#close quarters

"You got it wet for me?" Oliver's voice breaks your meditation and you jolt upright. Reaction slower than you'd like it to be.

"Jesus, Oliver, ew" you exhale a puff of smoke and cough, "you know I hate when you say that."

"I wouldn't have to if you quite putting lip gloss all over the damn filter," he chuckles, plucking the joint from your loose grip. He grabs your ankle, the one propped in the chair across from you, and he lifts it. And, even though his limp is still evident, he slides into the chair with athletic agility. You try not to roll your eyes with subtle envy.

When you try to retract your ankle from his hand once he's comfortable, his grip tightens just slightly, and he only gives you one look (brows set, chin tilted to his chest, and eyes that tell you to quit it) before dropping your socked foot into his lap.

"It's Vaseline," you say, throat suddenly very dry. Nothing to swallow down except for the slippery moisture still clinging to your lips.

"Huh," he replies, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction. Away from you.

"It's not lip gloss," you hold out your hand for him to pass it back, "it's Vaseline."

"Whatever," he waves you off, taking another long drag, "still makes the paper all sticky."

"Don't act like you don't love it," you reply sarcastically and certainly without thinking. Your eyes connect, yours slightly panicked, but he smirks at you. Evidently very amused.

"What gave it away?" His smirk evolves into a full-blown grin. One that always has you swooning, falling— but you refuse to become his prey again.

"The fact that you don't wanna share," you reach your hand out again, shaking it so he can pass to you already. He twirls the joint between his fingers, catching it between his middle and forefinger as he points the non-burning end towards you.

"And you're not even supposed to be smoking," you remind him, taking the joint from him and bringing it to your lips. He stares at the way you set it in your mouth and you squirm a little under his attention. "Don't you get drug tested?"

"Not during recovery time since I'm on some pretty strong painkillers so the test would come back dirty anyway," he explains, his thumb absently massaging over your ankle. You try really hard not to sigh under his touch. You don't even think he's aware he's doing it.

"That makes sense, I guess," you shrug, the high beginning to reach your head. Muting your constantly racing thoughts. And for the first time all you week, you feel settled. Your nerves relax. Your muscles release the tension you always hold so tight in your shoulders. You pass back to him, his fingers grazing yours and sending a strangely familiar spark up your wrist.

You try not to pay close attention to the way Oliver clearly makes you feel. In the back of your mind you think it's just the residual effects of a long lost crush. An unrequited one at that.

"Does your knee still hurt?" You ask to disrupt your train of thought. "Like are you still taking the painkillers every day?"

"No," he shakes his head, blowing out smoke again. "Only as needed. Sometimes it acts up the morning after therapy, but I try to just ride it out."

His eyes catch the horizon. His gaze is obviously distant and his features settle into a pensive expression. You're not sure if he can feel your eyes on him, but you stare anyway. If it were anyone else you could mistake this look for something relaxed, content. But you know Oliver. The time you spent apart has nothing on the bank of knowledge you have hidden somewhere deep in your mind. Dusty now, but still just as ingrained. He's thinking. Stuck somewhere in a memory that pains him. His nose twitches and his chest rises with a heavy inhale. He smokes again.

"Like when I'm on my period and refuse to take ibuprofen when I have cramps." It's a halfhearted attempt at distracting him, at pulling him back to you in the present. And, luckily for you, it works. His head turns to you. His eyes now alight with amusement and a tiny smile teases the corners of his lips.

"I'm not so sure it's the same," he breathes out a laugh, a small puff of smoke releasing from his mouth as he does.

"You're right," you nod, arm stretching towards him when he offers you the joint again, "mine's worse."

His head falls back and the hand that's still on your ankle tightens as he laughs. Unguarded. Uninhibited. Just pure laughter.

"Were you always this funny?" He teases, grinning at you, wrinkles crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"The weed helps," you shrug, trying to suppress your smile in an effort to seem cool. Unbothered.

"Yeah," he nods thoughtfully, eyes tracing your features. "When did that start back up?"

"I, uh," you take one more hit, "started when I first moved out here. It was stressful making such a big move."

You offer it back to him, but he declines with a gentle shake of his head. You snuff it out in the ash tray, the cherry dying out to leave ashes behind.

"And just really lonely," you add, pointedly fixing your gaze on the flurry of birds that just landed in your backyard. "I don't know. One night the anxiety was really getting to me and I remembered those nights in college where we'd sit around in your old, tiny apartment with Sendou and get really high."

"Oh and we'd order those really spicy wings," Oliver chuckles.

"Yeah the ones none of us could even fucking eat because they were too hot."

"Yeah," he agrees, "we were idiots." He smiles softly at you when you finally glance at him. There's an obvious memory sitting in the air between the two of you. It's heavy and dense. Thick enough to hold in your hands.

"Anyway," you say, breaking eye contact. Severing his hold on you. "It became a bit of a habit for a while. Now I just smoke on Fridays as a little treat."

"A treat?" He smirks, entertained.

"Yes, it gives me something to look forward to during the week. And then I order takeout and watch my show," you explain, waving away the funny way he looks at you. Your eyes are starting to feel heavy and your head is full, but beautifully thought-less.

"Speaking of," he interrupts the emptiness in your mind, "we should get wings for dinner."

"Already ordered it," you grin when he laughs again. "It should be getting here soon."

"You're too good to me." He extends his arm towards you, curling his middle and forefinger until they form a v-shape and he uses his knuckles to pinch your nose. You used to move away when he did this. You used to hate it too. How it always made you feel like a kid. But now you leaned into his touch. Missing him. Your closeness. The ease of friendship with him.

Now you just hate that you ruined this by leaving.

**** Oliver's body wakes him up the next morning. He tries to breathe but his chest hurts. He's restless despite how tired he was last night. You and him stayed up too late binging some realtor reality show and eating way too much. Matter of fact his stomach is upset too. Indigestion, probably.

When he checks his phone it's 6:17am. He's annoyed. He just wants to sleep. And he can't. If it's not his body that wakes him— a twitch of his leg, an ache in his chest, a spasm in his injured knee— it's his brain. A dream. The one where he's getting buried alive. Dirt thrown over his body. His team staring down at him. Disappointed. Dejected.

A flower buried beneath soil before it had the chance to bloom.

It's more of a nightmare.

He decides to go for a run. He knows he should take it slow. That's what everyone advises him to do, but it's impossible when he can't sit still. He's used to training. To practices and structured days. He's used to wrangling a bunch of guys who are a touch too animalistic. Taming them and demanding a field.

He's not used to sitting around and doing practically nothing. Waiting to be told what to do.

So he goes on a run. And he takes your dog. He was already waiting for Oliver by the door wagging his tail. Excited for the prospect of going outside and breathing in the fresh air. That makes two of them.

It's cloudy outside when he steps out your front door. It bums him out a bit that the sunrise is hidden behind various shades of grey. It certainly doesn't help his mood, but your dog is excited either way, tugging on his leash whenever Oliver stalls in front of your house.

"Ok, bud, gimme a second," he says, plugging an airpod into his ear and choosing a random playlist on his phone before he officially starts his run. Your neighborhood is nice and quiet. He jogs by an elderly couple sipping coffee in their front porch and a mom wrestling her toddler into her car.

So suburban. But the perfect change of pace for him. It reminds him that he should probably call Sendou. He's most likely on his way to the gym in preparation for their game today. He answers on the second ring.

"You're up early," is the first thing Sendou says when he answers.

"No 'good morning'? No 'I miss you, come back'," Oliver quips, slowing so that your dog can pee on another mailbox.

"I miss you, come back," Sendou repeats with a smile in his voice. "Now aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"Hard to do that when I'm used to being up at the same time everyday." Oliver's walking now, catching his breath and peeling his sweaty shirt away from his torso. He honestly wishes he was still asleep. He knows he needs it. "Anyway, that's not why I was calling."

"Why are you calling?" Sendou asks and Oliver can hear him turn on his blinker.

"How's the team?" He asks, breath bated as he waits for an answer. An odd irritation flares in his chest at the silence that stretches over the call.

"We're good," Sendou finally says carefully. That only irritates him more. He'd rather Sendou just be honest with him. Open.

"Good as in 'we're playing well, but there's clearly someone missing' or good like 'we don't need you, Oliver, we're fine without you'?"

"Y'know up until now I thought I was the melodramatic one in this friendship." Sendou keeps his voice light, playful even. "But it seems like you got me beat."

"Can you just answer the damn question?" He doesn't mean to sound so short with him, but there's a small animal with paws the weight of a thousand pounds sitting on his sternum.

"Good like most of our plays are successful, but our defense is definitely lacking without you," he explains on an expel of air. "I'm a little worried about our game today because we're definitely not as strong without you."

Selfishly, the ache in his chest mildly subsides. An egotistical sense of relief washes over him, but instead of expressing that all he says is "I'm sure you guys'll do fine."

"Maybe," Sendou says, "but I'd feel better if you were playing in our first game."

It's reassuring to hear. To know he's still needed. That his purpose hasn't deteriorated the moment he stepped off that field with an injury that's eating him alive. "I'd feel better if I was too, trust me."

"It's been tough without you, man," Sendou sighs. "Barou has been irritating the fuck outta me this week."

Oliver laughs. He misses those idiots far more than he'd ever admit. "How is the king?"

"A pain in the ass per usual." Sendou sounds huffy and it oddly makes Oliver feel better. Like even though he's away nothing has changed. That the same life he left behind there will still be waiting for him.

"You just gotta let him do his thing," Oliver replies, smiling softly to himself. Grateful that he decided to call Sendou before the panic started to set in. Before the listlessness could take root and drive him mad.

"That's easy for you to say. He actually likes you."

"I don't think Barou likes anyone," Oliver snorts, turning on the street to your house. Your dog stopping to intensely sniff at a random patch of grass. "He tolerates me because I dyed his hair that one time, so maybe you should offer him the same olive branch."

"Absolutely fucking not," Sendou answers with immediate disgust in his voice. "He'd probably try and bite me."

"I'm handing you the drama queen crown back," Oliver chuckles again at the pure exasperation in his friend's voice. Already feeling much lighter than he did when he woke up.

"Good. My head felt empty without it."

Oliver smiles, but it drops slightly when he catches sight of you in your driveway. Clearly straight out of bed. There's a strange frantic energy around you as you stare in the opposite direction of him. Your sleep shirt is hanging loosely off of one shoulder. And even from his distance he can tell that there is still sleep in your eyes despite your posture being so alert. It would be a much cuter sight if you didn't look so… panicked.

"Let me let you go," he says, cutting Sendou's monologue in half, not having heard a singular word the second he caught sight of you. "This girl is standing in her driveway and I don't know if she's sleep walking or what."

"Alright, talk to you after the game," Sendou says just before Oliver hangs up.

Your dog barks when he sees you and your head whips over to look at them. There's something unsettling in the breath of relief that falls from your lips. As if you were genuinely concerned and that sits somewhere uncomfortably in his gut.

"What're you doin' out here?" He asks you when he's close enough.

"Did you go for a run?" You ask at the same time.

He replies "yes" the exact moment you say "looking for you."

You both pause and just look at each other. Waiting for the other to speak without interruption and when neither of you do the stillness between you is filled with light laughter. He can tell you feel silly. You hardly meet his eyes.

"You're not supposed to be straining your knee so much. It's gonna fuck with your recovery," you say eventually, when the laughter dissipates and all you're left with are chirping birds and the sun finally peeking out behind the clouds.

"I'll be okay," he shrugs, extending his leg and bending it again. Regrettably there is a twinge of pain that sparks in his knee. One that he knew would be there, but he pretends he's fine in front of you regardless.

"Aren't you supposed to be RICE-ing or something?"

"What?" Oliver's brain glitches, he's torn between a laugh and true concern for you.

"You know," you gesture with your hands, counting," rest," another finger ticks up,"ice," and there goes a third finger, "compression, I think." You pause, he smiles and then nods, urging you to continue."And e's for elevation."

"Where'd you learn that?" He's wholly amused. As soon as you said rest, he knew exactly what you were talking about. But it's adorable the way you hesitantly explained it to him. It means you had to have looked up his injury sometime in the last week. He forgot how often you fussed over him.

"Google," you respond, looking at your dog instead of him, scratching the top of his head.

"You're funny," he shakes his head, and without thinking he reaches his fingers out to you, pinching the neckline of your top and lifting it back over your shoulder. His fingertips trail over your collarbone, of their own volition, as he pulls away. He's not entirely sure why he did it. Just that it was an impulse. A natural one. An instinct.

You clear your throat, and take a small step away from him. Maybe you're just readjusting yourself, but he feels like you're running from him. There's a distance between the two of you that surpasses physical. He knows you, but you're unfamiliar to him more often than not these days. And he doesn't know how to feel about it. Other than, it kind of scares him.

"Let's do something today," you say in an attempt to brace the tension. But there's still a wall there. One that he felt when he touched you and he's confused because he doesn't know if he is the one who built it.

"You askin' me on a date?" He jokes, flirty and absolutely deflecting. What he's best at even when he's injured and spiraling.

"Why are you like this?" You push at his chest. Tense barrier starting to melt. Back to friends. Back to familiarity. "I was thinking we could go to this sports bar I think you'll like and watch the Ubers game."

He almost wants to say no. He almost doesn't even wanna watch the first game of the season knowing he won't be there. Knowing that the flight he senses in you is only a reflection of his own.

"Ok," he shrugs, feigning nonchalance, "but the first round's on you."

****

The bar you take him to is nice. There's jerseys hung all over the walls. Kitschy sports memorabilia on every surface besides the bar top. You guide him to a small booth in the corner, waving at the bartender as you pass by. You must know her. You must be a regular.

"Oh shit," you say as you start to slide in the booth opposite him.

"What's wrong?" He braces himself to get up, on edge.

"You can't see the TV from here." He looks around and you're right. From where he's sitting all of the TVs are immediately behind him. He's relieved.

"Switch with me," you say, already starting to get up, but he holds his hand out to stop you. He settles on his side of the booth, silently grateful for his less than ideal seat in this sports bar.

"It's fine," he waves at you," you'll just have to give me a play by play."

He winks at you. You sigh and sit back down.

"What's good here?" He asks, lifting the laminated menu off the sticky table top.

"The cheese fries, the margaritas, and their burger is surprisingly good."

"Do you wanna share?" Your eyes light up, and suddenly you're nineteen again. Youth flushes out your features, the version of you he finally recognizes.

"You know I love to share," you nod, excitement straightening your back as you grab the other menu, "and now we can get another appetizer."

He chuckles and shakes his head. His eyes unable to be torn from you. Oliver didn't think when he decided to come to see you. He had no plan. No idea. All that moved him was the belief that maybe you would understand him. Like you used to. But now he's realizing he doesn't understand you the way he thought he did.

There's a hardened strength strapped to your shoulders now. Your smiles are fewer, but your energy has matured. Gracefully and totally out of his league. In two years you've become totally different, yet he knows he knows you, he just can't pinpoint from where.

The waitress arrives with two waters and you gift her a smile that's genuine, your hand touches her wrist in greeting. Friendly. But when he touched you earlier you pulled away. He tries to ignore the way that stings.

"This," you make eye contact with her and nod, trying to convey something he's clearly not privy to, "is Oliver."

He relaxes his features, slouches his shoulders, slipping into the type of confidence he knows well. Bordering smug as he reaches out to shake the waitress' hand. You introduce her to him, he grins at her, "lovely meeting you."

She giggles and from the corner of his eye he can see you lightly smack her hip. He suppresses the urge to laugh, but a chuckle through his nose still escapes him.

"Your usual?" She turns to you, raising her eyebrows.

"Yeah and we're gonna share," you point to him, "so we'll add an order of the spinach and artichoke dip."

"Coming right up," she says to you, hand rubbing your shoulder before she smiles at Oliver and walks away.

"What was that about?" He asks when she's out of earshot.

"What was what about?" You say as you take a sip of your water.

"The telepathic conversation," he motions to his temple.

"Oh," you look away from him again, "I come here to watch all of your games," you admit and warmth floods his chest. "She served me so many times we kinda just became friends while I explained all the rules to her. Pointed out the cute players," you raise your eyebrows at him. He grins with understanding. "This is like my booth."

You gesture to the spot you're in.

"So you're telling me I'm here with royalty," he smirks at you, leaning over the table, needing to be closer to you.

"You sorta are," you lean over to him in return, meeting him halfway. He doesn't expect the closeness, though. It rattles him a bit how nervous he suddenly is. "So you better behave."

He puts space between you, "cross my heart." He makes a cross over his heart with his right hand. You roll your eyes at him.

The food arrives quickly. One margarita easily turns into two. The bartender's pours are heavy handed, he's tipsier than he expected to be and he knows he's wearing a red flush on his cheeks. The one you always made fun of him for.

"Sendou just scored," you say, eyes glued to a television over his head.

"Nice," he responds, but something bristles inside of him. He longs for the field and he can't really stomach a win if it's without him. And he hates that he even feels this way. He's happy for Sendou though since he knows how nervous he was this morning.

"I do miss watching you play," you say randomly, lost somewhere in your head. Somewhere in a memory.

"In person," you add, glancing at him with a drunken smile. His face gets warmer, fully aware that it's not the fault of the alcohol before he chugs down the rest of his margarita.

"I miss seeing you in my jersey," he replies impetuously. Now it's your turn to blush and look away. It satisfies him that he still has somewhat of an effect on you. He really misses teasing you. Flirting with you until you're flustered and stomp away. But you're not like that anymore. You're a grown-up now. One that he's having a hard time keeping up with.

"You know how you were telling me about your weed addiction yesterday?"

"Oliver," you sigh, grabbing your wadded up straw wrapper and throwing it at him. It bounces off his chest and to the floor beneath the table. "That's barely even a thing."

"A thing enough for you to tell me about it," he chuckles, bracing himself to share something with you that he hasn't. That he never intended to. Until yesterday. Upon your own easy confession.

"Well, you asked and I like to make sure my closet is free of skeletons these days."

"I'm sure you still have somethin' hiding in there."

"Maybe one skeleton," you look at him intently, eyes boring into him, "but it's probably dusty now."

There's a pause and he thinks you want to say something. There's an emotion written on your face that he can't decipher, but you shrug and break the eye contact. "Anyway, yes I do remember. What about it?"

"Remember that injury I got a few years ago?"

"When you tore your ACL?" He nods. "Of course. You had to get surgery."

"Yeah," he swallows thickly, no longer wanting to continue. Feels kind of pathetic admitting it to you as if you'll look at him differently. Like you might be disappointed in him. And that makes him wanna choke. "The meds they gave me really helped with my recovery. A little too well, you might say."

You tilt your head at him, brows furrowing adorably. He watches your brain try and piece his words together, but clearly and maybe stubbornly struggling.

"They made me feel like I was back to normal almost. I was able to push myself to get better when I couldn't feel the pain in my leg. Felt like I was back on the field in no time, but then it was too late. Every time I tried to stop, I'd get irritable and unpleasant- couldn't focus on playing- and then I'd start up again."

"Wait," you sit up in your seat, sliding your margarita glass away from you and propping your elbows on the table. "You'd start taking the prescription again?"

"Yup," he plays with the condensation on the table, your eyes burning a hole in his face.

"Wh- for how long?" You whisper, the question barely making it to his ears.

"Not super long," he shrugs, peeking up at you but then immediately looking away when he clocks the pity in your eyes. Pity you'll swear is sympathy. "About eight months."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He didn't want to. "You were in the middle of moving. You had this new job lined up," he explains, leaning back in his seat, away from you. "And I know you. If I had told you, you probably would've stayed."

"I wouldn-." He purposefully looks at you. Your words die. Suddenly sheepish, "fine, I probably would have."

Oliver just nods, the weight on his chest a bit lighter, but not enough to feel any better. "But I still wish you would've told me."

"I didn't wanna worry you."

"I always worry about you," you huff, your mind clearly racing. And knowing you it's replaying all of the last moments you were together. Looking for all the signs you're angry you missed. Your breath deepens as you think and your fingers start tapping on the table top. Working yourself up. He reaches over and wraps his hand around your fingers to get you to stop. When you look at him, he feels himself starting to crack. But he smiles, lopsided and relaxed (the alcohol definitely helping).

"I'm sorry," he breathes, wanting to gloss this over and tie a bow around his confession.

Your eyes are a little glassy, moisture gathering there every time you blink. "Don't apologize." You intertwine your fingers with his. "It's just strange thinking about how one day we just started keeping secrets from each other."

"It's easier telling you now because that phase of my life is sorta over." Goosebumps prick up his arm when you begin rubbing your thumb across the back of his hand. "That's also why I'm here now because only you manage to keep me in line when I start losing it."

"What about the prescription you're on now? Is that gonna be a problem for you?"

"No, they ran out a few days ago since it was only a week's supply. I didn't even end up taking them all," he answers truthfully, having dumped whatever was left down the toilet in your guest bedroom while your nosy ass dog watched from the doorway. You narrowed your eyes at him skeptically, pursing your lips as you decide whether you believe him or not.

"Listen, I promise, here on out, no more secrets." He extracts his hand from yours and holds out his pinky. You smile, small yet relieved, before you wrap your pinky around his.

"Ok, then," you clear your throat, "no more secrets."