8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Oliver

The initial thrill that Oliver had been feeling from holding Floyd's hand had long since passed, leaving him with the sudden, terrible fear that Floyd might not really like him back enough to want to keep their agreed-upon arrangement. Not that Floyd had acted in a way to suggest that this might be the case, but...

But Oliver had never liked someone in this way before.

Oliver's worry was resulting in some regrettably strange behavior. For hours, Oliver had been bouncing between talking way, way too much, even for him, which was certainly saying something, and clamming up entirely. Worse, he kept leaping from one work task to the next, completing each of them in a hurried sort of way, the result of which was unbearably sloppy work. By noon, Oliver had already dropped his shovel over ten times. Thank God Floyd had yet to let him handle the explosives.

Throughout it all, Floyd was so, so forgiving. Even after hours of witnessing Oliver's blunders, Floyd still hadn't made even one teasing remark.

One of the most torturous facts of the workday was how incredibly attractive Floyd had suddenly become. Or, well, he had always been attractive, but now Oliver couldn't seem to watch the man bend over to lift a pickaxe without wishing he could be alone for a little while to take care of himself. Jesus Christ, how had Floyd become so... so delectable? Oliver had never, in his entire life, wanted to devour another person, but holy hell, Floyd certainly looked scrumptious enough to eat. Oliver was busy silently musing on the strangeness of this urge when Floyd caught him staring.

"Ollie, you're making it hard for me to work today."

God, Floyd probably hadn't even caught the potential filthiness hidden inside that stupidly tantalizing statement.

"Yes, well, same to you."

"I ain't the one staring. I can't focus with you looking at me all the time."

"Floyd, even if you're not the one staring, you're the one who..." Oliver took a couple of steps toward Floyd to close the space between them and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'll put it this way: you look very nice in those pants."

"I have no idea what to say to that," Floyd remarked with an amused snort. "Look, we only got one more hour or so left. Let's focus on filling up this here car. I need money to feed my family."

"And money for more nicely tailored pants, too, I hope."

"Whatever makes you focus on helping me shovel coal, city boy."

So Oliver tried to concentrate on shoveling the last heaps of coal into the car. But once their playful banter ended, Oliver's niggling fear of rejection started percolating once again, first only manifesting a small rumble, but soon, becoming as powerful as an earthquake, causing Oliver's hands to tremble enough that he ended up dropping the shovel. Again.

"Unbelievable," Oliver muttered under his breath.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm fine. Probably had too much coffee this morning."

Oliver picked up his shovel and returned to the task. He still kept looking over at Floyd, though he tried not to be quite so obvious about it, and nearly every time, Oliver's eyes inevitably wandered to find Floyd's hands. He really liked Floyd's hands. They were beautiful. Large and strong and calloused and a perfect fit for his own.

Still shoveling, Oliver kept on worrying about whether or not he'd ever be able to hold them again, his mind continuously circling back to the possibility that Floyd might want to cancel their unconventional arrangement. Because why wouldn't he? Oliver wasn't special. He was a loudmouth who made too many silly jokes and took the Lord's name in vain. Besides, maybe Floyd wasn't as excited about their budding relationship as he was. Floyd hadn't been staring and tripping over lunch pails and forgetting not to shovel too many regular rocks in with the coal.

For the next while, Oliver busied himself by mentally listing out the many reasons why Floyd shouldn't like him, and by the end of it, he was feeling incredibly lousy about everything. So lousy, in fact, that he thought he should tell Floyd that he was no longer interested in romance or sex or strangely intimate hand-holding sessions. After all, he could avoid the pain from Floyd's eventual, inevitable rejection by rejecting Floyd first.

Pondering over this, Oliver bent to pick up his lunch pail.

And was met with a rat.

With a surprised yelp, Oliver leapt backward, crashing into Floyd, who had been shoveling the last bit of coal into the car. Floyd, being as large as a fucking house, barely even stumbled. He set his shovel on the car and turned to Oliver.

"Oh my God, oh shit, oh fuck," Oliver kept cursing, his heart thundering in his chest. "I think there's a rat in my lunch pail."

Floyd chuckled softly. "Maybe it opened when you tripped on it earlier."

"Well, that's the end of that particular lunch pail, then. I hope it's alright if I stop at the company store later. I'll have to purchase another one."

"Why would you do that?"

"In case you haven't noticed, the vermin is still in there, probably slathering himself in honey from my leftovers." Oliver shuddered. "I feel like I might vomit."

"Ain't you never seen rats in here before?"

"Yes, I have, but they typically stay far, far away from me and my lunch." Oliver cringed. "I nearly touched him!"

"It's only a rat," Floyd said, walking over to the lunch pail. "I'll shoo him away."

"Don't let him bite you. I'm sure you'll upset him by taking away his treat."

Oliver looked on nervously as Floyd kicked the pail, knocking it over and sending the rat scurrying into the darkness. He bent down and picked up the scraps.

"Mind if I toss these to him?"

"I thought we weren't supposed to feed them."

"Well, like you said, he was already eating these."

Floyd tossed the sandwich remnants into the darkness and wiped his hands on his pant legs. Oliver was still too shaken to retrieve the pail himself. Floyd probably realized this because he replaced the lid and set the pail on top of the coal pile in the car.

"Happy?" Floyd asked.

"Not really."

Floyd moved in close, close enough that Oliver's heart had started beating wildly again, though this time, not from fear of rodents.

"You're sweet, Ollie," Floyd whispered, his low voice sending shivers up Oliver's spine.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I can't wait to be alone with you later."

Oliver felt as though he might faint.

"Can we leave now?" Oliver found himself saying. "I promise I will make up whatever money we lose as a result of heading out early."

"Yeah, we can. Don't worry about the money, though. Our car's about full now."

Moving their car to the weigh station, Oliver was no longer thinking about ending their arrangement. Nor was he thinking about all the ways in which he was inadequate. All Oliver could think about was how much he liked Floyd and how much Floyd seemed to like him, too. His heart stuttered at the thought. God, how excited he was to hold Floyd's hand.

***

As soon as Oliver and Floyd were inside, they each flung their work bags to the floor, both of them sort of relishing the opportunity to be a little showy about it, and then, when they collapsed onto the couch next to one another, they immediately found each other's hands. It was only then that Oliver realized how magnificently filthy both of them were. Floyd's face was still caked with black coal powder. His clothes were a mess. Oliver knew he probably looked even worse himself (mostly because Floyd was so handsome, there would never be a time when Oliver wouldn't look worse; Oliver could be wearing his nicest suit while Floyd was wearing tattered, blackened overalls, and Floyd would still be the more handsome one).

"How are you so handsome?" Oliver asked.

"Just am," Floyd responded, ever-so-modestly. "Ain't more handsome than you, though."

"I wouldn't have taken you for a liar, Floyd Bennett."

"Because I ain't no liar, Oliver Astor," Floyd replied playfully. "You're a handsome man. I want you to know that about yourself."

"You need me to accept your compliment before you allow us to move on, huh?"

"Yup."

"Fine. I accept it. Begrudgingly," Oliver said before sighing very loudly, hoping to make a point about how tricky it was to internalize such things. "I'm sorry about earlier, by the way. I was in such a sorry state."

"Ollie," Floyd said, his voice suddenly so much softer. His thumb rubbed the back of Oliver's hand and the feel of Floyd's calloused skin sent little tingles up Oliver's arm. "Don't insult yourself so much."

Floyd's warm words wrapped around Oliver like a blanket, comforting and protective. Oliver squeezed Floyd's hand.

"I'll try not to."

For the next little while, they sat in a comfortable silence. Oliver was still enjoying the way that Floyd's continued kindness was making him feel so cared for and safe. Dazed, Oliver let himself become lost in Floyd for a bit. When his eyes settled on Floyd's lips—pinkish and plump and oh-so-kissable—he couldn't hold back his next series of comments.

"I'm not sure if we're supposed to kiss now. Should we? I mean, I'm not sure if it's what you were expecting, but we could if you wanted to. Of course, it's fine if you aren't interested in kissing, too. It's not like we need to kiss. I've made it twenty-six years without kissing someone. I'm sure I could make it however long I have left to live."

Floyd was silent for a few terrifying seconds, and then, finally, he said, "I ain't ready to kiss you, Ollie."

Shit.

"Oh."

Floyd's rejection curdled in Oliver's stomach like sour milk. Oliver had to look away. Why had he thought Floyd would want to kiss him? Of course Floyd wasn't as invested in all of this as he was. He had a family. He had a whole pre-established life, in fact. One that was perfectly lovely. In the real sense of the word.

Oliver felt Floyd release his hand, eliciting a tiny prick of pain in Oliver's heart. But then Floyd's hand cupped his chin instead.

"I will be ready one day," Floyd said, forcing Oliver to meet his bright blue eyes. "I promise."

"Did I..." Oliver's nausea was preventing him from formulating a proper response. He closed his eyes so that he could try to pretend that Floyd wasn't looking at him. "Is it me?"

"No," Floyd said, his tone tender. "Ain't about you, Ollie."

Oliver swallowed. "Alright."

"I want to kiss you. I will kiss you."

He opened his eyes again and managed a timid, "Alright."

"Ollie, remember the other man I told you about?" Floyd asked, and Oliver nodded. "I lost him, and I'm still... hurting. I can't... I can't figure out how to make myself tell you too much right now, but me not kissing you, that's about me, not you."

Hearing that soothed some of Oliver's pain. It wasn't him. Oliver repeated that to himself a few times in his head. Before Oliver could thank Floyd for the reassurance, Floyd took Oliver's hand and started to massage it with both of his.

"I like you, Ollie," Floyd said. "Don't forget it."

"I won't." He looked at their hands and watched Floyd's fingers press into his skin, each touch massaging away some of Oliver's insecurities. "I like you, too, Floyd. I can't believe I've only known you for a little over a month. I feel like I've known you my whole life. Only... not. Because then I'd have probably been a lot happier a lot earlier."

"I feel that way, too."

"I can't believe you have to leave soon."

Floyd tapped Oliver's knuckles a few times with his thumb.

"Do you want to come over for supper, then?"

"Jesus, that sounds terrifying," Oliver sputtered.

"Why?"

"How am I supposed to face Effie?"

"Effie ain't scary. She likes you."

"I still feel like I'm ruining your family."

"I'd never let you ruin my family."

"And I'd never want to. But, God, Floyd, what if she starts to resent me?"

"Look, Effie knows about you. About us. She knows where I am right now. And she's happy for us. Happy for me. She'll probably ask me all sorts of uncomfortable things later, not because she's worried or nothing, but because she wants me to be happy. She's always been like that."

"Are you sure it's not a problem?"

"Yeah, I am."

"Alright, then, let me wash up and change. I want to look nice."

Oliver had to practically pry himself off the cushions. He'd have happily continued to marinate in coal dust and sweat if it meant that he and Floyd could have kept holding hands until their filth-riddled bodies eventually fused with the cushions of his off-putting couch. Though, he supposed, wearing a moderately expensive suit to impress his new hand-holding butty would be fun, too.

While Floyd waited in the living room area, Oliver filled a tin bath with some water from the outdoor water pump and brought it inside to the bedroom. He refused to waste time heating up the water. Since it was summertime, the water wasn't too cold, though it wasn't one of Oliver's more pleasant sponge baths.

Once Oliver finished bathing, he picked out an outfit: a brown tweed suit with undertones of light blue, which he paired with a navy-blue tie and a simple white button-up shirt. He considered whether or not he should wear a hat. He liked hats. It was more proper, more fashionable, to wear one. But no one else in Rock Creek really seemed to wear hats much outside of their work hats. He supposed he'd leave it up to Floyd.

Oliver returned to the living room with a flourish.

"What do you think?" Oliver asked. "Blue and brown."

Floyd's eyes widened, a smile stretching across his face. He clicked his tongue once. "Golly, you're handsome."

"Alright, well..." Oliver paused and snatched a tan fedora off of the coat rack before placing it atop his head. "Hat or no hat?"

"Either."

"No, no, you have to pick."

Floyd pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. After a moment, he came over and removed Oliver's hat.

"No hat," Floyd said. He reached up to touch Oliver's hair, running his fingers through it, and the sensation had Oliver feeling momentarily lightheaded.

"Jeez, Floyd," Oliver said, letting out a breath. "I like that."

"Good."

"Alright, so, no hat." Oliver took his hat back from Floyd and tossed it aside, sending it over to the God-awful couch. Oliver couldn't care less that this would probably cause the fabric of his hat to be smudged with coal dust. All he wanted was for Floyd to touch his hair again. "Do you hate my hats? Because if so, I will burn each and every one of them, especially if it means that you'll keep touching me like that."

Floyd smirked. "I like your hats. Just not tonight. I want to touch that soft hair of yours whenever I can."

"Won't Josephine wonder why you're fixating on another man's head?"

"She'll be in bed at some point." Floyd reached up and fluffed up Oliver's hair once more, humming sweetly while his fingers threaded through Oliver's blond locks. "I been wanting to do that ever since we met."

"I think we need to leave now or I swear to God I might lose consciousness."

Floyd burst out laughing. "You say the strangest things, Ollie."

"I try." Oliver nodded toward the front door. "Come on. Let's head out."

Oliver and Floyd walked through the neighborhood together. Being side by side in public, now that they had confessed their feelings for one another, was turning out to be a uniquely upsetting experience. Halfway to Floyd's house, Oliver started thinking about how desperately he wished he could hold Floyd's hand. It occurred to him, then, that even if Floyd hadn't been married, the two of them still wouldn't have been able to hold hands in public, even in a cozy little community tucked away in the mountains.

Ruminating on this, hot fury settled in Oliver's stomach, making his blood boil. It infuriated him to think that most people would have a problem with the fact that he and Floyd had romantic feelings for each other. He hadn't ever had to think about such travesties before. Which was pretty egotistical of him, wasn't it? How was it that he had never thought about— really thought about—the hatred society had for men who fancied other men? God, he couldn't believe how shortsighted he was sometimes, like he was so self-absorbed it was a miracle he could even see past his own nose.

"You look sad," Floyd said, his brow furrowed with concern. "Do you not want to come over no more?"

"It's not that," Oliver said. "I can't tell you what it is, either. Not out here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Oliver said. "Don't worry about it."

Floyd stayed quiet for the rest of the way.

After they went inside, Floyd left to wash up from work. Effie had already prepared a wash basin with water for him. Meanwhile, Oliver stayed out in the living room and played jacks with Josephine. Effie, who was finishing up a bean and vegetable stew over the stove, kept looking back and smiling, which was making Oliver so nervous that he kept messing up his moves. Which was fine. Because playing poorly was proving to be an effective way to further win over Floyd's adorable little girl.

Sometime later, Floyd came out of the bedroom wearing a pair of tan slacks, a light blue button-down shirt, and brown suspenders. Seeing this picture-perfect outfit, Oliver reached up to shield his mouth with his hand in a pathetic attempt to conceal the size of his embarrassingly large smile.

Floyd smiled shyly in response, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Is supper ready?" he asked.

And this was when Effie saw him.

"Oh my word, you look so handsome!" she said, her eyes sparkling with fondness. "Don't he look handsome, Oliver?"

Oliver had only just managed to reign in his stupid smile. And now it had come back.

"Exceedingly handsome," Oliver admitted with a lovesick sigh, one that had seemingly come out against his will.

"You hear that, Floyd? Exceedingly handsome."

Effie said these last two words like this compliment was the pinnacle of all compliments. Now blushing madly, Oliver looked away. He heard Josephine hop to her feet.

"Daddy, you look like you're going to church," she said. "Is it a church night?"

Effie laughed softly. "No, baby. Daddy wanted to look nice for his friend, is all."

"Oh. Can I wear my Sunday dress, then? I want to look nice for Mister Oliver, too."

"Sure, why not?"

Josephine shrieked and ran into the bedroom, so excited to change that she slammed the door behind her. Effie and Floyd looked at each other and shrugged.

"She never wants to wear nothing fancy, normally," Effie said. "I have to beg her to put on her Sunday dress on Sunday. Guess you must be special, Oliver."

"Oh yes, I'm even more special than Jesus," Oliver said, realizing his social faux pas the moment the words tumbled out of his mouth.

To Oliver's relief, Effie laughed. Floyd laughed, too, of course, but that wasn't nearly as surprising anymore. Floyd had probably become accustomed to Oliver's proclivity for socially unacceptable humor by now.

"Well, I ain't sure about that ," Effie said. "But Floyd seems to worship you."

"Effie!" Floyd scolded. He picked up the nearest piece of paper, rolled it up, and smacked her in the arm with it. "Hush up!"

Effie kept laughing. "Look, if y'all want to be whatever it is that you're trying to be, you best let me have some fun with it."

Floyd whacked her again. But Effie was stubborn.

"Floyd is so smitten with you, Oliver. He talks about you like a preacher on a mission."

Another whack.

"I think you need to surrender," Oliver said. "I have a feeling Effie is tenacious enough to keep embarrassing you with these clever comments, no matter how many times you pummel her with two ounces of paper."

With an irritated-sounding grunt, Floyd dropped the roll of paper onto the table, though he was smiling a lot, if not a tad red in the face. Josephine skipped into the kitchen wearing a pink and white dress, the same one Oliver had seen her wear to church.

"Ready!" Josephine squirmed. "It's still a little wet."

"I washed it this morning," Effie explained. "How was I supposed to know you'd want to wear it so soon?"

Oliver smiled. "Well, I think you look very pretty, Josephine. Like a little Ethel Clayton."

Despite the fact that Josephine very likely had no idea who the silent film actress was, she nevertheless looked pleased with Oliver's compliment.

Now that everyone was very nicely dressed, they sat down for supper. Oliver really liked Effie's cooking. It tasted like there was a lot of love in it. Like the care she felt for her family was somehow baked right into the cornbread. In New York, Oliver had been privileged enough to try all sorts of exotic dishes, but that food had tasted like... well, maybe like obligation. Not that it had been their cook's fault, he supposed, but he would have taken Effie's bean and vegetable stew over the soft-shell crab with remoulade of his childhood any day. He told Effie as much, which made her smile in a really sweet, really heartbreaking sort of way, like she might melt into a puddle and spill onto the floor. Floyd winked at him afterward, too, which was so wonderful it made Oliver's stomach flutter.

Once everyone was finished eating, Oliver volunteered to help Effie clean up, but then Floyd offered to help, too, and of course, Josephine wanted to be part of the fun. This meant that there ended up being way too many people in the little kitchen area at once. Oliver thought he was probably in the way more than he was helping, and so, he stood off to the side, nodding approvingly and offering occasional encouragement like some sort of misplaced baseball coach.

Dishes clean, everyone retired to the living room to relax. Or maybe relax wasn't the right word, really, especially for Josephine, who still had a lot of energy. Ricocheting from the couch to the floor and back to the couch again, she talked and talked and talked. Adorable, but a bit tiring to watch.

"You know what we need?" Effie said when the sun started to set. "Some music."

"I like music," Oliver said, which was probably silly, because everyone liked music. "What do you have? A Brunswick?"

"Oh, our phonograph broke last year. We haven't replaced it yet," Effie said. "But Floyd plays the banjo."

"Ah, Ollie don't want to hear me play," Floyd said with a dismissive wave.

"Are you insane?!" Oliver exclaimed, practically leaping off the couch with excitement. "Of course I want to hear you play!"

"Yeah?"

"Yes!"

Cheeks tinged with pink, Floyd walked off to the bedroom to retrieve his banjo. Though Floyd had looked a tad uneasy—perhaps nervous—when he left, he had a little knowing smile on his face by the time he returned, like maybe he knew he was about to knock Oliver's socks off, which made Oliver even more excited to listen to him play.

Josephine curled up in her mother's lap on the rocking chair while Floyd sat on the couch beside Oliver. As Floyd tuned the banjo, his face slowly started to redden again, and holy hell, it was so amazingly adorable. Floyd couldn't have looked more endearing if he tried.

Moments later, Floyd started to play. And, oh, it was beautiful. Oliver had only ever heard a handful of songs played on the banjo before—lively ones, fast ones, ones that made people want to move their feet—but the tune Floyd was playing was so magnificently different, slow and sweet and beautiful. Each pluck of the banjo strings produced a lovely sound, one that softly thrummed against Oliver's tender heart and awakened a longing inside of him. For love. For closeness.

Listening to Floyd's music, Oliver let himself pine for Floyd to know him—to really know him—and to someday even love him, all of him, even the parts that he believed weren't the least bit lovable. Oliver imagined what it might be like to one day be nestled in Floyd's arms and what it might be like to hold Floyd in his arms too. While Floyd played on, Oliver became lost in this longing for intimacy, and he wondered if such closeness might somehow help him mend the wounds from his childhood. Oh, what would it be like to be healed and happy and whole?

Midway through the song, Floyd started to sing. Though his voice was low and shy, it was still so powerful, and its beauty brought tears to Oliver's eyes. It was a sweet song, one with lyrics about love and loss, and Oliver had to fight to keep his tears from falling. When Floyd finished playing, he looked up and met Oliver's waiting gaze, his blue eyes a tad misty too. While it hurt Oliver's heart to see Floyd's sadness, he welcomed the twinge of pain. Because it felt like Floyd was finally letting Oliver see him.

Oliver wondered, then, how it was that he could feel so happy and so sad at once.

"Beautiful," Oliver said.

Because Floyd was beautiful.

"Just a song I heard a long time ago."

Effie chimed in. "Floyd is very talented. He can hear a tune and play it right back to you. He remembers notes and words and things so easily."

"Thanks, Effie," Floyd said.

Oliver noticed then that Josephine had nodded off.

"I'll take her," Floyd said, setting his banjo on the couch.

Floyd scooped Josephine up in his arms and carried her off to the bedroom. Oliver and Effie smiled at one another as Effie's hands twisted in her lap.

"I want to tell you about Josephine," Effie said. "Floyd told me I could."

"Alright," Oliver said, already feeling the weight of the secret he was about to hear.

"Josephine ain't Floyd's. He's her Daddy, but..." She trailed off and looked down at her still-moving hands. "Floyd ain't the man who got me pregnant. Another man did that. One I never even wanted to be with in that way, but, well, you know how these things go sometimes."

Oliver's muscles tensed against his fast-rising anger. He tried not to let it show, keeping his expression soft.

Effie continued, "Floyd was working in one of them mines in McDowell back then, living in the boarding house. When I told him what had happened, he told me he'd take care of us. Of me and the baby, I mean. We couldn't stay out there, though. By the time I'd told Floyd about Josephine, everybody had already heard what happened. Or, well, they heard the untrue version. Everybody had already made up their minds about what kind of woman I was. I was afraid for Josephine. I was worried that someone would tell her that Floyd wasn't her real daddy. And so, we left. Floyd brought us here, far away from everybody who knew our history."

"I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Effie nodded sadly. "Thank you. Floyd has been a treasure, though. He works so hard for us. He loved Josephine right away. Even before she was born, he loved her. Because he loves me. That's why I ain't worried about you and him. I know he loves me. It ain't the kind of love you see in the pictures or in storybooks, but it's real love. It's forever love."

"Haven't you ever wanted more? You know, romance?"

"Maybe someday. I'm not too interested in it, to be honest with you, but if it ever happened, I know Floyd would support me. Just like I'm supporting him now. Whoever it was would have to understand, though, that Floyd ain't going nowhere. If they couldn't accept that, well, then they wouldn't be the man for me."

"Sounds sensible."

"Our family comes first. Always."

Oliver tilted his head inquisitively. "How'd you know that you could trust me?"

"Floyd," Effie said simply. "I think he could tell. Ever since we been married, he ain't never liked another man. He told me that sort of thing was behind him. So, when I saw the way he was looking at you that first night you came over for supper, I figured that Floyd must have known that you had a kind heart. Otherwise, he'd have never let himself start falling for you."

"That's very sweet," Oliver said, scooting closer. He looked into Effie's eyes, trying to wordlessly communicate his sincerity before saying what he wanted—no, needed —to say next. "Floyd was right, you know. You can trust me. I won't tell anyone about any of this. No matter what happens between me and Floyd, I won't ever hurt your family, Effie."

"Thank you."

Oliver turned toward the sound of heavy footsteps.

"Effie told you everything?" Floyd asked, approaching.

"Yes," Effie confirmed.

Floyd nodded once. "Good."

Effie stood and smoothed out her skirt. "I'm a bit tired. I think I'll try to sleep."

"Goodnight," Oliver said. "Thank you for sharing your story with me."

"Of course." Effie looked at Floyd with a teasing smile. "You two have fun. Not too much fun, though."

Floyd rolled his eyes. "Night, Effie."

Effie walked off to the bedroom, laughing softly while she did.

Floyd and Oliver looked at each other. Finally, they were alone. As soon as Floyd plopped onto the couch beside Oliver, he reached up and threaded his fingers through Oliver's hair.

"I been wanting to do that for hours," Floyd said with a low hum.

Oliver closed his eyes and sighed.

"It's heaven," he said.

Floyd kept playing with Oliver's hair. "So, you liked my song?"

"I loved your song. It nearly made me cry. I would have hated you a little for it."

"I like slow, sad-sounding songs," Floyd said. "Effie and Jo like when my music sounds a bit happier, but more often than not, I play songs like that one."

"I'm pretty sure I'd like anything you wanted to play."

Oliver turned, tucking his legs underneath him, and rested the side of his head against the back cushion of the couch. Floyd continued to play with his hair.

"I've never experienced this before," Oliver said. "I know you probably have, but Floyd, it's so special to me."

"It's special to me, too, Ollie."

"Will you come by after work tomorrow?"

Floyd's hand briefly brushed Oliver's cheek before he lifted it to thread his fingers through Oliver's hair again.

"I'll come by every day if you want."

"Yes, I want that."

Oliver shut his eyes and let himself become lost in Floyd's soft touches. Each minute felt like an eternity. In the very best possible way.

"Ollie?" Floyd asked.

"Mmm?"

"Why were you so sad before?"

"Oh..." Oliver opened one eye to see Floyd looking at him with so much sweetness that he couldn't not be honest with him. "I was thinking about how horrible it is that no one would ever accept us. Outside of Effie, I mean, which is really saying something."

Floyd's face twisted up like he was struggling with some sudden rush of upset from the comment, but then, in seconds, his brows relaxed and his frown lifted like he had managed to force that bit of fury away.

"Dang, it's been a while since I thought 'bout them kinds of things," Floyd said. "What you said about us not being accepted, it's true. How the world is, well, it's harder for people like us."

"How do you make yourself... feel at peace with it?"

"I been living with it for a long time. It bothered me more when I was a kid. Sometimes, it bothers me now, but not a lot."

"Wow, I... I can't even imagine trying to understand all of this as a kid. I mean, when I was a kid, I thought I was, well, I thought I was strange, but I was strange in all sorts of ways, so this was just one more thing to add to the pile of eccentricities, you know? Besides, I thought I'd eventually figure it out, but then, by the time I realized that I probably never would, I was an adult, one who was too busy hating his predestined future to worry too much about whether or not he'd ever kiss someone." Oliver reached for Floyd's free hand and squeezed it. "Sorry. We were talking about you. Was it hard for you, then, when you were younger?"

"It was," Floyd confirmed. "I had Effie, though, and..."

"And what?"

Floyd was silent for a few seconds. His eyes became misty again. Finally, he choked out, "I had my friend, too."

Probably whoever Floyd had kissed. Oliver wanted to pry. God, how he wanted to know more about this mysterious man who Floyd had kissed, but with the way Floyd was clamming up, Oliver knew that he wasn't ready to talk about it. He wondered if Floyd would ever be ready. He really hoped so.

"I'm sorry, Floyd," Oliver said. "For... whatever happened."

He kneaded Floyd's hand, hoping that his touches could soothe some of Floyd's pain. Floyd took a couple of breaths.

"Thanks, Ollie," Floyd whispered.

"Of course." Oliver continued to massage Floyd's hand for a bit before saying, "Did your parents know?"

"I confessed to them when I was eighteen," Floyd confirmed. "After that, they sent me to live in the boarding house."

Holy hell, it pained Oliver so much to hear how Floyd's parents had treated him. Floyd was such a sweet man, one who deserved so, so much better.

While Oliver tried not to be so upset with what Floyd had told him, Floyd continued to stroke his hair, which was so Goddamn nice, but a little infuriating, too. Why was Floyd comforting him through this? It wasn't right. Oliver should have been the one comforting Floyd. He had to fix it.

Over the next few moments, he racked his brain for ideas. Jeez, the only thing he could think of to try to help Floyd feel better was to try to make him laugh.

Oliver said, "Actually, that was kind of silly of them, wasn't it?"

"Silly?"

"Well, think about it," Oliver said. "When you told your parents that you liked men... you were essentially telling them that you wanted to sleep with men. Sexually. And, Floyd, they sent you to sleep with a bunch of men."

Floyd snorted.

Oliver continued, "So, on second thought, it sounds like they were very supportive people."

He said this with as straight a face as possible, which luckily had the intended effect of making Floyd laugh, though he was obviously trying to hold back because of how late it was. Watching Floyd's body silently shake from barely-contained laughter was... oh, God, it was everything.

"Thank you, Ollie," Floyd said once he calmed himself.

And, thank God, Floyd had the biggest smile, one that was so large, his beautiful blue eyes were nearly closed from the size of it. Oliver's chest warmed from the sight. He felt so incredibly proud of himself for helping Floyd through that painful memory.

"You're welcome."

"It'll be easier for you one day," Floyd said. "I can always listen to you if you need me to. If you're ever upset about how we have to be or what people think about us, I can listen."

"I really appreciate that," Oliver said. "Can I ask you one more thing, though?"

"Yeah, sure."

"What about church? How can you make yourself sit there like that?"

"I like church."

"Even though—"

"Yeah," Floyd said, cutting him off. "Even though."

"Why?"

Floyd shrugged. "All of this—it's between me and God," he said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. "I like the rest of the teachings. Or, most of them."

"Does part of you attend because of the, uhm, the role you're playing?"

"Yep," Floyd admitted. "I need to keep an image."

"Smart," Oliver said with a nod. "Thank you for talking to me, for being honest with me."

"Anytime." Floyd's fingers trailed lower, caressing Oliver's cheek. "It's late."

"I know," Oliver whispered in response. "But this is so nice."

"It is. We have tomorrow, though."

Oliver smiled wistfully. "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time."

Floyd shook his head, confused. "What's that?"

"Shakespeare."

Floyd hummed and repeated, "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."

Oliver reached up to catch Floyd's hand and then brought Floyd's knuckles to his lips.

"To the last syllable of recorded time."