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It’s not really uncommon for Cooper and Oliver to do things that they both intrinsically know are weird and questionable for two boys who claim they’re only best friends. It’s just that they never acknowledge it, so it might as well not happen. Or, that’s what Cooper likes to tell himself, anyways.
He knows he’s gay. He knows he’s very, very, gay. He’s known he’s gay since the sixteenth time that he’d been called out in class for drifting off because he was too busy looking at Oliver’s face, scrunched up in concentration. What he doesn’t know is how in the world he got here, living in Oliver’s basement with Oliver and occasionally doing things like eating each other’s unwanted vegetables and cuddling on the couch to watch a movie. Like massaging Oliver’s back when he’s stressed out studying for the SATs, when Cooper has to force him to take a step back and unwind, because the cord that wraps around his spine won’t wind up anymore and he’s not being productive.
These are the thoughts that are plaguing him in the middle of the night, these and the memories of Oliver’s tightened shoulders under his hands, while he’s lying half awake and trying to count the bumps on the ceiling in a desperate bid for sleep. He doesn’t have to be up particularly early tomorrow– it’s a school day, and he wakes up naturally for those, no matter how much sleep he’s gotten, but counting bumps to sleep would be so much better than whatever it is his brain has decided to torture him with. It’s reminiscent of what he used to do when he was little, counting cars in his mind’s eye as they zoomed past until he fell asleep instead of thinking about his parents with other kids. It’s not working anymore, though, because his mind keeps drifting back to the boy next to him.
Said boy, actually, is getting up for some reason, even though it’s– Cooper rolls over, squints his eyes at the clock on the nightstand glowing a dull red– 2:27 in the morning. Oliver must hear him, because he stops in his tracks and whispers “Cooper?”
“Yeah?” he whispers back, and his throat is dry and scratchy, his mouth tastes foul. It’s weird, talking in the dead of night. He doesn’t feel like himself. Nothing is real.
“Um, can I–” Oliver stops himself, clearing his throat. His voice is raspy, too, and Cooper is trying very very hard to focus on his words and not the tone of his voice. “Can I sleep in your bed?”
Suddenly Cooper is wide awake and alert. “What?”
“Never mind, it was a dumb idea–”
“Wait, no, why?” Cooper asks. “Did something happen? Did your bed break?”
Oliver sighs, a short, irritated exhale from his nose. “No, I just… I had a nightmare. And I can’t go back to sleep.”
For Cooper’s own sanity, he should say no. He should say that it would be too warm, that he can’t sleep, either, and Oliver next to him wouldn’t sleep. The bed is too small, Oliver snores, Cooper kicks, there’s any myriad of excuses he can pull out of his ass to keep Oliver out of his bed.
But really, all he wants is Oliver in his bed.
“Sure, muchacho. Mi cama es su cama.” Cooper thinks it’s fitting that cama and casa are such similar words, because it does kind of feel like he’s inviting Oliver into his home. Spanish is truly such a beautiful language, he thinks.
“Thank you,” Oliver mumbles, and Cooper’s eyebrows shoot up. He rarely ever says that. I love you, you’re my best friend, but never thank you. Oliver gets into his bed, or, more accurately, gets on top of his bed, lying on the edge and stick straight like a corpse.
Cooper can’t help it– he laughs. Hard, but it’s half past 2 in the morning, so it’s probably justified.
“What?” Oliver hisses, and Cooper laughs harder. He laughs so hard his chest hurts and he’s snorting through the one unblocked nostril he has.
“You look like an idiot. Get under the blanket, amigo, it doesn’t bite.”
Oliver rolls his eyes, kicking the blanket out from under him and pulling it onto himself. “You’re so lucky we soundproofed this floor. Mom would’ve beat both our asses into August like 20 minutes ago if we still lived in my room.”
“And whose fault would that have been?” Cooper grins, immediately hissing when Oliver’s ice cold foot kicks him in the shin.
“Yours, idiot,” he snorts.
“Get your foot off of me!” he yelps.
“You’re the one who invited me into your bed, Cooper,” Oliver says, and Cooper would bet a thousand dollars he has that stupid smirk on his face. “You can’t start complaining.”
“I can and I will, and I’ll kick you onto the couch if you don’t stop harassing me,” Cooper whines, and Oliver makes mocking sounds at him but he relents.
It’s relatively quiet after that. Oliver still stays firmly on his side of the bed, even though the bed is small as hell, out of… he guesses a desire for comfort? Who’s comfort, he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s trying to protect Cooper’s comfort? His maiden virginity? It’s not like he can tell him he would rather be wrapped around him like koala bear on a eucalyptus branch, and wow, he’s surprised that he remembers that word right now.
Either way, Oliver’s warmth is still enough to slowly but surely lull him to sleep, even if the warmth is coming from two feet away. Sometimes Cooper wishes Oliver were more affectionate so he could steal moments that he could pretend were romantic, but that feels creepy and borderline rapey before he realizes that he already does that. So he’s either the worst person in the world, or just in love. The line blurs a lot, he thinks, so he mostly tries to ignore it.
He falls asleep staring at Oliver’s face, in the end. Or, well, the blurry blob that is Oliver’s face. There aren’t any windows in the basement, so it’s unnaturally dark in the night, and even with his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he can just barely make out Oliver’s face as the boy falls asleep. Not like that’s a barrier in any way, though, since Cooper spends so much time looking at Oliver’s face in prime lighting that he can hallucinate it onto his sleeping form.
Scary thought to have at 2 in the morning, but it’s less scary in practice, because all he sees (hallucinates) is Oliver with his eyes closed and mouth just ever so slightly opened, lightly snoring (he’s not hallucinating that part, he can hear him snoring). Windows would be perfect right about now, and Cooper shivers a bit imagining the moonlight pouring into their basement flat and illuminating Oliver’s face just enough for him to finally count all of his freckles. It’s almost summer and they’re blooming on his face like perfect little flowers, surprising Cooper every time he looks his way and sees the spots on his best friend’s face. He falls in love a bit more each time.
Maybe if the moon were out, he’d be comparing Oliver’s summer freckles to the stars, and he doesn’t doubt that he could trace constellations into them. He dreams one day of sitting under the stars with Oliver and just looking at his face and memorizing every freckle, mole, and quirk of his face. If he tries hard enough, Cooper thinks he could very accurately hallucinate Oliver without him even being there. Blank canvas? Try no canvas.
That’s the thought that carries him into sleep, lying under the stars and mapping them onto Oliver’s face.
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Cooper wakes up like he always does, alone. That’s not the uncommon part. What is uncommon is the crushing sense of emptiness he feels, followed by rolling himself into someone else’s indent in his bed.
Oh, right. Oliver was here last night.
It’s not a surprise that he’s up earlier than Cooper, he always is. But it feels… worse, somehow, knowing Oliver was in bed with him, woke up next to him, and made the choice to leave.
Which is objectively stupid, obviously. They have school. Actually, Cooper should be getting out of bed right the fuck now and getting ready. He can hear the commotion from upstairs, because even though the basement is soundproofed, they can still hear from upstairs. Upstairs just can’t hear them. Which is very, very convenient, and Mrs. Otto hates it.
Speaking of, he can hear Mrs. Otto yelling at Oliver and Anna-Kat as he lies in bed like a rock, which is unusual, because Mrs. Otto never yells at Anna-Kat if she can help it, which means Cooper actually should’ve gotten out of bed yesterday.
But it’s fine, he tells himself, this is why he picks out his outfits a week in advance, anyway. He deserves to hold onto the memory of Oliver sleeping next to him last night, because it will 100% never happen again, and they are 200% never going to talk about it. When he goes upstairs, he’s going to lose this moment forever, he’s going to lose it to Oliver’s constant forced nonchalance, the mask he’s oh-so-carefully crafted over years of living in Westport to never show too much affection to Cooper, to never fully show his hand, like, ever. He’s going to go upstairs and Oliver will whisper about the girl in his calculus class who he’s been crushing on as if he hasn’t completely rewired the way blood pumps to his heart for the umpteenth time. Hell, what does he pick his outfits out in advance for if not to spend an extra minute or two cuddling with the imprint of the boy he loves in his bed?
…Yeah, it’s time to get the hell out of bed.