Chapter Text
OLIVER
Did he believe Saltburn was haunted? No.
Did not believing make it any less eerie to pad along these endless, gloomy hallways?
The answer to that was also a resounding no, and Oliver regretted the anxious streak that led to him rejecting The Help in favour of doing things himself. If Felix wanted a can of co*ke at two in the morning, he had no qualms about sending a text and having it brought to him, probably on a tray alongside a glass filled with ice and a slice of lemon. Oliver simply couldn't bring himself to be that casual about having staff- he didn't like thinking of them as servants, either. Asking for such trivial things felt like an imposition, never mind that Felix's legion of employees were paid well for exactly that reason. It wasn’t even Saltburn-specific; once it got late, Oliver felt weird ordering room service at hotels, and using food delivery apps, and…
A flicker of motion made him jump, before he realized it was his reflection, blurry and indistinct. He’d mentally categorized a window as yet another painting, the bulky curtains reading as some ugly, overly ornate frame in his periphery.
He should have brought his phone, or just turned on a light, but something in him balked at the thought. Maybe it was a shade of some long-gone Catton, whispering we can't give our position away to the Jerries in his ear… Oliver shivered, then shook his head as hard as he could.
For f*ck's sake, he was worse than Felix. It had been a while since Oliver had read anything spooky, but now he made a solemn vow to reserve anything even horror adjacent for Oxford Only. Even though M. R. James would be perfect for reading aloud around a roaring fire. Considering those stories… Maybe that could be his next published paper. Some analysis about Horror as The Other: Montague Rhodes James- hom*osexuality, Hauntings and… He winced. It felt too on the nose. Too blatant, too… Too gay? That made him suppress a laugh, the sound loud as he tried to walk silently. Felix's dressing gown was big on him, cuffs threatening to slip over his hands, and it rustled as he walked. Here he was, with obvious sex hair, in his underwear and his fiancé's long red robe, shying away from seeming too gay.
What was wrong with being being too gay anyway? After all, he wasn’t closeted any more; Oliver could be as just as gay as he wanted to be, both around his family and his colleagues. It was a little jarring to think of himself as hiding at Oxford, but he had been. Oliver had tiptoed around his own identity, made sure to include what were often considered outsider narratives in his lessons yet kept as much as he could of himself secret. Oliver wasn’t about to march in Oxford Pride any time soon, although he wouldn't put it past Felix to join the parade, but there was still the instinct to be subtle. Yet his straight colleagues telegraphed their heterosexuality in a million ways, entirely unconsciously.
They had made it so easy to stay stealthy, too, and Oliver had played along rather than be known. He'd let his colleagues- well, the male ones, mostly- assume things; the comments about wives and girlfriends, inevitably followed by you know what they're like. On the few occasions when he'd been invited over for dinner or out for drinks, there'd always been a slapdash seeing anyone? If you are, bring her along! The more the merrier! His nonexistent partner was always presumed female. Even Ware's initial impression that he and Felix were out together to bolster Harry’s grades, rather than going on a date, was par for the course. A lot had changed in the twenty years since he'd been a student, but… Not enough, he supposed. That, or he'd clung to an environment that was- in many ways- moving far more slowly than the world around it. Oxford was far more diverse than it had been when he was a teenager, but that wasn’t exactly hard. If they'd been students now, Farleigh wouldn't be the only mixed-race pansexual menace on campus, but Oliver doubted there were more than three.
There was a void, then. A lack of representation. Did that mean he had a… Responsibility to be more open? Be a… But he didn't want to be a role model, it was too much pressure, but did role models have to be inspirational to the level of Nobel prizes or Olympic medals? When he was nineteen, it had seemed impossible for someone like him to live a normal life. His own view of himself had been clouded; he hadn’t thought that he could be gay and boring. Maybe there was another young, unsure nerd, who didn't know that he had options, and Oliver could be that last piece of the puzzle. Proof that you could be a man and love a man and not need to fit into whatever stereotype seemed mandatory when you were first stepping out into the world.
On the subject of loving a man… He was nearly at the kitchen. The faster he was now, the faster he could get back to Felix. The thought made him grin goofily despite himself, gathering the dressing gown a little tighter. A day in bed… Oliver was hungry for it. Being lazy, sex that was about the journey rather than the destination. He wanted to gorge on Felix, try to fill the pit inside him- not that there was any way he could come close to it. Oliver would die unsatisfied, because the only thing that would grant him peace would be crawling inside of Felix's skin. Melding together somehow, becoming one in a literal sense rather than figurative.
Even now, he carried Felix with him. His scent, so ingrained in the dressing gown that even washing it couldn't get rid of it. In the delicious, achey awareness between his legs. Every thought was tinged with Felix, like salt dissolved in water. It was just so good to be home. Felix's manservant act had been fun, of course it had, but Oliver wanted the actual Felix. Artfully scruffy, full of bad jokes and sulkiness and a limitless capacity to be adored. Catton the Butler didn't quite cut it, although Felix had suited being soaked to the skin.
Maybe Oliver could push him into the pool in the summer. Play it off as a joke, before seeing if they could kill another pool lounger.
The kitchen was quiet, aside from the industrial hum of the refrigerators. The room was lit by numerous LEDs, pinpricks of red and green, white glowing numbers announcing that it was past two in the morning- if they were correct, of course. The clock on Oliver's oven was never right, but he rarely paid attention to it, so it seemed unrealistic to expect accuracy. Of course, Oliver knew that it was late, but his sleep pattern had been kicked firmly out of alignment by his stay at Lucia’s. He'd need to fix it before term started, but tonight was a write-off. He'd tried to sleep, but being back in close proximity to Felix had given Oliver worse jitters than three cups of strong coffee. He'd lain in bed, waiting and hoping to find himself drifting off, but every breath Felix took woke him up more. This little kitchen excursion was a last-ditch attempt to calm down; he didn't want to wake Felix up, but neither did he want to lie awake all night and ruin whatever they'd be doing the following day.
It had seemed almost foolproof. Go for a little walk. Grab a drink of something without caffeine or too much sugar from the well-stocked fridge that held a corner shop's worth of cans. Maybe sit in the long gallery to drink it, then go back to bed. Sleep.
The problem was that Oliver was beyond foolish tonight. He was… Felixish, a thought that made him giggle as he pulled the fridge door open and squinted into the stark white light. Rows of cans, neat and tidy, and none of them had any appeal. He didn't want sweet and cold and fizzy, he wanted…
Oliver licked his lips. The cold of the fridge had his skin prickling, hard nipples grazing the fabric of Felix's dressing gown. He wasn’t thinking, tugging the fabric up to cover the bottom half of his face, inhaling. Felix. What he wanted didn't come in a can; it came in his mouth, but… He sighed, letting the fridge door go. It swung shut, leaving him in darkness. His eyes needed to adjust; he closed them, resigning himself to how weak-willed he was.
Oliver was going to wake Felix up again. Of course he was. He couldn't even bring himself to feel guilty about it; Felix wasn’t a delivery driver or hotel night receptionist. Felix was… Well. Felix was as necessary as the fire brigade or an ambulance. This wasn't a need that could wait til morning; he couldn't ignore it, couldn't put on his sensible mask and be the reasonable one. He spent so much time in denial, playing it safe, being good. It was tiring, keeping up a pretense of sanity, and it wasn't even necessary. If Felix knew, really knew, how wild he made Oliver… He’d never shut up about it. He’d be screaming from the rooftops, if he'd leave Oliver alone for long enough.
Oxford was different. Oxford called for self control tighter than handcuffs, because if he went off the rails there, there would be consequences. The same went for anywhere public, to a slightly lesser extent, but in Oxford he was far more likely to cross paths with acquaintances, and Felix was hard to miss even in a crowd.
Saltburn, though, in their rooms, or whatever part of the house they could cordon off… Or, if they once again gave the staff a break when the kids were away… Saltburn had no rules. Saltburn had no law. Saltburn protected them, Saltburn loved them-
The lights snapped on, and Oliver spun, clutching the dressing gown to his chest in a manner far too Blanche Dubois to be anything other than camp. Max stared back, round-eyed, clutching at the door handle. f*ck. At least he hadn’t gotten too far into his imagination; there was nothing to hide, other than being in just his boxers underneath Felix's robe, and that was so big on him that it hung to his ankles. Yes, he was probably so clearly post-coital that it would have been more subtle if he had a neon sign attached to him announcing that this man got laid, but… This was his house. Max was his student, too, and although Felix had lain down the law… Well. Oliver probably needed to do some damage control. He blinked, owlishly, before trying to smile. It felt stiff, and he knew it didn't quite meet his eyes, but that was appropriate for an accidental night-time meeting like this.
“Sorry.” Max was bare-faced, wearing a baggy Lady Gaga t-shirt and black jogging bottoms. The harsh fluorescent lights were doing him no favors, but Oliver supposed that went for both of them. “I… I'll go, sorry, I just…”
Oliver sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. It'd only make it stick up more, but the gesture felt… Like a tired dad, actually. He didn't want to be Max's father, but channeling Jeff when one of his sisters had a sleepover seemed like the safest option. “S'alright. I was about to head back to bed- help yourself.”
There was a large metal work surface between them- Oliver went right, Max taking the other route. Ollie's feet clung to the cold linoleum floor, each step sounding sticky, and he longed for hardwood floorboards and antique rugs. He'd almost gotten out of the door when Max made a sound; not quite a throat clearing, but also not involuntary. It would have been easy to ignore, but Oliver turned. Max was looking at him again, eyes watery and bottom lip trembling. “Am I still- are you still going to teach me?”
Oliver's brow furrowed, and he leaned against the open door, making sure the dressing gown was tightly closed and belted. “Why wouldn't I be teaching you, Max?”
He hadn't told Oxford about… Well. Everything. He had been considering it, but Ollie had been shying away from typing the words one of Harriet's friends stumbled upon myself and my fiancé in an intimate moment. He’d been considering compromising position, but he couldn't quite figure out which sounded better, because they both sounded far more explicit than they actually were.
Max twisted the hem of his t-shirt in his fingers, and Oliver wished he'd just let Felix tell him off at the start. He'd consider that a lesson learned. “I… I spoke to Felix. And I heard… But he said…”
Oliver felt himself cringe, needing to look away, before holding up a hand. Max stopped immediately, as relieved as Oliver was to not mention it.
“What you overheard was private, and I don't want to discuss it- I'd rather you forget it ever happened. I'm trying to.” He'd tapped into his teacher voice. Calm and collected, yet not quite enough; Oliver forced himself to look at Max, be confident. “But I do appreciate your concern for Felix, even if you jumped to conclusions there.”
“He told you about…” Max went paler, adam's apple bobbing.
“We tell each other pretty much everything. But I don't want to keep going over it, Max.” Oliver didn't move closer. Safer, to keep his distance, even if this probably wasn't a conversation to have across a large kitchen.
“You're still one of my students, if you want to be, but if you do… I need you to be more respectful when we interact, Max.” Oliver shoved his hands into his pockets, before abruptly pulling them out with a groan. “f*cking… Felix.”
Dog treats. Small ones, only one or two, but Oliver’s hands were coated in clinging, slightly damp, chicken-scented crumbs. There went his scholarly demeanor, and he grimaced as he tried to brush his hands clean. It didn't work- he glanced towards the sink, then back to Max. “Mind if I wash my hands?”
“No.” Max tried to smile again, and it was slightly less pained than before. Oliver headed to the sink, hearing a deep inhale. Max gearing up for something. “I'm sorry. For making you uncomfortable. It was sort-of a joke, but… It got out of hand.”
“I thought so.” Oliver rolled up Felix's sleeves, glad he had an excuse for avoiding eye contact. “You're an adult, Max, so I’m going to be blunt- you can't be joking like that. The consequences… Not just for me, but… You're young, Max. You have to be careful with yourself. Only you can guarantee your own safety.”
He- carefully- slid his engagement ring off, putting it in the pocket that wasn’t full of crumbs. He could see Max’s reflection in the shiny bottom of a pan that was drying; his head was hanging, still twisting at his t-shirt. “I know it's hard. Being out, being proud- that's an achievement, Max, I was in Narnia when I was your age- it's good, but it can make you vulnerable. Not just to people who think it's wrong, but… It can be isolating, being out and unapologetic, and there are men out there who'll use that to their advantage, and hurt you in the process. If I was one of them...”
Soap puddled in the palm of his hand, and he put the tap on. Not too hard; a steady trickle that wasn’t too loud in the quiet kitchen. Back to his earlier thoughts about being a role model. Good that he’d been considering it; it meant his ideas were fresh, he hadn’t had time to dwell and overthink and let his own mind stomp them to dust. “Not that it'd be your fault, if someone… Hurt you. But you can only rely on yourself, unless…”
f*ck, were his eyes welling up? They were, but Oliver was smiling too; he was glad his back was to Max, because- as ever- Felix had made it stupid. “Unless you find someone who you know cares about you properly. Like me and Felix. We look after each other- even though he's a liability at the best of times- but… I'm rambling.”
His hands were clean and he grabbed a tea towel to dry them, resolutely blinking away unshed tears as he turned back to Max. “Fresh start, and begin as we mean to go on. It'd mean a lot, Max, if in… Ten years, maybe, I could count myself as a positive influence on your development. See you live up to your potential, because you've got it. I mark your papers, after all, I should know.”
Max's mouth had stretched wide; it made him look a little like a frog, and Oliver realized he was trying not to cry too. He really wanted to avoid any sort of emotional hug scenario. “Do you really think so?”
“Max, you got into Oxford. That's… That's big. Was it- did you say you wanted to be a journalist? Think it was at the start of term?” He tilted his head as Max nodded, arms folded as if he was holding himself up. Oliver felt very tired, which was more irritating than anything else. God forbid he be able to sleep when he wanted to; no, he had to be stifling a yawn when he was having a serious discussion that had only come about because he couldn't sleep. “Come to my office hours once term starts. I'm here to help you, Max, I have connections- Felix has connections. You'd be good at it. Your work's analytical enough.”
“And I wouldn't… If I went to a job interview, and I had my lips and my nails… They’d laugh at me, wouldn't they?” Max touched his mouth, an apt demonstration of both his… Oliver supposed they were Max's armor. A sign of rebellion, too, because his concerns about job interviews were parrotted from somewhere.Oliver wasn’t going to askwhere from,because he still wanted to escape.
“Dunno who gave you that idea, Max, but it's not the seventies any more. You can be a journalist and absolutely slay, if that's the right word. I'm not exactly… Harry's made me watch drag race, but…” He shrugged, and Max hiccupped a laugh. “It's not really my vocabulary. But it's late, and I'm knackered. What were you looking for?”
“Ice cream.” Max was surreptitiously wiping his eyes, and Oliver ignored it, gesturing towards one of the big chest freezers.
“I think it's in that one. Check the dishwashers for spoons- let Fredders know you borrowed one in the morning, if you leave dirty cutlery in the sinks overnight you'll be in Penny’s bad books, and even I can’t help with that.”
