on either side, back arched, brown skin stretched beautifully over the sharp knobs of his spine. Oliver reaches up, runs his fingers down the line of it, watches with fascination as Farleigh shivers, breaks out in goosebumps.
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“All I’m saying,” Klaus is saying, “is I’m still offended.”
Diego has only been half-listening, and Klaus only makes complete sense at the best of times, so he’s sort of lost. “Offended?” he repeats through a mouthful of bran. “About what?”
Klaus’ face lights up, like he wasn’t actually expecting Diego to take the bait.
“You.” And here, he points the butter knife he was using to overload his toast with jam in Diego’s direction, a move that is both ballsy and incredibly stupid, which is actually pretty on-brand for Klaus. “You said you wouldn’t date me.”
“I wouldn’t,” Diego says matter-of-factly. “Like I said, you’d be the last person I would date.”