Be Still My Beating Heart
(Read it here on AO3)
Length: 3.6k
Summary: After melding with the Mansion, its grounds are off-limit to any and all visitors. However, when Oliver, restless and sleepless, is pulled back to the Mansion, Ángel can't help but follow and make sure that he is okay. While it is usually a jarring experience to have people enter what is essentially the inside of Oliver, when Ángel enters the Mansion for the first time, it is frightening how complete it makes him feel instead.
Or: Ángel enters the Mansion for the first time and it affects Oliver differently than he had anticipated. (Post Ending 9: Unwilling Symbiosis)
___
It is a gradual thing. When they leave the Mansion and that horrible night behind, neither of them suspect that they would ever have to return to it. Ángel makes good on his promise to build a secure perimeter around the whole thing, fenced off with no one allowed in, and that is that.
Except that Oliver is starting to feel restless. He starts to pace the rooms of their apartment in the evening then increasingly more often at night. He spaces out during conversations and finds it hard to concentrate. Not even the most exciting case can keep his attention for long and there is this gnawing feeling in his chest, as though a black hole were slowly devouring him. His nights are endless in their sleeplessness and there is this pull in his stomach that makes him hunger for something that is not food. He feels like he is losing his mind, something that he is usually proud to say that he is always in possession of even in the most dire situations.
It all comes to a head during their next trip on one of their days off. They are taking the bus that leads out of the city, intent on visiting that farm a few kilometers off from the Mansion. To feed those chickens and ducks as they had promised.
Except when it is time to get off, Oliver doesn’t move, rooted to his seat. He catches Ángel’s arm as he tries to stand up.
His grip is quite strong, tense and almost cramping with how tight it it. A part of him wants to apologize for clearly hurting the other. But another part - and it feels like this part is trying to swallow him whole right now - is hissing at him to not let Ángel leave.
When he tries to explain that same part claws at his throat and no sound comes out. He hopes the other understands anyway. And of course, his beautiful angel does. If this were not such a terrifying experience currently, then Oliver would give his beloved a kiss but alas.
The other sits down, not reacting to bruising grip on his arm. Oliver doesn’t know what kind of expression is currently on his face but Ángel’s is full of concern. The doors close and his hand relaxes but doesn’t quite leave its place as their journey continues.
They miss the next stop. And the next. But by now they both know their final destination anyway, so there is no reason to pay overly much attention to where they are going.
Oliver gives Ángel a slight nudge when it is time and they both get off the bus.
It would be appropriate to think that the silence that surrounds them is tense but instead it is quiet and gentle, only interrupted by bird song and the reassuring warmth of the sun that follows them to the Mansion. Winter has long passed.
The closer they get to the front door, the more centered and calm Oliver feels. The restlessness that had been with him for the better part of almost six weeks now is lessening with every step they are taking and it worries him. This is where his beloved was so thoroughly and deeply hurt, where he himself has died again and again, and yet he can’t help but feel more at ease the closer they get to the front door.
“Are you sure that you want me to go in with you?” Ángel scrutinizes the walls of the Mansion, being careful not to touch anything. “Would it not just feel like ants walking all over your skin again?” They both remember the breakdown that Oliver had suffered when the connection was first formed. The scratching and clutching at arms that no one was touching. The constant whispering and murmuring in his ears that no one was speaking to. It was his own personal hell.
“I’m not sure… There is just this feeling. It’s hard to explain and I can’t find the right words. But it just feels different.” Oliver walks up to the front door but hesitates before touching it. He hasn’t set a foot in the Mansion since he stepped out of it to find Ángel.
Suddenly, he is wondering. He knows what it feels like when other people walk around (overwhelming, horrible, too many sensations at once) but will it really feel the same when Ángel is the one stepping inside?
He thinks back to those bone-grating sensations but also remembers that Ángel had made them bearable. At least long enough to let the police and inspectors do their thing. His steady warmth at Oliver’s side had let him focus on the difference between the Mansion’s halls and the body that was actually his. His voice, as they laughed and dreamed of the future, had drowned out the words that were echoing through his chest. It had anchored him and made something settle deep in his bones that made him feel content and right.
He can’t shake the feeling that it will be different when it is Ángel that steps inside. No, rather there is this persistent longing inside him that goes beyond the love that he has for the other. A quiet chant of keep him safe, yours, all yours, yours to keep and protect that sometimes makes him scared to touch the other in fear of not being able to let go. It feels dangerously close to devotion, unconditional and all-encompassing yet possessive and volatile in its depth.
“Maybe if I am prepared, it won’t be as bad,” Oliver reasons and gestures for the other to step forward. “And it would generally make me feel better if you went with me.” Also, they both know that it would drive Ángel crazy to let the other out of his sight for however long this will take.
“Let’s get this over with then,” Ángel declares and decisively yet gently grips the door’s handle to open it. Instantly, a shiver races up Oliver’s right arm, which then settles in his hand, not letting go. It makes him twitch and then flinch his hand away from a source of touch that doesn’t exist. Through his sudden movement he almost hits the other in the face. Ángel immediately lets go of the door and turns to check on him.
“Sorry, sorry, I thought I was prepared but...” Oliver rubs at the palm of his hand and shakes it a few times. The feeling that seems both foreign yet familiar is gone. That was intense. But not unpleasant. “Could you try again? Fully open it this time, though.”
“If you’re sure, Beebs,” the other mutters and moves to open the door again, even more careful and gentle than the previous time.
Again, a shiver races up Oliver’s arm, stopping at his hand and settling there like a black cat in a honey-warm spot in the sun. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he could compare it to the sensation of holding the hand of someone dear. A little bit giddy with a kind of childish joy that permeates his whole being, soothing and familiar down to the bone.
Yet at the same time there is something alien about it that creates an underlying tension which is slowly pulling him under. It makes it increasingly harder to tell where the Mansion ends and Oliver starts or is it the other way around? His hand is clutching Ángel’s shoulder but also being held by him in turn - wait, no, Ángel is touching the door’s handle not my hand - and there is a light breeze of whispered words that are starting to fill his dusty cobweb-filled chest. The soothing timbre of it makes the constant chant inside Oliver turn mournful. He left me, alone, all alone so long.
There is this sudden grief that grips Oliver. He conceptually understands that its source, Ángel, is standing right beside him at this very moment. Ángel, who hasn’t left his side since they escaped the Mansion. Yet he cannot stop. When will he return, gone, all gone.
The whispered words from before grow louder and louder, more insistent as they turn into yelling and then he feels hands on his arms, the ones that truly belong to himself, and something snaps like a rubber band snapping back into itself.
The Mansion opens its eyes with a start. No, not the Mansion, I opened my eyes. Oliver’s other hand grabs at Ángel’s jacket as he steadies himself from the disorienting feeling of being slammed back into his own body. He breathes deeply a few times and glances at the front door that is now wide open. “Sorry, don’t know what happened there, haha.”
“I really don’t think this is a good idea, Beebs,” Ángel softly protests, steadying the other as another shiver goes through him. A light breeze blows through the Mansion’s stagnant halls. It feels refreshing.
Oliver feels like he needs to throw up from the emotional rollercoaster and conflicting sensations that rapidly circle from good to bad to worse to pleasant again.
“I, uh, I’m good.” He just needs to compartmentalize and accept the sensations as they come. Because as stomach-swooping as that just felt, it also further sets something right within him and Oliver can no longer deny that this is something he needs. “Let’s continue.”
A second or two pass where Ángel just stares at him, assessing him and weighing if they should continue or not. His eyes wander around the hallway, catching a glimpse of the Gray paintings, before they center back on Oliver. A look of pain passes over his face, as he comes to the unfortunate conclusion. Because despite his strong reactions just now, they can both tell that Oliver is already feeling better overall.
Ángel relents with a sigh and gestures for the other to go inside but when Oliver doesn’t, he just sighs again and takes a step into the Mansion’s main hall.
The air in the room is still, like a breath held indefinitely. There’s nothing left of the party that had taken place just a few months past, except for empty tables that have held snacks and beverages once but not been moved.
While Ángel would have loved to lock everything up and never touch it again, they both knew that they had to at least let someone clean up the place before it is put under lock and key. So they had the snacks collected and thrown away - Oliver couldn’t stomach another bite of them, no matter how delicious or expensive, which was the real tragedy of the whole ordeal - and all other perishables in the kitchen were removed as well.
Beyond that, the main hall looks the same, as though frozen in time.
Ángel’s steps are soft and slow, as he walks forward, periodically looking back to check on Oliver. The latter hasn’t voiced a destination yet, so Ángel can only trust that the other will lead him where they need to go.
But Oliver isn’t quite paying attention, mechanically following the figure in front of him. He zones out as he his gaze wanders downward. Each gentle thump thump, thump thump on the floor races like electricity up his arms and down his back. It’s nothing like the crawling legs of ants or bugs.
Instead it feels like a slow caress down his neck and a charged touch that zings across his shoulders. The quiet chant stays much the same but is also more insistent than ever before, as though it tries to drown Oliver in its urgency, in its fever-inducing elation and joy. He’s here, yours, all yours, he’s here, he’s home.
Further fragments settle like puzzle pieces in a set and it is frightening how complete Oliver feels right now. How electrifying each of Ángel’s steps are as he walks through their halls. How he can almost feel the movement of the other’s breath through the stagnant air of his rooms. It makes him happy. It makes him so happy he feels almost nauseous with it.
Suddenly, the steady run of electricity peters out and Oliver whips his head up to stare at what he knows is its source. Ángel has stopped walking, using the last of his steps to turn around, so that he can face the other. Oliver hasn’t noticed how quiet it’s been until now. He also hasn’t noticed that he has been grinning like mad until now. His cheeks hurt.
“You’re scaring me, Beebs,” Ángel admits. They are a few paces apart but he doesn’t close the distance between them. Oliver doesn’t either, spellbound and rooted to the carpet as he is. “You know I love you very much but I’m not keen on playing Orpheus to your Eurydice.”
Ángel’s words seem to echo around the room, reverberating endlessly in his ribcage, before they settle and soak into the floorboards. Oliver clears his throat a few times, separating immobile brick from flesh that is able to talk and remembering how to do that. What comes out is more of a wooden creak than a voice but he makes do.
“Didn’t know you knew literature like that, my angel,” Oliver teases but it doesn’t quite land. Silence descends once again. They’re at a stalemate, so they just stare.
There is a searching look on Ángel’s face, as his eyes seem to roam over Oliver and then around the room, and then he sighs again. They should start a counter for that or maybe an average. Ángel sighs per minutes. Or hours? Days? How long have they been here for anyway? Oliver becomes increasingly more aware that the ground floor of the Mansion barely has any windows. Speaking from repeating hallways and half-finished busts and mannequins, it should bother him more. It doesn’t.
“Please talk to me, Ollie.” Another sigh. “You know I would do anything for you... follow you anywhere, no questions asked.” It’s painful how true those words are - tried and tested, however unwilling. “But I also need you to meet me halfway, Beebs.”
Oliver laughs and it feels a bit unhinged. Getting a good grade in mental stability is impossible to achieve and yet he wants it so bad or what was it again? Oliver finds it hard to string his thoughts together right. But he will try. For his angel he will try as many times as it takes.
“Could you, uhh, come over here, though?” He gestures at the few paces between them. “I promise it won’t hurt me. I just… find it hard to explain it without just showing you.” Ángel barely hesitates before he closes the distance in a few soft steps - thump thump thump, a steady heartbeat in his chest. “And I can’t actually promise that my explanation will make sense but just bear with me.”
“Of course. Anything for you, Beebs.” Oh, how I love him so.
“Give me your hands then, my love.” He doesn’t hesitate at all this time and extends both of his hands which Oliver takes. There is that same giddy joy but without the alien tension from the conflicting sensation that the door had kicked loose.
He’s here, close, so close, endlessly lovable and endlessly loved, love, love him so much. The quiet chant purrs in satisfaction at their close proximity. Huh, it’s never reacted that way before. Unbidden a blush reddens Oliver’s cheeks and he lightly shakes his head, as though that would be able to get rid of it.
A light chuckle breaks his chain of thoughts and he looks up to see Ángel with a grin on his face. “Is a mere touch of my hands this enthralling and seductive that it makes you blush?”, he asks, as he waggles his eyebrows at him. He is endearingly bad at it. Oliver avoids his gaze as his blush deepens nonetheless.
“I’m trying to explain something here, Ángel! Just close your eyes now, please.” The other tries to school his face into a more serious expression while he closes his eyes but fails a few times, as a few giggles escape here and there, especially when Oliver glares at him. Made the bunny angry, haha. “Ángel!”
“Okay, okay, doing it now.” As Ángel closes his eyes and just stands there, so still and trusting, a bout of protectiveness and possessiveness surges through Oliver but he holds himself back. He promised to give an explanation, some direction. Bad choice of words.
“Good, now focus on your hands and how they are being held by mine. Just, really pay attention to the way it feels where they touch.” He lightly rubs his thumb over the other’s knuckles, back and forth. “Now believe that we are not actually touching. Believe that despite what you can currently feel, your hands are not in mine right now and you just have your hands raised in the empty air.” Oliver can tell that Ángel doesn’t quite get what he means but going by the furrow in his left brow, he is trying very hard to.
Oliver lightly taps his fingers against the other’s palm, a steady staccato back and forth, and then lightly brushes over his hands, which he knows Ángel likes as made evident by the twitch and shiver that seemingly races up his arms. “Now, although I told you to imagine and believe that, you logically know that I am actually touching you. That your hands are in mine. That you can feel these light touches…” He lightly taps his palms again, which makes the other twitch. “…because I am the source of them.”
“Now multiply that sensation and that dissonance from what I told you to believe tenfold and flip it around.”
“What.” Ángel opens his eyes in confusion but Oliver already knew that he wouldn’t get it. That this analogy doesn’t make any sense.
“That’s what it feels like for me. Logically and visually, I can see and I know that you are not touching me - that is, the me that is Oliver - but interacting with the Mansion. That when you are holding a door’s handle, you are not holding my hand. That when you take steps through these room, you are not actually providing the steady heartbeat in my chest.
“But just like you instinctively connect the sensations on your hands with my touch and react to it…” Here he taps Ángel’s palm a few times again and the other positively melts at the gentle caress. Oliver can’t hold back a grin at that. “That same connection is made between me and the Mansion and I can’t help but react as well… sorry, it’s hard to explain it, I’m not making any sense.” It quickly slips back off again, though.
All throughout his monologue, Oliver hasn’t let go of Ángel’s hands. Tap tap tap. Steady and constant, like his own version of a heartbeat. He wishes Ángel would understand but he knows that he doesn’t. And how could he? Oliver doesn’t even quite understand it himself. Maybe I just want someone to be able to explain it to me. I hate uncertainties.
“But yeah, there you have it. An explanation or something like that. At the very least the part of me that is the Mansion is very pleased that you have returned and that you are here now, protected and safe.” Silence again. And then-
“I won’t lie and say that I understand, Ollie,” Ángel says at last. “But I can understand this.” Here, he lightly taps Oliver’s palm in the same way that the other had done. “And I can understand the exciting feeling that comes with it.” He moves their hands a bit and pulls Oliver closer than they had been before. “The joy that comes with being close to your love.” He raises a hand and quickly snatches Oliver’s hat away. Before the other can protest, he plants a small kiss on Oliver’s forehead and then plops the hat back down.
“And lastly, I can understand the want to cherish and protect.” He intertwines the fingers of their right hands and moves Oliver’s left hand to his shoulder before placing his own on the other’s hip. “Maybe the Mansion and I are not all that different after all.” He takes a small step back and watches the tension leave Oliver’s shoulder. Not because he disliked how close they were before but because his heart is beating again. Ángel has an idea.
“Dance with me, Ollie.”
“Wh-what?” The other feels caught off-guard but clumsily follows as Ángel takes another, bigger step back, leading them into a dance. “I’m not that fond of dancing.”
Nonetheless, Oliver follows as Ángel slowly leads them around the room and with every step the restlessness from all the previous month drains out of him. Thump thump, thump thump.
As they dance and sway, the click and scratching sound rings through the room before it is filled with music. Oliver can feel that the record player one room over has turned itself on.
“That’s not creepy at all,” Ángel laughs and twirls Oliver, who almost trips at the sudden movement. “But no amount of creepy house symbiosis will be enough to keep me away from you now, Ollie.” Oliver blushes again at that. Maybe they should also start a Beebo blush counter.
The dance through the song and then the next and then the one after that and it settles Oliver enough that he knows that they can leave now. But when he looks at the joy and obvious adoration on Ángel’s face, as he attempts to twirl him in revenge, Oliver can’t bring himself to end this dance just yet. Instead he gives his beloved a kiss and watches him beam even brighter.
His beautiful angel, his, all his.
