Work Text:
"You ready, Oliver?"
The PA's voice is clear in front of Oliver's face and he nods kindly, trying not to move too far, to work up any kind of a sweat. To step off his mark. He juts his head up in the back half of a nod, smiling amiably, that tilt to his mouth that anyone on set knows by now means sure thing, just tell me when to start.
They're in Eddie's kitchen today (familiar, comfortable) and while the work lights are on right now, they'll turn off here in a minute, bathing the set in that golden streetlight-in-a-dream color as they film.
He wonders if it'll be different this time, the scene they're shooting today. The last time they shot a "Buddie first kiss" was during the bachelor party episode, where he and Ryan had stayed way too excited and way too sweaty for far too long, a little drunk and terrified about singing on camera. That kiss was sloppy – wide-eyed and messy with lots of shared breath and unscripted moans passed back and forth.
They'd gone back to Oliver's house after that.
There's a part of him that's happy it never made it to air. There’s a part who wishes he’d asked for a copy of the tape.
But the script came through last week and they're back, the culmination of eight years of network television plot lines that would ended this way years ago if Eddie had actually been Shannon. He’s not bitter. He can’t be bitter; he’s just the vessel.
Oliver leans his hips on the counter, this one actually reinforced to take his weight because the blocking says he'll get kissed up against it, and closes his eyes.
It's not like this is the first time he and Ryan have kissed. Not even close. Not by a long shot. Oliver would know those lips, that jaw, the rip of that stubble in the dark with his eyes closed.
This isn't even their first time kissing on set.
But even Oliver isn't immune to the Buddie edits on those rare days he actually ventures on to Instagram, the ones Aisha sends him when she's trying to make him smile by poking at sore wounds. To the word Ryliver that haunts the tags in the works he finds when he's up way too late and going on websites where he can hide behind anonymity.
For all of their rage and nonsense, he loves the fans. He loves Buck, he does. He knows that the kitchen is important. He’s more online that he should be, than he wants to be.
And he refuses to think about the way the buzzing in his skin settles when he's sat next to Ryan. On set under the hot lighting, on Ryan's outdoor patio set, in the bed under Oliver's soft linen sheets. Because if he thinks about what it means, he'll crack. And that's not productive.
At least not today. He’s a professional after all.
For a moment, he looks down, noting the beautiful blue of the sweater they've put him in. He wonders how it'll look in the gold lighting.
"Hey," Ryan says, standing in front of him, breaking him out of his stupor. "You ready for this?"
Oliver opens his eyes slowly, knowing exactly how he looks. Looking at Ryan, those big, warm eyes, knowing.
"Nothing we haven't done before," Oliver says on a smirk, showing his love the strongest way he knows how.
Ryan doesn't say anything in response, just lowers his eyes to Oliver's lips and slowly up again.
Oliver's taut like a bowstring, potentially ready to do something monumentally stupid, when—
"We're just about set, guys," the PA interrupts. "Find your marks, please!"
Ryan lifts his fist up to Oliver's chest, hovering above the sweater. Oliver knocks his own against it.
Sure thing. Let's do this.