Work Text:
Olivier waited and waited until Bernard’s breathing went even. Straining his ears to make sure both his friend and his eavesdropping brother were asleep, Olivier finally dared turning to face his bedfellow. Rest looked good on Bernard—strong features softening, walls lowering in an implicit display of comfort. He was only in a short day-shirt, unguarded and disheveled and the most alluring Olivier’d ever seen.
And how he’d longed to feel Bernard’s strong frame in his arms once more! To feel Bernard’s lips upon his flesh! Alas, not an hour had passed since Olivier’d welcomed his friend into his bed and yet he was craving again! Perhaps made it look like an accident? Draped his arm loosely over Bernard’s middle? The bed was narrow—that’d be enough reason not to raise any suspicions. Olivier tried a few times, hovering his hand over Bernard’s form, conjuring up how human anatomy was supposed to work. His muscles quickly got tired from all the pretending, though, and Olivier withdrew his arm in defeat.
Frustration gnawed at him. Bernard was leaving—“for good,” he’d said—and Olivier doubted he’d have another chance to share a bed with his friend any time soon. He wished Bernard hadn’t made such a drastic decision in so short a notice—but that was how Bernard functioned, fuelled by some curse of knowledge. What family matter was so urgent that he must leave at once? The Profitendieus loved him, surely anything could be resolved if they talked about it. And how Olivier feared for his friend whose path ahead was that of a wanderer!
Olivier knew his father—as well as several others who were polite enough to keep their mouth shut—didn’t approve of his friendship with Bernard. But Olivier, youthful and stubborn and impulsive, didn’t care one bit. Why should he regard the opinions of those stuffy highbrow cultured people? Only Bernard stayed true to himself—free as a bird, inquisitive and strong and proud. And he loved Olivier, just as Olivier loved him.
The thought made him pause. Did Bernard share these same sentiments? Olivier trusted in their friendship, in the fact that Bernard had never asked anything of him (until now, while he was in huge crisis—and Olivier’s heart fluttered at that confidence), in the way Bernard called him “my dear Olivier.” Sure, Bernard acted indifferent towards him in public, but Olivier wasn’t so different—their intimacy wasn’t something to be so callously shared to the world and twisted by others’ jealousy. Yes, they were both in frequent company of women—Olivier even more so, loving-hating that lingering first taste of a tart just recently—but Olivier only felt as satisfied and right when it was Bernard that was in his proximity. No one got him like Bernard did—his spirited Bernard who had never cowered at the face of Olivier’s wisdom beyond his years, of his supposed beauty that drove away dainty ladies and handsome gentlemen.
Or did he? He couldn’t have forgotten his uncle Edouard so soon—excuse him, there was little space in his mind for anything else whenever Bernard occupied his thoughts. Edouard did manage to squeeze in the tiny room—gentle, patient Uncle Edouard whom he hadn’t known very well but was rather fond of. But there was this distance between them. Perhaps his uncle found him too young and naïve and foolish yet. He seemed bored at times—of course, for Olivier could never match Edouard’s worldliness. So he’d have better luck sticking to his peers—and at that he was prompted to return to Bernard’s twitching features.
Olivier sighed as sleep pulled at him. Fine, fine. Overthinking while in the company of this beau—whose body was cooling him (siphoning his body heat?) even across that inch between them—had proven to be a waste of time. He should’ve just yielded and let their natural dynamics do the work. Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner?
Foolish little me, Olivier muttered and lay on his side, returned to counting Bernard’s breaths and fell asleep in the middle of it.