Oliver hadn’t planned
on running into Barry during his time with William, but William seemed all too happy to have Oliver’s friend join them, and both Barry and
William had looked so hopeful, and, well, who was he to refuse them?
He’s starting to regret
it, though. Every warm feeling towards Barry that he’d repressed –
every ounce of love and devotion that he’s felt towards the younger
man seems to flurry through him as Barry sits next to him in the diner booth, and William stabs at his chicken nuggets with his fork across from them,
eyes fixed on his plate.
“You look tired,”
is one of the first things that Barry tells him in a concerned voice.
Oliver peers at his
friend, narrowing his gaze. “Well, work has been sort
of… tiring, lately,” he offers weakly, eyes darting towards his
son, and Barry nods in understanding, ducking his head with his lips
dipped into a frown.
“You know, if you
ever need any help for, uh, work-” Barry tells him, and it’s with a
meaningful look that pierces right through him, “You can always ask
for help. I’d race over in a heartbeat.”
It’s a simple statement
– something that Oliver’s always known, but the tone, the look in
his eyes, the way that Barry nibbles on his bottom lip… it’s laced
with a meaning that he can’t quite decipher.
His son, though, having
been distracted from playing with his food, is now staring between
the two men with a smirk on his face, and Oliver sends him a
questioning look. “What’s that look for?”
shrugs, abandoning his fork and dipping one nugget into his ketchup.
“Mom didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.”
Oliver starts in an attempt to correct his son.
“We- we’re not-”
Barry splutters, a panicked look sent in Oliver’s direction, all
wide-eyed and adorable and fuck, Oliver just wants to reach
over and kiss him right then and there.
William just raises his
eyebrows, though, sending them a skeptical look, and damn, the kid is
way more perceptive than Oliver would have expected from someone his
“I should, um… I
should go,” Barry practically squeaks, face flushed and eyes
adamantly avoiding Oliver’s gaze.
It doesn’t take a lot
of thinking. He reaches over and clasps his hand over Barry’s, before
turning his palm to lace their fingers together,
and Barry’s expression goes from panicked to confused in a matter of
seconds, soft eyes once more landing his own, questioning.
“We’ll talk about it
later,” Oliver tells him gently, giving his hand a gentle squeeze and
sending the younger man a soft smile.
replies, his own lips spreading into a hopeful smile. “Later.”
They’re so lost in
staring into one another’s eyes, that Oliver barely registers the
grin lighting up his son’s face as his eyes dart between the two men,
proud of himself for being right about the obvious nature of their