Archive of Our Own

Barry was already waiting by the door of the infirmary when Oliver arrived at the Watchtower. He was fidgeting, bouncing on the ball of his feet in agitation, and he flitted to Oliver’s side the second he spotted him. He’d been far more patient than Oliver could ever be, because had he been there first, he wouldn’t have had the nerves to wait before breaking down the door for answers.

“John is awake and talking,” said Barry, “J’onn says we can go see to him but not for long.”

Barry knew better than to ask if he was feeling OK. He merely squeezed Oliver’s forearm in solidarity when Oliver nodded at him silently, and kept pace with him as they stepped inside the infirmary together. This part– waiting for their boyfriend to come home- was common ground. By tacit agreement, they made an effort not to argue, at first, because it was the sort of sentimentality Hal would want – them, mutually supporting each other – but after a time, because it felt right to stand by the other person who understood. Oliver was certainly grateful to have him here, now.

Four months. They’d had to wait four months after the Earth lanterns were due back home, and this was the first sign of life any of them had given. As glad as Oliver was that John made it home safely, in a horribly selfish way he was also disappointed it wasn’t Hal, and he would have stayed away if John hadn’t requested to talk to both Barry and him, specifically. Oliver already knew it wouldn’t be good. The terrible certainty had rooted itself in his guts the moment Batman called to pass along the message. John wouldn’t have been insistent that they both be present if it wasn’t.

John was in rough shape, ribs bandaged up, neck held in a brace and the right side of his face one massive bruise, but he sat up in his bed at their entrance and held himself ramrod straight, formal. The sympathetic expression on his face solidified Oliver’s bad feeling into dread. Barry politely sat down in the chair next to him, but Oliver stood at the foot of the bed. He couldn’t bring himself to speak so he let Barry take the lead in asking John how he felt.

“Hal’s been MIA for a month, now,” said John, cutting to the chase quickly after, “he was escorting a medical convoy and they were attacked. We haven’t heard from him since.”

“So it’s a war after all?” asked Oliver, roughly.

John nodded, and from the corner of his eyes Oliver saw Barry glance at him worriedly.

“I’m sorry,” added John, “Guy went after him but hasn’t come back yet.”

“His ring - ?” asked Barry.

“Hasn’t gone to anyone new, as far as we know,” said John.

Oliver stopped listening. He knew Barry kept asking more questions, poking for details, but it all faded under the rush of blood in his ears. From what Hal had told them before leaving, the mission had just been a ‘tense situation in need of mediators’ and he would only have been gone for four months.

“Awfully light on details,” Oliver had told him, on their last night together, “the guardians are just sending you in like this?”

Hal had already said his goodbyes to Barry, and was spending his last few hours before departure with Oliver, which paradoxically only put him more on edge. Hal usually just stayed with whoever he was when he got summoned: that he’d deliberately made plans to stay with Oliver, meant he knew the mission was something Oliver wouldn’t like it. Oliver hated it when Hal tried to placate him.

“The local planets asked for our help,” said Hal, “and since that entire galaxy is involved, the Guardians decided it was better to act fast, in case its spreads.”

Fancy talk to say someone in that galaxy knew the right people in the Green Lantern Corps, in Oliver’s opinion. Something had felt wrong even then, but Hal’s naked body had been a comforting – and distracting – weight in his arms so Oliver had bit his tongue and only frowned at the dark.

“Why the Earth lanterns? It’s not your sector,” he asked.

“Humanoid species: they try to match us now for easier contact. It’s a new policy.”

Hal had lifted his head to lean his chin on Oliver’s chest and smile reassuringly at him.

“Besides, we’re just backup dancers for Kyle. He’s going to wrap this whole thing up in no time and I will be back before the four months are up.”

There’d been a lot of things Oliver meant to say that night: that it was still a stupid risk to take, that the newly re-built Green Lantern Corps didn’t seem to have learned its lessons, that Hal didn’t have to do this just to prove he was still loyal to them. Instead, he’d kept his mouth shut because there’d been no way he could say any of them without starting a fight that would dig up the Parallax shaped elephant in the room. Oliver wondered now if he would have felt better or worse if he had spoken up: it wouldn’t have stopped Hal from leaving, but he would be feeling at least a little bit vindicated.

Oliver left the infirmary abruptly- stormed out, heart beating a mile a minute, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to hit something. He didn’t acknowledge the other league members that crossed his path in the corridor, desperate to get somewhere where he could be alone, but Barry caught up to him in the zeta tube chambers.

“It’s not great news,” he admitted, “but at least we know he’s still out there somewhere, right?” 

It wasn’t Barry’s fault, Oliver would recognize that later, but the words immediately set his teeth on edge, cutting right through his already frayed nerves. Reasonable or not, he didn’t want to be soothed right now, he wanted to rage, to be mad at Hal for leaving, at the Corps for never changing, and to stay mad until there was no more place for worry. The earlier complicity he’d felt with Barry fizzled away, replaced with burning hot anger. Barry wanted to live in denial? Fine, but Oliver wouldn’t play along.

“If he were, he would have found a way to pass along a message.”

“Oliver-”

Oliver waved him off, and stepped onto the platform for transport.

“No. He always goes running when the guardians yank his leash, and guess what? It’s finally gotten him killed.”

He felt briefly guilty, but didn’t pause to see if the jab landed. He punched in the codes to Star City and was grateful when Barry let him go.

Oliver was a realist. Hal was dead in a ditch on an alien planet, and it was only a matter of time before Guy or Kyle or Jessica found their way back to Earth with the confirmation.

The first night was the hardest. Oliver almost broke his four-year sobriety streak. He bought a large bottle of whiskey on the way home, then sat on his couch and stared at it for a very long time before throwing it against the wall. Seeing it shatter felt fucking amazing, until he had to bend down to pick up the glass shards from his carpet with his fingers.

Drinking wasn’t an option, so he did the next best thing and threw himself into work, determined to dismantle every drug cartel on the streets before the month was up. It wasn’t healthy, per se, but it was cathartic. The gaping despair needed somewhere to go and the small bones of a few noses worked well enough.

Dinah and Roy tried to join him on patrol a few times, but they hovered, like it was Oliver’s first time with a bow, and it mostly made him feel itchy. Their attempts to cheer him up mostly boiled down to Hal finding his way back as soon as he was able, and he couldn’t stand the forced optimism, they sounded like Barry.

Eventually, he ditched them, and fled to Coast City.

Hal would have done better to look out for the troubles in his own damned home, instead of flying off to fight a war at the other end of the universe, but since he wasn’t here, Oliver told himself he might as well pick up the slack. If it meant he stayed in Hal’s apartment and slept in Hal’s bed and that it made the hurt in his chest sting just that little more sharply – well, Oliver never claimed to be good at coping.

It wasn’t fair. They’d had so little time together in the end. Oliver should be grateful: he didn’t think he’d ever be able to hold a stable five-year relationship, let alone one that involved the levels of communication required for a polyamorous arrangement. Yet, it had worked, they were good together and he was happy. After everything they’d been through, he’d actually started to believe they’d have many more years together. That little fantasy was over now. Coming back to life once was miraculous already and Oliver figured Hal had no chance of being resurrected twice.

Two weeks later, Oliver was wrapping up a long night of surveillance in the freezing, unrelenting rain when he got caught with his pants down. He completely failed to notice the three burly men waiting to corner him on the ground as he was coming down a fire escape until one of them socked him in the jaw hard enough to stun him. It was a ridiculously sloppy mistake. The initial rush of adrenaline that had kept him fighting so far was fading and he wasn’t at his best when he was heartbroken, who would have thought.

They dragged him to the back of the alley where the first thug pinned him to the wall by the neck and the other two stayed back to watch the entrance. Oliver allowed his body to go slack, forcing his assailant to carry his whole weight knowing it would tire him out. He could get out of this – he had plenty of arrow heads in his belt, it would be easy to stab one right through the tender nerves of the wrist, or the underarm, or the eye since Oliver was in a particularly foul mood – but all Oliver could think of was that he was so very tired. They were all so fragile, with lives that could be squeezed out of bodies so easily: a bad fall, a basic airway obstruction, a single arrow through the heart. Why the hell did Hal think he could survive space wars, why the hell had Oliver not asked him to stay?

The grip on his throat tightened, cutting his air out completely, and he was lifted until his feet were off the ground. Yeah, he’d run out of time to wax poetry about his sad personal life. Oliver needed to act immediately. He never got the chance.

The faint telltale whistling of a speedster approaching was his only heads up. He felt a gust of air in his hair, then the man who had him up against the wall disappeared and he was dropped back on his feet. The three assailants were rounded up and moaning in a heap on the ground before Oliver could even start to catch his breath.  

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” hissed the Flash.

Oliver folded over, bracing his hands on his knees. His throat felt like it was on fire and he slowly drank in mouthfuls of air. Barry stood over him, hands on his hips, residual lightning jumping on his body and looking blurry around the edges. Oliver waved him off dismissively with one hand before the speedster could decide he was taking too long to respond and dropped him off on his ass in the Hall of Justice infirmary.

Barry huffed but mercifully granted him a moment before he started moralizing. He swept the alleyway one more time, picked up Oliver’s discarded bow to lean it against the wall, then disappeared in another crackle of lightning. When Oliver looked back up, the thugs were gone and Barry was skidding to a stop in front of him again.

“Why are you here?” asked Oliver, voice rough.

“Patrolling,” said Barry, “You didn’t tell me you had it covered.”

The League was well organized when it came to covering cities for an unavailable hero, but Coast City had always been theirs. The first time they bumped into each other, after Hal omitted to inform them that he asked both of them to take care of Coast City in his absence, had been an almost unmitigated disaster. Sonar had been handed over to authorities in the end, but it had involved the destruction of a building, Oliver getting one of his own arrows in the shoulder, and Barry losing his hearing for a day. Now, when Oliver was in town, he texted Barry to let him know not to show. Barry took care of it the rest of the time: it was easier for him to pop over whenever there was an emergency, especially lately, since Wally had taken the lead as Central City Flash and he wasn’t as stretched thin.

“Probably a good thing,” added Barry, “or I’d be scrapping you off the floor right now.”

“You’re not my keeper,” growled Oliver.

Barry threw his hands up in the air, with all the attitude of a disappointed parent. Oliver noted rather enviously that he was phasing through the rain to keep himself dry, the raindrops falling harmlessly through him.

“You’re welcome,” said Barry.

“I had it handled,” said Oliver.

A cough forced itself out of his throat, undermining his point, and he quickly turned away from Barry’s pointed stare, busying himself by rearranging his clothes and slipping his bow over his shoulder. Oliver knew he was acting like a bigger asshole than usual, even with Barry, but he couldn’t help himself. It felt good to lash out. 

“I heard you haven’t been seen in Star City for two weeks now,” said Barry, “have you been here this whole time?”

His tone sounded less annoyed now and more… worried, which was so much worse. They didn’t worry about each other, and Oliver’s pride had been wounded enough for one night. Yet, it was uncanny how energizing arguing with Barry could be, and after the past two weeks of numbness, Oliver wanted to sink his teeth in the frustration mounting between them and hang on to it.

“Are you keeping tabs on me now?" he asked, "did Roy put you up to this?”

He moved towards the fire escape, not really meaning to leave, but testing the waters. Barry didn’t disappoint, and stepped in his way, mouth set in a grim line.

“Seriously, what is wrong with you?” he demanded, “this isn’t the first time he’s late.”

“‘Late’? We’re talking about an interplanetary war, not a goddamned dinner party,” he scoffed.

Barry crossed his arms over his chest but didn’t budge one bit when Oliver stepped so close they were practically nose to nose.

“He’s not dead, Oliver,” said Barry, voice rising, “you’re not usually so quick to give up on him.”

“He’s the one who flew off to God knows where! Do you think he spared a single thought for us on the way there?”

The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, too close to the truth in Oliver’s heart.

“That’s not a fair question and you know it,” hissed Barry, “Of course, he did.”

It wasn’t. And Oliver didn’t mean it, not really. Loving Hal meant accepting his sense of duty to the Green Lantern Corps and he’d made his peace with it a long time ago. He knew that, given the choice, Hal would always return to him – to them both. He just hated to be reminded that things could happen up there that would make it impossible for Hal to even have that choice, and Oliver was stuck here, too far away to do anything about it. It irked him even more to see that Barry handled that terrifying possibility a lot better than he was, that he was capable of defending Hal’s choices even now.

A little voice at the back of his head kept insisting Barry was right: Oliver wasn’t being reasonable, he wasn’t actually mad at anyone, he was worried, brewing on anxiety that had nowhere to go. He thought he’d left the outbursts of passionate anger back in his thirties, but apparently not. He wanted so badly to be shouting at Hal; being angry at Barry was the closest thing he was going to get.

“Really working overtime to keep that Blue lantern ring, huh?” he said.

That finally struck a chord. Barry stared at him hard through their masks and Oliver could easily read the fury bubbling just beneath the surface in the tick of his jaw and the tension radiating from his shoulders. He braced himself, knew Barry would give as good as he got. He wanted to drag him down with him in his misery. Our boyfriend is dead and he’s not coming back. Doesn’t that make you want to break some shit?

Instead of starting to shout, Barry deflated all at once, face folding with hurt, briefly, before simply shaking his head.

“I’m not doing this with you,” he said, “not today.”

He started walking away and Oliver’s anger spiked into panic. He acted without thinking, desperate for a reaction that matched his own in intensity. He caught Barry by the arm, pulled him back around and surged forward for a kiss, both hands bunched in the front of the Flash suit.

Barry grunted in surprise. His hands flew up to clasp Oliver's upper arms, as if to push him away, but then, he froze in place. Oliver pushed his luck and kept going, tilting his head for a better angle. Barry's eyes fluttered shut when he traced the seam of his lips with his tongue and nibbled, questioning. All at once Barry softened, mouth parting to let him in and arms coming up to latch on around Oliver’s neck, pulling him close. An unvoluntary whine climbed out of Oliver’s throat. Barry was very warm against his drenched clothes and his freezing skin and he pressed himself even closer, stumbling until Barry’s back hit the brick wall.  

It wasn’t a good idea to do this here. They were partially hidden from the mouth of the alley by a dumpster bin, but if anyone – friend or foe - walked by and saw the Green Arrow kissing the Flash, the papers would have a field day, and Batman probably an aneurysm. Oliver was also still short of breath from the strangling and his lungs ached in protest at the lack of air, but he didn’t want to stop. He pressed himself closer, seized by the urge to crawl under Barry’s skin. Their teeth clacked against each other when they both dove back in for another. It was exhilarating: the physical ache a nice distraction, and the low fire stirring in his belly, the first pleasant feeling he’d had in weeks.

He needn’t have worried. For once, Barry was on the same page. When they came back up for air, he gripped Oliver by the shoulders and the world blurred as he flashed them over to Hal’s apartment. There, Barry slammed Oliver against the door hard enough to rattle his bones and crowded close, one leg slotting between his. Not to be outdone, Oliver yanked the cowl off his head and pulled him back in with both hands over the ears. The kiss tasted faintly of ozone.

They’d never done anything like this together. After half a decade of sharing a boyfriend, there’d been some level of intimacy, but Oliver had refused to consider the possibility seriously, as a matter of principle, even if he would be lying if he said he’d never thought about it. Hal liked to tease him sometimes, when the mood was right. You guys are metamours, he would sing. He liked the word and Oliver just knew there was a pun in there somewhere too. The risks had just been too great: if he and Barry tried and blew up, the primary injured party would have been Hal, and that wouldn’t have been fair to him.

All that didn’t matter anymore. There was no more Hal to bear the consequences. Tonight, Oliver gleefully stomped all over that line he’d drawn in the sand, and the petty side of him found vicious satisfaction in giving in now, when Hal was nowhere near to enjoy it.

Thinking of Hal cut too deep. He forced himself to shove all thoughts of him aside and focused on peeling off the Flash suit. Barry’s hands fell around his waist, pulled at his belt and untucked his shirt with just a hint of superspeed.

“Is this alright?” asked Barry against his lips, “Are you alright with this?”

“Yes, yes, god yes,” said Oliver, “you?”

“uhun.”

They grappled against each other. Oliver managed to pin a wrist at the small of Barry’s back, wining on upper body strength, and propel him backwards, so he could step away from the door and towards some sort of flat surface. He was ridiculously pleased when Barry didn’t use his speed to evade him, wanting – needing to just grab on to him and never let go. His heart was beating so fast it could probably rival a speedster’s resting heartbeat, and he ignored the little voice at the back of his head saying hold on, think about this, wait a minute.

They made it to Hal’s bedroom, all their clothing discarded along the way. Oliver twisted Barry’s arm over his head and wrestled him down onto the bed, climbing above him to straddle his lap. Barry snarled at the manhandling, but didn’t buck him off, merely surged upwards, craning his neck to collect another kiss, giving Oliver a few precious seconds to decide how he wanted to proceed.

He gathered Barry’s wrist in one hand and stretched to grab the lube and condoms tucked between the mattress and the bedframe. If he closed his eyes, Oliver could almost still smell Hal on the sheets, but the actual smell was long gone and that was as far as the illusion could go. Barry drew a line of sloppy kisses along his sternum as he moved, pleasant, but very unlike the biting Hal was fond of, and wherever Oliver’s hands landed on Barry’s body they were not pulling the same reactions from him as he was used to with Hal. It didn’t matter, he told himself.

“Don’t move,” he told Barry, roughly.

He prepped himself quickly, rolled the condom on Barry and easily pushed himself on him. He distantly heard himself gasp at the pressure, belly tied into knots with excitement but he still had the presence of mind to pause, only for a moment, to allow Barry to brace himself with both feet on the mattress and make sure he was comfortable. Barry had of course only half listened to instructions, one hand still obediently above his head, but the other caressing up and down his flank soothingly. Oliver captured that stray hand and pressed it back against the mattress.

“Too fast?” he teased, already short of breath.

“That’s funny,” said Barry.

Oliver rocked forward and Barry groaned, choked and quiet. His eyes fluttered closed and he threw his head back, revealing the long line of his throat, the sight sending another kick of pleasure in Oliver’s groin. He couldn’t wait any longer after that and started moving, a bit too fast, reckless with himself. He wanted to feel it – he hoped to carry the physical ache with him for at least some hours afterwards.  

Neither of them lasted long. Barry came first, biting down on his own kiss-bruised lips to keep quiet, blue eyes blinking up at Oliver through long lashes. Oliver’s orgasm hit him hard behind the eyes right after, wrung out of him with a gasp and leaving him lightheaded. He slumped forward and just managed to brace himself over Barry with his elbows on either side of his head not to crush him. Barry scrunched his nose when a drop of sweat landed on his cheek but otherwise made no move to shove him off. He tiredly dragged an arm back down to wipe the corner of his mouth, eyes closed and body pleasantly slack below Oliver.

He was slightly piqued to note Barry had caught his breath back already, when Oliver himself was still panting hard, but finally, the terrible, pounding tension between his temples had drained out of him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank Barry for the orgasm or start crying in relief. Oliver had never cried after sex and he wasn’t going to start now. He swallowed, thick with unwanted emotions.

“Hah-”

“Don’t,” interrupted Barry, “Don’t say anything, just – just stay.”

That worked too. For the first time in weeks, Oliver didn’t have any fight left in him anyways. He dropped down onto the bed next to Barry, and they laid there together for a long time, without speaking another word.

It takes me less than a minute to unpack it again you know.

Barry must have developed a sixth sense that told him when Oliver crossed the threshold of Hal’s apartment–ex apartment because Oliver was in the middle of emptying the bathroom toiletries into a box when his phone pinged with the message. When he saw who it was, he shoved the phone back into his back pocket, opting to ignore it.

It’d been three weeks since they slept together, now over five months since Hal’s disappearance, and although they hadn’t seen each other since or even mentioned the event, their text message chain had exploded into a steady back and forth, mostly about Hal’s apartment – ex apartment. It was entirely Oliver’s fault for opening the floodgates. 

Oliver wanted the place gone, otherwise he would keep gravitating towards it only to find it empty of Hal every time. The urge had snuck up on him, after his night with Barry and it had felt like the natural next step. There was nothing tying him to Coast City anymore, the apartment wasn’t being used and it was a rental with a landlord – a Todd, or a Marc, or something – all three of them despised. Besides, if Oliver didn’t pack it away, he would start throwing things against the wall and that couldn’t be healthy.

He'd only meant to inform Barry he would be footing the bill for the movers, but Barry had immediately objected to the whole concept and taken the opening as permission to give Oliver a piece of his mind over text. He had pointed out that if Oliver really needed the cleansing, he could very well start with all of Hal’s stuff scattered in Oliver’s own house, to which Oliver responded Barry could mind his own business. It had snowballed into not being only about Hal’s apartment, and more about making a point, namely that Barry refused to face reality and let go. If Barry had just let him pack it all away, Oliver probably would never have gotten to the step of calling the movers, but there. They were at a standstill, and it was awfully difficult to argue over text when the person on the other end could bombard Oliver with five different paragraphs in the second it took him to blink. 

It was surprisingly domestic, Oliver noted bitterly. The sad kind of domestic, like they were two widows bickering over the scraps of their husband’s estate, except Hal’s estate consisted mostly of a battered couch and a few T-shirts. Everything Hal had of value was either at Oliver’s or Barry’s or on the man’s own back. Barry may have superspeed, but with a snap of his fingers Oliver could have an army of movers over to empty the whole apartment, and then what would he do, huh?

Olive wrenched open the cabinet above the sink with so much force it creaked ominously and a bunch of hair dye boxes came clattering down. Hal, you vain, vain, ridiculous man. Most of them were unopened and expired. Some had only been used once, on those particularly bad nights when Hal woke up screaming from nightmares. Talking about it didn't work, not for them. Instead, Oliver would sit him down in front of him in the tub and paint the white streaks back to brown. It was a stupid ritual, Oliver could barely see what he was doing in only the glow of the Green Lantern ring, the thick smell always made him faintly sick and it stained everywhere on the tiles, their towels and their sheets. Yet, it had worked every time to make Hal laugh and forget the self-loathing, and the next morning he’d know Hal was feeling better because he always complained that the color didn’t match his natural hair properly. It had been Barry’s idea to start buying the washable kind as a compromise.

Holding the bottles, Oliver felt himself getting choked up, a sting going up the bridge of his nose and pooling at his eyes, and no, he wasn’t a thirteen-year-old about to start crying over hair dye. His phone buzzed again and Oliver whipped it out of his pocket. 

Just leave it – wrote Barry.

Barry, who kept making sure the rent was paid so Hal wouldn’t lose the apartment, who came by to pick up the mail and clean and who would always unpack whatever boxes Oliver packed up. Because taking care of Hal’s affairs was just what Barry did when Hal was away, which was classic Hal, wasn’t it, to let other people pick up after him?

You’re being unfair again, sang the logical and not miserable part of him.

His fingers moved automatically, animated by a fit of familiar irritation at Barry, and he wrote: Tell your lesser boyfriend to be reasonable. It took him a good five second of staring at the screen before he realized he’d texted Hal. Message sent, but not received – never to be received unless Hal brought his phone back in range of Earth satellites, which he would never do. The hurt punched the breath out of him, he had to lock his knees to keep himself standing. He forced himself to backtrack: annoyance, was what he was meant to focus on.

I’d like to see you try and stop me – he wrote to Barry, fingers shaking.

Predictably, he heard the front door open barely a minute later.

“Really mature, Oliver,” called out Barry.

Oliver dumped his box to the ground and stalked outside to meet him halfway in the kitchen. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do at first, but his mind was made up the second he saw the peeved pinch of eyebrows on Barry’s face. Before he could utter another word, Oliver shoved him against the kitchen table and hauled him in a kiss. Barry scrambled to keep his balance, but caught himself by hanging on with both hands on Oliver’s shoulder.

All at once, the thumping in Oliver’s head quieted down and the urge to cry dissipated. It felt physically easier to breathe like this, with his mouth glued to Barry and their noses bumping together. He kicked Barry’s ankles apart to step between his legs, wanting to get close, craving for more, but Barry objected with a sound and turned his head away from the kiss.

“Just because I was on board the last time, doesn’t mean I’m going to let you kiss your way out of every argument, Oliver,” he protested.  

The reference to their tryst made a pleasant shiver crawl along his spine, exactly the sensation he’d been chasing to get his mind off things. Oliver looked down very deliberately between their bodies, trying to gauge how welcome – or unwelcome – he was, noted that Barry hadn’t actually moved away, the single finger on his sternum half-heartedly creating distance, and the distracted flicker of Barry’s eyes towards his lips.  

“I don’t need to kiss you, I can skip right to business if you like,” he smirked.

He leaned forward again, but Barry pulled back to frown at him. He stared at Oliver quietly, searching, the moment stretching for long enough – especially for a speedster – that the scrutiny made Oliver uncomfortable. He suddenly worried he’d misread the situation and that Barry’s reluctance wasn’t just for show, and almost backed off, ready to apologize, when Barry finally looked away with an annoyingly knowing hum. Before Oliver could ask what that had been about, the finger on his chest trailed down to toy with the strings of Oliver’s sweatpants. 

“As long as your mouth is busy and I don’t have to listen to you talk,” sniffed, Barry, “I’m happy with whatever.”

Oliver would give him the credit: he knew how to throw down a challenge, and Oliver could not resist taking him up on it. He stole another kiss, and sucked on Barry’s bottom lip teasingly.

“I don’t need words to make you see my side of things, I promise you,” he said.

He dropped down to his knees, and made sure to keep smirking up at Barry as he pulled the zipper of his pants down with his teeth. Barry rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide the sudden flush dusting his cheeks or the way he braced himself more firmly against the table with both hands.

“You can close your eyes and pretend I’m Hal, I don’t mind,” said Oliver.

“Wouldn’t work,” he exhaled shakily when Oliver took him in his mouth, “he's not always trying to antagonize me.”

Unfortunately for Barry’s concentration, Oliver was good at this. He sucked until Barry’s fingers tangled in his hair, and then with some strategic heavy petting, had no issue taking him over the edge. He obligingly stayed put until the last shivers of pleasure faded from Barry’s body and swallowed, before pulling himself back up. His knees protested, mistreated by the hard floor, so he deliberately pulled on Barry’s body as support, and used that hold on him to drag him into another kiss, long and deep, and gripping his chin tight between two fingers.   

“I’m not convinced,” muttered Barry against him, once he was released.

Oliver pouted down at him in offense. The state of Hal’s apartment was the furthest thing from his mind now, and his own pressing need was demanding attention.

“Never mind that. Aren’t you going to return the favor?” he asked.

“I’m considering it,” said Barry.

Oliver groaned in annoyance and ground himself more firmly against Barry’s leg to let him know exactly how little patience he had right now, and tried to sweeten the deal with a line of licks and nips along the side of his neck. Barry chuckled at him, tilting his head to make space for Oliver’s prying lips, and mercifully wriggled a hand under the band of his pants.

“Fine, but you have to agree to leave Hal’s apartment as is,” he said.

“I make no promises,” snipped Oliver, and tuned him out to focus on chasing his pleasure.

It did nothing to solve their apartment standoff in the end, but it sure distracted Oliver enough that he didn’t want to go back and rip the wallpaper off the walls anymore. He kept half-heartedly filling up boxes whenever he stopped by, and Barry kept emptying them and sometimes, somewhere in the middle they intercepted each other and worked on trying to convince each other. Oliver hated to admit Hal was right but Barry was a fast learner and each time it got harder for Oliver to keep his wits and not give in just for the promise of another orgasm. 

“Do we even know which wall he kept the lantern in?” asked Oliver, once, against Barry’s collarbone.

“It’s at your house,” revealed Barry, words loose after another pleasant bout on the living room floor, “laundry room – he wanted to see how long it would take you to find it.”

Hearing that was bittersweet. The possessive side of Oliver practically purred in pleasure, but it was undercut by the reminder that it was futile to have this useless object safe in his wall when the user would never return to claim it. Just as futile, in fact, as butting heads with Barry over a place Hal himself wasn’t particularly attached to.

Still, he was, unexpectedly, profoundly annoyed when their argument abruptly came to and end some weeks later, when Oliver caught Hal’s landlord red handed, using the master key to open the door for a visit.  

“Mr. Jordan hasn’t been around in weeks,” argued the man – Jason? Rob?

“So? You’re still getting your rent, aren’t you?”

Oliver threatened to buy the entire building out from under him if he tried something like that again and made sure to let the two uncomfortable-looking-potential-tenants know to stay very far away from this guy’s tyranny to drive his point home.  

“Landlords are leeches,” he told Barry over the phone, after chasing everyone away, “You win this round, we’re keeping Hal’s apartment.”

Six months after Hal’s disappearance and a week leading up to what would have been Hal’s birthday, Oliver took his car and left for the road. It was tradition for them to drive to Central City this time of year. They went the long way round, visited a few forgotten towns and camped under the stars before Oliver handed him off to Barry. There really was no point to it now, Oliver certainly wasn’t going to make the drive just to visit Barry, but it felt too weird to stay put at home. Roy kept making comments that it would do him good to ‘get back out on the road,’ and Dinah offered to meet him halfway somewhere. Oliver adored them both but they were driving him up the wall, so he gave in and left.

His initial plan had been to go somewhere other than Central City. Hal wasn’t there to dictate a destination, so it was his chance to follow his guts, go somewhere new, follow the nitty and gritty of America and see where it led him. Except, muscle memory kept him on the road to Missouri the whole time. He was over halfway there when he finally admitted to himself that he was definitely still driving to Central City, and by then he’d also managed to talk himself into it being a good plan after all. Barry could probably also use the distraction on the day, he figured, and Oliver was itching to get his hands on him to get rid of the nervous, high strung energy buzzing in his bones.

Alright, yes, it was a regular thing. Oliver was pained to admit it, but sex had always been a great outlet for him, and it didn’t feel right to seek out someone who wasn’t Hal. Barry was permitted, and he was willing, so why not? It had been a relief when, after the apartment debacle, Barry had simply moved on to the next thing to argue about so Oliver never ran out of good reasons to shut him up with kissing.

They showed up in each other’s cities or bumped into each other in Coast City and scoffed and poked and pushed until they landed in heap in a bed somewhere, biting, scratching, kissing. Neither of them was under any illusion that this was more than a way to bridge the gap to a man who wasn’t there. It was cathartic, angry, sex that left Oliver feeling pretty buzzed afterwards, and if it was also the only activity that patched up the hollow in Oliver’s chest at the thought of Hal being lost in space, that was no one’s business but his own.  

Oliver arrived in Central City on the tail end of a Wednesday afternoon, right on the day that would have been Hal’s birthday, and he hesitated for some time on what to do next, anxious even if he refused to admit it. Their routine was a carefully calibrated “pick-a-fight-then-have-sex-about-it,” but Oliver had the feeling Barry would not be the fun kind of annoyed if he showed up at CCPD asking to get laid, so he opted to go wait for Barry at his house.

He let himself in through the back door, and headed for the living room, intent on making himself comfortable as he waited. He startled like a frightened cat seeing itself in the mirror for the first time when he rounded the corner and found Barry working at the table.  

“Fuck!” he swore.

Barry, absorbed in whatever he was doing, hadn’t heard him come in and jumped half a foot in the air at his entrance. Thankfully his quick reflexes saved Oliver from having a CCPD laptop thrown in his face in self defense.

“Oliver?” said Barry, surprised.

Barry's expression was pale and pinched in disappointment as he stared at him with wide eyes, and Oliver suddenly realized that Barry probably expected someone else to show up unannounced in his house. A needle of guilt poked at his heart – that wasn’t one of his most brilliant moments. He’d meant the surprise to provoke some offense, not be painful reminder, and now he fumbled for something to say that wouldn’t get him immediately thrown out.

“Barry,” he acknowledged, keeping his tone casual, “what are you doing here?”

“Me? This is my house!”

“Oh I know, I just didn’t think you’d be home…Working.”

Every inch of the living room table was covered in CCPD reports and various pictures of three different victims with gruesome injuries, the shape of which Oliver immediately recognized. He found a small available corner of the table to set down the six-pack of non-alcoholic beer he’d brought with him and picked up the closeup of a jagged hole in someone’s leg.

“Barbed broadheads,” he whistled, “nasty little fellas.”

“Don’t touch that.”

Barry snagged the picture back, but to Oliver’s amusement, took his word for it and immediately got distracted and scribbled down a few notes. Oliver watched him flutter about quietly, then took advantage of having been forgotten. He sat on the edge of the table, unbuttoned his shirt and cracked open a bottle.

As always, the first sip made him wince: too rancid. This particular brand was his least favorite, but he bought a pack every year for Hal’s birthday. In the early days of his sobriety, Hal had replaced all the real beers in his fridge with these, and insisted they were the same thing despite tasting absolutely foul. He’d always refused to acknowledge he was wrong so in revenge, Oliver forced him to drink them once a year. Another tradition he could have done away with now that the principal offender was no longer around, yet here he was. He threw the bottle back, emptied half of it in one shot, and turned back to Barry.

Whatever inspiration Oliver’s comment had sparked, it took Barry a few minutes to remember he was here. He frowned when he looked up from the photographs and Oliver made sure to flash him his cockiest grin.

“Are we done?” he asked.

“What are you doing here?” said Barry.

“I was bored.”

Oliver leaned back further over the table, a sprawling gesture that always caught Hal’s attention in just the right way, but with Barry he had to wriggle his eyebrows to make sure he got the hint. It still took a second – an eternity for a man who could think at superspeed – and when it sank in, his flush had a tint of outrage to it.

“Seriously? Oliver, I’m busy.”

“You’re not at work,” he said.

“I’m still working-”

“and it would do you a lot of good to replace that stick up your ass with my d-”

“Don’t. You’re already on thin ice!” interrupted Barry.

Oliver snapped his mouth shut. Barry was radiating defensive tension, hands clenched tight around his pen, and very much not playing along. Oliver earned it after showing up unannounced like he had any right to take up space in Barry’s personal life. This entire week Oliver hadn’t had his head on straight, he was usually much better at flirting than that, but he should’ve known by now that the tactics that worked on Hal didn’t necessarily work on Barry. Still, he’d come all this way, and he’d had good intentions to offer a mutually beneficial good time. He placed his drink down, careful to use one of Barry’s ridiculous coasters in a show of good faith, and decided to be honest.

“I figured we could both use the distraction," he admitted, "considering what today is. That's all.”

Barry blinked. He glanced at the date on his watch with a quick flick of the wrist and deflated.

“Oh,” he said quietly, “I didn’t realize-”

Hal had bemoaned more than once Barry’s tendency to bury himself in work when he was stressed, but this was the first time Oliver witnessed it in person. Barry threw his pen down on the table, and slumped down on a chair, pulling his bowtie loose and running a hand through his hair with a deep, tired sigh. Oliver slid his drink towards him with two fingers, in solidarity, and this time Barry accepted the gesture. Oliver watched him take a swig and relished in the immediate grimace of dislike. Vindication, he thought at Hal’s ghost.

“Besides,” continued Oliver, “this would be way more fun than strip-searching criminals or whatever it is you do.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when I was frisking you last week,” deadpanned Barry.

The retort was so unexpected it startled a genuine laugh out of Oliver and he was pleased when finally – finally – Barry’s eyes flicked to the visible skin on his chest.

“That was consensual, sparky,” he pointed out, smiling.

“Don’t call me that,” grumbled Barry, “and unfortunately for you, I still have a lot of work to do.”

He stood back up and turned away to pack away the pictures. Oliver followed, sliding off the table, and plastered himself against his back, catching him by the waist. Barry didn’t back away when he invaded his personal space, signaling that despite his verbal protests he was willing to indulge the attempt. There was something deeply satisfying in the knowledge that Barry could slip away faster than he could blink but was letting himself be grabbed again and again, the implicit show of trust curled something greedy in Oliver’s belly. He leaned in to kiss him below the ear, a move that made Hal melt without fail, but only made Barry huff, breath shaky, so Oliver immediately course corrected and deliberately scratched his beard along the tender side of his neck, enjoying the way it made him squirm in displeasure.

“You need to shave,” said Barry.

“Absolutely not,” said Oliver.

He caught the flailing hand trying to push his chin away and guided it to palm at his crotch instead.

“So, are you in or out?” he checked.

“Bedroom,” confirmed Barry.

In the aftermath, he laid prone on Barry’s chest, still cradled between his legs. His mind was pleasantly fuzzy around the edges and as he came down, he focused on Barry’s rapid, staccato heartbeat under his ear, the warmth of his ankle hooked over his calf and the slow, almost meditative circles Barry was drawing along his shoulder blades, a pleasant contrast to the sting at his back where he’d previously dug his nails. Oliver was warm and comfortable and that alone made this doomed trip to Central City worth it.

“When do I get to sample the vibrating?” he asked, feeling cheeky.

Barry laughed, boneless under him and looking just as unwilling to move as he was.  

“Maybe once you start making it good for me, how about that?” he said, without any bite to it.

“Oh harsh,” hummed Oliver.

He was quickly discovering that he liked it when Barry was mean to him in bed. something about it sparked the urge to show him wrong, it was almost jut as thrilling as when Hal told him exactly how good he was to him. It was a rather pleasant discovery to have this late in life.

Oliver was already halfway to sleeping when Barry rolled him off of him and onto his back. He felt more than he saw him wipe them both down with a cloth and fuss around to rearrange the pillows and blankets. Then, it was Barry’s turn to sprawl all over him: Oliver oomphed in protest when an elbow dug into his side, but was otherwise too drowsy to do anything about it when Barry starfished across his chest. He would not want to fall asleep with the guy on a regular basis, he took an awful lot of space in bed, but just this time, because it was Barry’s own bed and he was feeling pretty tuckered out, he figured he would allow it.

It felt nice, after all, and Oliver felt miles better then he did this morning. He fell asleep to the thought that Hal would have loved to see them like this.

“You’re looking… less morose, lately,” commented Dinah.

They were gathered in the watchtower for the monthly Justice League assembly. Many people were still up and about, talking with each other, and creating a low clamor around the room as they waited for Superman to start them off. Oliver had taken his seat in one of the quieter spots around the table, not really in the mood to talk and Dinah had slipped in her usual place next to him, knocking their shoulders together gently to pull him out of his daydreaming.

He’d been watching Barry, who was currently across the room talking with John and Jessica: the later had arrived early this morning, walking gingerly and sporting her arm in a cast. Barry had zipped over to them, probably to ask about Hal, but after seven months of radio silence from the Green Lantern Corps, Oliver highly doubted there would be any new information. Thankfully, Barry hadn’t tried to wave him over. Dinah followed his gazed and hummed thoughtfully.

“No news from Hal?” she asked.

“I doubt Lanterns often get to recover bodies,” he said, tone flat.

“Mph, so you’re still fixated on the idea he’s dead,” she said.  

Oliver swiveled in his chair to glare at her properly, crossing both arms over his chest.

“No, you’re right,” he bit out, “I should put my entire life on hold, on the unlikely chance he ever comes back.”

“Of course not, but you shouldn’t be speed running through the stages of grief either,” she sighed, “you’re trying to rush to closure and it has you convinced of the worst-case scenario.”

“I’m sorry, don’t remember having you on retainer as my psychiatrist,” said Oliver.

Dinah raised a pointed eyebrow at him, but waved her hand in surrender and backed off. She knew him well enough to sense when she toed a dangerous line.

“Still, I know you spend less time picking fights in back alleys and you do look like you’ve been eating better, so what’s changed?” she asked.

Oliver didn’t reply, annoyed at the closure comment, and perfectly content with letting her speculate on her own. She was right, overall, Oliver had gotten his appetite back and he was sleeping better. Not well, never a full night, but better, which he hadn’t actually consciously noticed until she pointed it out. His gaze wandered back to Barry, who had taken his seat next to Wally and was drumming on the table with his fingers impatiently. Judging by Barry’s frown, and Wally’s sympathetic hand on his forearm, whatever Jessica had to say was probably more of a whole lot of nothing.

“You’re sleeping with Barry,” said Dinah, suddenly.

Oliver whipped around in surprise and squinted at her, wondering how she could possibly have figured it out. He and Barry had been together before coming to the meeting, but they had arrived separately and hadn’t interacted once.

“How the devil do you know?” he demanded.

“You confirmed it, just now,” she said, smirking at him, “but also you’ve been staring a lot.”

“Hal gave us explicit permission,” he said.

It was the wrong tone, too defensive, but he hadn’t expected anyone to notice or to ever have to discuss it with a third party. He wasn’t embarrassed, in fact he was a firm believer that one’s choice in partners was nothing to be embarrassed about, only he hadn’t realized that their thing had grown enough to escape containment. His throat felt very dry all of the sudden and the room around him a little too warm.

“I know that,” said Dinah, amused but not mocking, “I just didn’t expect you to make a move for another few years. You made me lose my bet to Hal.”

Oliver squawked in denial, but Dinah ignored him.

“I’m more surprised Barry is going along with it,” she continued, “he must be really worried about Hal, huh?”

Oliver shrugged. Dinah got along with Barry a lot more than he did, they were friends, so if she didn’t know why Barry was into it, Oliver would not be able to venture a guess either. Dinah pinched his leg and he swatted her hand away.

“Ow, what?” he complained, “you of all people should agree it’s healthier than beating people up.”

“It’s better,” she conceded.

Oliver sensed the ‘but’ coming from a mile away.

“But Oliver, he’s your boyfriend’s boyfriend, this isn’t a no-strings situation you know,” she said, “if it keeps going, you’re going to need to have a proper discussion with him.”

“Not talking about it is half the fun,” argued Oliver.

Dinah’s expression shifted from understanding to fond exasperation. Oliver braced himself for a speech, but of course Dinah proved again that she knew him better than that.

“Be careful with each other,” was all she said, “dead or not, you both owe Hal that much.”

She clapped him on the shoulder, firmly, and leaned back in her chair. The meeting started before Oliver could figure out what to answer.

The eighth month after Hal was meant to come home also marked their six-year anniversary. It wasn’t a milestone Oliver would normally take note of, except if Hal were dead – and he probably was – it technically meant that Oliver had been metamours with Barry for longer than he’d been boyfriends with Hal, which had to be a joke at both their expense.

Sure, he and Barry were friends, of sorts. Green Arrow certainly respected the Flash as a fellow leaguer, and Oliver Queen had grown to respect Barry Allen back when they were both trying to raise kids and Barry had never once undermined him in front of Roy, even when he blatantly disliked some of his parenting techniques. But they disagreed on what direction the sun came up and to be honest, Oliver always thought Barry would be too vanilla for his taste. Despite his personal fantasies to see them together, Hal had always been discreet about how Barry and him differed or resembled each other, and Oliver had never asked for more details to avoid misleading him into thinking he was considering making a move on Barry.

Except, now, sex with Barry was fun, a good distraction, and overall, just nice. Now, there were… things Oliver was tempted to explore, like how much Barry would be willing to play up the reluctant act, or if he could be vicious enough to just leave Oliver hanging. The possibilities were intriguing, and different enough to how he liked it with Hal that they didn’t remind him of how much he missed him. He didn’t think he was imagining it when he saw signs Barry might want the same things. He’d been willing to indulge Oliver for this long, so he must be getting his own satisfaction out of this arrangement, even if Oliver couldn’t pinpoint what exactly.

That sort of fun would definitely require a discussion beforehand though. Oliver was horny, not an amateur – he’d outgrown the carelessness of his youth a long time ago. Besides, Barry was still Hal’s, just as much as he was, and damn it, Dinah was right, this wasn’t ‘no strings attached’.

The thought struck him as he watched Barry pull his underwear back on, eyes drawn to the rapidly fading hickey right where Oliver had bitten into the lower back of his neck. They were at Oliver’s house, and Barry had been called into work before they could get to anything more elaborate than getting each other off with their hands. It made Oliver daydream a little: what if he made fun of me for wanting more, what if I could force him to stay and be the reason he’s late for work. It created giddy swoops in his stomach.

“We should get a safe word,” he blurted out.

He hadn’t meant to start this way, it was jumping the gun, but Oliver didn’t know how else to say ‘I want to keep pushing, but I want to make sure you’re ok with it’ without actually talking about it. Barry threw a perplexed glance at him over his shoulder, but didn’t immediately respond.

“I’m not joking, Sweetness,” insisted Oliver.

“Don’t call me that,” said Barry, “why would we need a safe word?

Oliver sat up to lean against the headboard. Barry was facing away from him as he pulled on the Flash suit, and Oliver couldn’t catch his eyes, no matter how much he tilted his head.  

“Well, you’re a bit of a brat in bed,” he ignored Barry’s scoff, “and I do so love to push your buttons, but I don’t compromise on enthusiastic consent.”

Finally, Barry turned to face him and stared at him, hard for a beat.  

“Where are we going with this, Oliver?” he asked.

Oliver blinked, blindsided. Of all the questions, this one came out of left field.   

“Where are we going with what?” he asked.

“This.”

Barry gestured emphatically between them, at the covers bunched around Oliver’s legs and the mess they’d made of the room, his voice tight. Too late, Oliver realized they had veered into dangerous territory.

“It’s a safe word. For sex. It’s not that deep,” he lied.

“and how long do you expect this ‘nothing serious’ to keep going, exactly?”

It was never a good sign when Barry raised his voice first. Oliver’s temper flared fast and he could never help but respond in kind. 

“I didn’t realize we were on a schedule!” he snapped

“We are!” shouted Barry, “This is only until Hal comes back!”

There it was: the terrible, unspoken heart of their disagreement. Barry wasn’t grieving, he was waiting – stagnating. Oliver’s fury from the first few weeks rolled back over him with so much force it almost blinded him. Barry’s optimism wasn’t nearly as helpful as he seemed to believe it was, and Oliver resented him for throwing it right back into his face.

“I didn’t realize this was such a hardship for you,” he said, surprised by how calm and cold he sounded in his own ears.

It knocked the wind right out of Barry’s sails too.

“No, that’s not – Oliver –”

“Forget I brought it up,” he bit out, “I wouldn’t have said anything if I knew you weren’t going to be an adult about it.”

Oliver rolled out of bed to head to the bathroom, ready for this conversation to be over, but Barry didn’t move out of the way. He practically buzzed with the need to add something, and if Oliver were any good at reading him, he’d think there was some regret in his posture.

“You know he’s alive,” said Barry, and it was the closest Oliver had heard him come to pleading with him, “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be doing this with me. You could have anyone else.”

This was why Oliver hadn’t wanted to talk about it; he didn’t want to think about futures, or what it meant if it wasn’t just the occasional fun, or why he still felt tethered to a relationship that should be over. Till death do us part, and all that.

“Sure, if you want to keep lying to yourself,” he said.

Barry’s face shuttered and he yanked his cowl over his face. He stormed off without another word, leaving Oliver to chew on his anger alone.

Two days later, Oliver calmed down enough to acknowledge Barry was due to have an outburst of his own. He’d actually been surprisingly patient with Oliver, and without Hal to mediate, they were bound to bring each other to a boiling point. Still, he knew better than to be the first one to reach out. Neither of them had been fair, but Oliver had already made his expectations clear. He owed Barry the time it took for him to calm down and think it over.

Oliver pretended it didn’t bother him, but the absence left him feeling bereft. Somehow, in a few short months, Barry had grown on him like persistent dandelion weed, so to resist the temptation of picking up the phone, he kept himself busy with a long overdue inventory check of the Arrowcave. He went through his entire stock of arrow heads, from the classics to his more experimental creations, like the boxing glove arrow or the code cracking arrow, and it still wasn’t enough. For the first time in years, he gave the ring Barry made him a good polish. Stealing it from the Flash Museum had been such a hassle, it was a shame to keep it tucked away with some of his other paraphernalia, so he moved its little display box next to Hal’s dog tags on the computer. His lovelorn teenager behavior unfortunately did not go unnoticed.

Roy offhandedly kept him updated on both the Flashes in Central City, from the gorilla army invasion to that time the entire city was thrown in the mirror universe. It reportedly drove Wally up the wall, but Oliver suspected the real reason was Dinah had told Roy what was going on – which meant Wally also probably knew. The third Flash hadn’t yet popped up to give Oliver a dressing down, so at the very least he knew Barry was mostly fine and Oliver’s life wasn’t a complete romantic drama-comedy.  

He didn’t hear from Barry until three weeks later. He was in the middle of a workout in his archery range when his phone buzzed with a new message and it was only because Roy had told him about Weather Wizard’s run-in with the Central City Aquarium that Oliver understood what it was about.

The word is Seaweed.

That bad, huh? He wrote back.

It was everywhere. I don’t want to talk about it.

Oliver cackled to himself quietly, his renewed appreciation for the guy outmatched by the hilarious portrait of the Flash slipping on seaweed. He threw his phone in his quiver and knocked a new arrow, wondered if it was too early to ask when they could meet up next.   

“I have two conditions,” said Barry’s voice from behind him.

Oliver startled so hard he string-slapped himself on the forearm as he released the arrow.

“Fuck, warn a guy will you?” he complained.

Barry had the decency to look mostly apologetic from where he leaned against the gate of the archery range, but Oliver still caught the glint of an amused smile at the corner of his lips.

“Two conditions?” he asked, putting his bow down.  

“You need one too,” said Barry.

That was a given.

“It’s ‘ratatouille’,” he said, chosen since the day he brough up safewords, “the second?”

Barry stepped closer, one hand rubbing sporadically at his jeans but a determined look on his face.  

“I want to know when you get tired of this. No disappearing act.”

Fair enough. Oliver felt a private swell of relief overtake him and he extended a hand so they could shake on it. Neither of them would apologize, it wasn’t like them, but Barry going along with one of his ideas – albeit one of his smarter ones, he will admit – was more than enough for him.

Hal would probably still be annoyed at them if he were here, because they were just barely getting along. But he would also find it hot and tell you what, Hal, you drag your ass back to Earth and maybe we’ll give you a show.

Safewords fell short of an actual negotiation, but for now, they were enough. Barry, especially, came to see him more easily and Oliver hadn’t even realized he’d been holding back until he stopped doing it. He felt a little bad about that, and made a deliberate effort to pay more attention. Barry wasn’t as impossible to read as he first thought, but the devil was in the little things. Barry was lonely and he missed Hal and he was doing a bad job at hiding it: it was clear as day in how distracted he got during meetings, the stray glances at the sky, the occasional look-backs after cracking a joke on the field, and of course, the nervous, near constant, restlessness coupled with the stretches of workaholism.

Barry was just as much of a mess as Oliver, but he at least seemed in a better mood when they parted ways. Oliver was glad for the confirmation that he helped, in at least a small way.

Eleven months post Hal-disappearance, Barry showed up at his door, drenched and shivering after a run in with Captain Cold, but in an overall chipper mood. He barely said hello, pushed Oliver back on his couch to stick his frozen fingers and toes right up against his skin to leach off his warmth, and sneakily interrupted any of Oliver’s protest at the treatment with a round right there on the couch.

Barry freed them of most their clothes quickly and only pulled Oliver’s pants halfway down his legs before he slipped a condom on him and straddled him. The warmth that engulfed him contrasted sharply with the freezing fingers smoothing down his ribcage and the cold tip of Barry’s nose that buried itself right in the crook of Oliver’s neck. They moaned in tandem, Oliver’s thoughts flickering out at the dizzying sensation. In the heartbeat before Barry started moving, he hurried to rally himself: he was nothing if not competitive.

It was as simple and delightful as wrapping an arm about Barry’s waist, pressing him close, and sliding his fingers down all along the spine and the hipbone, to take him in hand, slow and heavy. The physicality was another thing he’d noticed: Barry liked to be close, sex sometimes seemed secondary to that goal, and Oliver got some of his best results when he stuck close and was generous with touch. Barry was quick to come, but difficult to take apart, which only ever motivated Oliver further. This time he was quickly rewarded. Barry came with a choked gasp still hidden against his neck.

Oliver hummed in smug satisfaction and sat back, waiting patiently for his turn but, now Barry was of mind to take his sweet time. Oliver had the sneaking suspicion Barry was faking it when he acted tired after sex, and doing it just to see him squirm. He made no effort to move, merely turned his head to look up at Oliver through his eyelashes and ran his fingers in Oliver’s hair, visibly amused at the odd angles it stayed stuck in. Oliver tightened his grip on Barry’s hip and tried to buck upwards, only to be stymied by the speedster’s entire weight pressing down on him. Barry had the audacity to chuckle at his attempt.

“Any day now, Barry,” he urged, tone edging on a whine.

“I thought you said I should be taking it slow?” Barry’s breath tickled where it brushed against his neck.

“I meant that for you, not for me.”

“Ah well, that’s too bad.”

He lightly patted a hand on his cheek – patronizing. A wave of pleasure licked up Oliver’s spine and he shivered. Barry’s smirk widened. If he kept it up, Oliver genuinely believed he could come just like this, and how delightful that would be, but the need to knock Barry down a peg won out in the end. He slid a hand on his backside and lightly pinched him on the butt cheek, startling Barry bad enough he sat up to gape at him.

“Did you just tickle me?” he complained, “don’t – I swear Oliver – Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not touching you! I’m not!” said Oliver, smiling, fingers still skirting along the skin.

“You are!” said Barry, a similar smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, despite the fake outrage.

He slapped Oliver’s offending hands away, and lifted himself up, and off Oliver, which yeah, alright he definitely deserved. It didn’t stop him from complaining.

“Awn, come on, sweetheart,” he whined.

He wrapped both arms around Barry’s waist in an attempt to prevent him from slipping away, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against his chest. Barry gripped him right back, hands coming up to press on his upper arms.

“’Sweetheart’? No, you’ve definitely ruined the mood now,” said Barry.

Oliver couldn’t help it and he burst out laughing at his put off expression, throwing his head back against the couch with a cackle. Barry rolled his eyes at him, but still kept a soft smile on his face as he leaned away, putting some space between them. He, indulgingly, did not go too far, merely sat back on his heels and lifted some of his weight off from his lap, hands slipping from Oliver’s arms to come rest between them. Oliver kicked the rest of his pants off and shook out the slight numbness from his legs.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” he sighed.

“You do,” said Barry lightly, “You like it when I’m mean to you in bed.”

It wasn’t a question, but it was a request for confirmation, Barry’s tone too soft to be otherwise. Oliver folded an arm under his head, pleased as punch that Barry had paid enough attention to notice but trying to stay casual about it.

“Oh, you noticed that, have you?” he said.

“Yes, Oliver, you’re not exactly subtle about what you like,” said Barry, “you and Hal both.”

He winced as soon as the words slipped out of his mouth, and patted a hand on Oliver’s chest in apology. The mood dipped at the mention of Hal, stuck between Barry wanting to talk about it and Oliver very much not wanting too. To Oliver, Hal was still everywhere in his house, in his thoughts, a searing pain that refused to go away no matter how much he tried and Barry hadn’t brought him up since their last fight, a quiet acknowledgement that the topic was still too raw for them. Oliver pretended he hadn’t heard anything.

“What about you, then?” he asked, “what satisfaction are you getting out of this?”

He trailed a finger down the white fractal patterned scar along Barry’s chest, unable to look at him directly, and tried to channel the sense of safety and comfort he felt when he opened up to Hal. Barry hummed thoughtfully above him.

“You’re grounding,” he said.

He sounded surprised at his own honesty, and a glance up told Oliver Barry wasn’t looking at him either. Still, he pushed on.

“You make it hard to overthink when I’m with you.”

Oliver’s heart somersaulted in his chest. The admission pleased him so much, he suddenly felt compelled to reward it and leaned up for a kiss. He made sure to nip at his bottom lip and suck on his tongue, swallowing every moan until they were both dizzy with it. When they separated, the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could catch them.

“Tell you what,” he said, “If Hal comes back-”

“When,” interrupted Barry.

“If he comes back, I will stop commenting on your horrible job for a month.”

It almost had the desired provocative effect. Barry grabbed his goatee, but instead of tugging it in retaliation, as he was wont to do, he lightly curled his fingers in it and pressed the corner of Oliver’s bottom lip with his thumb. The emotion flickered too quickly on his face for Oliver to catch it.

“If he comes back,” said Barry, and Oliver’s heart clenched in his chest at the quiet admission of doubt, “I will stop making fun of your goatee for a month.”

He swallowed, thickly – when had he grown fond of Barry’s hopeless optimism? and a sting welled up in the corner of his eyes again. He shook it off. He’d definitely reached his quota of emotional vulnerability for the day.

“Those aren’t equivalent,” he protested.

“I can also not promise anything.”

“Fine, fine, not like a cop would play fair anyways.”

This time, Barry did pull at his moustache, sharp and annoyed. The light pain reignited the low fire of desire under Oliver’s navel. He jerked his knees upwards, making Barry tumble forward until they were chest to chest and he could roll his hips upwards. Barry hissed at the friction but immediately curled himself close and reached down to wrap long fingers around Oliver, tugging gently, and finding him still hallway hard despite the lull. There was something awfully cocky in the glint of Barry’s eyes and the redness of his lips, it made Oliver want to devour him whole. 

Barry reached for a new condom and Oliver helped him along by removing the old one, tying it off and throwing it aside. Barry scrunched up his nose in displeasure at that, but Oliver didn’t let him overthink it, curling a finger under his chin to pull him into a kiss, sealing their mouths together and demanding entry. He keened in satisfaction when Barry finally guided him back inside him.

Barry stole the hand gripping his chin, tangled their fingers together and pinned it to the back of couch near Oliver’s head. The soft gesture made something affectionate flutter in his chest, distracting him so completely he missed the mischievous edge of Barry’s smile. A rush of pleasure shot along his spine when Barry’s entire body vibrated against and around him, hair rising along his skin, and he threw his head back with a shout

He distantly heard Barry laughing, lips tracing along his neck and jawline and kissing at his fluttering pulse point, coming all the way up before Barry rested his forehead against his. Oliver found his hands travelling along Barry’s back to press between his shoulder blades and he held him even tighter against him, hanging on. They stayed locked in a hug, breathing in tandem for a beat, before Oliver found his bearings again, frankly surprised he hadn’t come all over himself yet, and blinked up to find Barry staring smugly down at him.

“Pretend I’m Hal, if you want,” said Barry, “I don’t mind.”

He looked good like this, all smug and letting loose. It felt weirdly rewarding to be shown this side of him.

“Wouldn’t work,” mumbled Oliver, “he never leaves me hanging.”

Barry rocked against him more firmly, and Oliver forgot everything else he wanted to say. He slid his free hand further up to the back of Barry’s head, to tangle his fingers in his hair and bring their mouths together again, slow and deep, just to feel Barry smiling into the kiss.

Oliver spent the one one-year anniversary of Hal’s disappearance sulking at home. It didn’t hit him as hard as he thought it would, but it was a disgustingly sunny day for the circumstances so he lazed around in bed until sundown when he dragged himself to the kitchen, craving chili. Once everything was simmering in the pot and with three hours of waiting in front of him, he texted Barry to come over.

At first, all seemed well. Barry showed up thirty minutes later, with the usual complaints that Oliver couldn’t make him cross the country with just a snap of his fingers, blah blah blah. His bad mood became more evident after, when Barry couldn’t get comfortable. He complained that Oliver’s couch was lumpy (it wasn’t), that his sheets were scratchy (they were silk) or just that Oliver was sticky (which, alright, it was a hot day). Because he was a considerate partner, Oliver took a cold shower, before he tackled Barry to his bed, fully naked. He hooked an ankle behind his legs and pinned him on his back, determined to give him something else to think about.

Barry sighed into the kiss and gripped him back tightly, allowing Oliver to strip him of his clothes, but something still felt off. He was tense despite the contact and reciprocated every caress half a second too late. Oliver slowed down as he trailed his mouth down Barry’s stomach, hesitating. Glancing up confirmed Barry wasn’t looking at him at all. He clenched his fingers in Oliver’s hair once, then again, as if forcing himself to relax and Oliver decided it was perhaps a good idea to remind him they had a system in place when, to his relief, Barry spoke up first.

“Seaweed,” he said.

Oliver hoisted himself back up immediately.

“Something else, or stop completely?”

“I – stop, I think.”

Oliver rolled off to give him space. They both sat up in the bed and stared at each other awkwardly. Oliver didn’t know whether to reach out or back off, so he stayed a handspan away and kept his hands on his lap. This was new territory between them and Barry seemed to realize it too. He wrapped himself a bit self-consciously in the blanket, but made no move to get out of bed.

If Barry hadn’t come all this way for sex, then what could Oliver possibly have to offer him? He didn’t exactly qualify as a comforting presence so what else could it have possibly been about? Oliver wanted to ask, but bit his tongue, knowing it would come out wrong, and with their history, seeking an explanation right now felt like it would undermine the use of the safeword. He opened mouth to say something, closed it again. Your pillow talk needs work Ollie, commented a voice that sounded like Hal.

“Listen -,” started Barry.

“I have chili on the stove,” said Oliver, “want some?”

The naked relief on Barry’s face confirmed it was the right thing to say.

“Sure, yeah,” said Barry, “I’d like that. Can I use your shower first?”

Oliver pointed him in the right direction, pulled on a pair of loose joggings and fled to the kitchen. The chili still had an hour to go, but he prepared a cheese and charcuterie board, aware that there was no such thing as too much food with his current guest. When Barry joined him downstairs, a whole twenty minutes later, he helped him set the table and Oliver pretended not to notice the slightly blotchy skin under his eyes.

It was well into nighttime by the time all the food had been cleared out. Dinner had been a surprisingly lighthearted affair where they’d talked about the League, Roy and Wally, and the necessity of a comprehensive railroad system in the United States. For dessert, Oliver moved them to the deck overlooking his garden, the temperatures now cooled to bearable levels and the sky so clear it was freckled with stars. Barry turned down the beer Oliver offered him – one of Hal’s, with alcohol, that he’d started re-buying sometime between months 10 and 11 – and made them both virgin piña coladas instead. Lounging on his long chairs, sipping at a nice drink and looking at the stars with a friend wasn’t a bad way to spend a sad one-year anniversary, thought Oliver.

He was awfully pleased with himself for somehow, having a pleasant time. Barry was less tense too, less fidgety, but he looked pensive. He’d fallen silent about 10 minutes ago and was staring up at the stars, completely lost in his own thoughts. Oliver wondered what was it about today that made him stop being so stubbornly hopeful – because of course that’s what it was, otherwise he wouldn’t have let Oliver see him mope about the place. To think he’d once wished Barry were as miserable as he was, now he was pretty sure he would have a full-on meltdown if Barry also believed Hal was dead. Barry must have felt himself being watched because he turned to meet Oliver’s eyes.

“I asked Saint Walker a few months ago if there was anything he could tell me about what’s going on,” he said.

Oliver waited for the usual spike of annoyance or anger at the implication that there was still news to be had, but it never came. Instead, hope flickered in his chest, like a stubborn cigarette butt that refused to be stamped out.

“and?”

Barry shrugged.

“He got back to me today, and so far, it looks like they haven’t recovered a single GL alive.”

He expected something like that, of course he did, it’d been written all over Barry this entire time, but it still hurt. It hurt, worse than a knife twisting between the ribs, but this time at least there was no anger.

“Aren’t you going to say ‘I told you so’?” said Barry.

“Maybe tomorrow,” said Oliver.

Rushing to closure, Dinah had called it. She’d been wrong, because nothing was closed at all. Oliver was sad all over. They both nursed their drink in silence for a few seconds letting the mood settle over them.     

“You always doubt him,” said Barry, so quietly he almost missed it.

“Yeah well, you always forget he’s only human. And so does he,” said Oliver.

These lines of conversations usually escalated into arguments, but not this time.

“He wouldn’t be Hal if he didn’t,” said Barry.

“No, he wouldn’t,” agreed Oliver, “we’re still allowed to be pissed at him though.”

Barry tilted his head in agreement, and suddenly, Oliver couldn’t stand the distance between them. He pushed himself up and crossed over to sit in front of him. Long legs folded to give him space – and yes, Ollie did see what Hal had been on about now that he knew how they felt wrapped around his waist – and he shuffled closer, until their knees knocked together. He raised his glass.

“If – when, he comes back,” he said, “I say we give him that threesome he’s been secretly dreaming about.”

“You want to reward him for giving us a scare?” said Barry, ever the sceptic.

“More like, it’ll give him even more reason to stay,” argued Oliver.

Barry shook his head with a half smile on his face and gave in. He raised his own glass and they clinked them together, sealing the deal, daring Hal to find his way home.  

A year and forty-eight days post disappearance, Hal came crashing back to Earth. In some sort of karmic revenge from the universe, Oliver happened to be spending the night at Barry’s house – actually sleeping this time around, mind you – when he arrived.

Negotiating a bed with a speedster was, as expected, another challenge altogether. Oliver was used to sleeping with Hal, who liked the skin-to-skin contact of a cuddle but who at least was stock still when he slept, whereas Barry kicked and rolled around a lot. Oliver had woken up smothered in his octopus grip on him or crushed under his weight, several times. Barry had told him in no uncertain terms to suck it up when Oliver mocked him about it, but truthfully, Oliver didn’t mind. He always had horrendous sleeping habits anyways, and he liked the comfort of a warm body next to him when he woke up in sweat from nightmares in the middle of the night – even if said body stole the blankets and bruised his shins.

Therefore, when Oliver woke up to an elbow digging into his shoulder blades, his first instinct was to direct his annoyance at Barry. There were limits to his tolerance to somni-assaults. Yet, when he squinted one eye open, he spotted Barry’s blond hair sticking out from under the blanket on the opposite end of the bed, which he registered as not being compatible with the weight currently draped across his back. It was too early to think properly, barely dawn judging by the nascent rays of sunlight bathing the bedroom in pale blue hues. He was ready to dismiss the disparity and go back to sleep, when he caught sight of the open window, Barry’s blackout curtains fluttering in the wind. Had someone broken in during the night?

“I must have died and gone to heaven,” said Hal’s voice, from somewhere behind him.

Oliver jerked fully awake. He twisted around to look over his shoulder and yes, sprawled horizontally over Barry and him in just his boxer shorts was Hal fucking Jordan.

“You son of a bitch!” he roared. 

He half registered Barry startling awake behind them and lunged for Hal, unsure if he wanted to hug him or throttle him. Hal wriggled away with surprising swiftness – one that indicated he was at least physically OK – and shielded himself behind Barry’s body.

“Hold on now,” said Hal, “I have a very good explanation for all of this.”

“Really?” deadpanned Oliver, “you can explain making us think you were dead for over a year?”

“It wasn’t on purpose?” said Hal.

Oliver threw his hands up in the air in exasperation, yeah it better not have been. In just a few minutes, his heart would catch up with the situation and he would be jumping with joy at this development, but in the meantime the only emotion his head seemed to be processing was the weird, terrified anger he’d been sitting on for the past year.

“Hal?” asked Barry.

Hal threw Oliver a lopsided smile and lifted a placating hand up, long enough to lean over and kiss Barry on the temple. He obviously knew which boyfriend to appeal to for safety.

“Are you alright?” asked Barry.

“I’m fine,” said Hal, “Glad to be home.” 

Barry framed Hal’s face in his hands to look him over properly, frowning at the bags under his eyes. Hal relaxed in his grip, his smile softening into a more genuine, reassuring expression. For a second, Oliver thought he would be robbed of the cathartic full body tackle he wanted to inflict upon their boyfriend.

“Good,” said Barry, lightly.

Then, without mercy, he pushed Hal back to the center of the bed and into Oliver’s vengeful arms.

Oliver spent approximately the next half hour airing his grievances, as Barry and Hal watched him pace from their spot, sitting against the headboard on the bed.

“A simple diplomatic mission, my ass!” he grouched, “is corps intelligence so shitty they can’t even recognize a civil war before it hits them in the face?”

Oliver didn’t remember what he said exactly, but he knew it involved insulting the guardians and whoever inflicted them onto the world a few times. Barry didn’t join him in his tirade, content with being used as a pillow, with Hal leaning on his chest, but Oliver knew he was at least a little bit mad too, because he didn’t interrupt to point out that he always believed Hal was still alive.

Hal bore it all solemnly, nodding along in all the right places. He held on to Barry’s hand tightly, fingers tangled together and running his thumb over the knuckles affectionately. Oliver could tell he was itching to reach out for him too by the idle way he was playing with the seams of the sheets with his free hand, but he was good enough to wait until Oliver shook off his anger.

“I told them I would stay stationed earthside for the next few months,” said Hal, once Oliver finally wound down a bit, “won’t be leaving again for at least a year.”  

Hal twisted around to kiss Barry on the chin, and then turned back to stare at Oliver, beseechingly. The spare spot next to him seemed warm and inviting. Oliver finally gave in. He crawled back into bed to lay down next to him, wrapping his arms around his waist and tangling their legs together. Hal heaved a deep, content, sigh and Barry’s fingers brushed gratefully along his wrist. Oliver closed his eyes.   

“I’m sorry I took so long,” said Hal, “There were a few close calls, but I’m OK, I promise. Some very nice people helped me out and once Guy found me, it just took time before we could leave the planet.”

He was holding both of them too tightly for it to be that simple. The rest of the story, they knew, would come in increments over the next few months. In the meantime, it was difficult to stay mad when it wasn’t Hal’s fault, when there was truly nothing more he could have done to get back faster. At least now he was back, warm and alive and Oliver was so tired of being stressed and angry. He would probably not be able to let him out of his sight for some time, but everything else was instantly forgiven.

Barry was the one to drag them out of bed, despite both Hal and Oliver’s protests. He claimed to be hungry, and sealed the deal by pointing out Hal could probably do with a nice warm meal too, and so despite it being 8 in the morning, they headed out to a cozy 24h dinner-brunch spot for breakfast.

Barry stole Oliver’s card, taking it from his wallet without really asking when they came in, and went to the counter to order for all three of them. Oliver put up a token protest just because it was him, but he also didn’t try anything to stop it from happening and Hal watched the whole exchange with mirth in his eyes. As soon as Barry’s back was turned, he interlocked his arm with Oliver’s and led him towards a half circular booth at the back, where all three of them would be able to squish together in the middle.

“Imagine my surprise when I got back, and my ring told me you two were together,” he said, once they were seated.

“Don’t look so smug,” warned Oliver, “I hear one joke about ‘all it took for us to get along was you dying’, and you are banished to the couch. Don’t think I’ll let Barry keep you company either.”

Hal leaned his head against his hand, fluttering his eyelashes at him, awfully sweet, and Oliver had to lean in to kiss the wide shit-eating grin off his face. He closed his eyes, breathing him in, delight sparkling throughout his body.

“Thank you,” said Hal seriously, when they separated, “for taking care of each other while I was gone.”

Oliver scoffed, dismissive. ‘Taking care’ were big words for what they’d been doing, but Hal was a sap at heart, and… it had been good, Oliver could admit.

“He mostly took care of me,” said Oliver.

“Uhun, don’t sell yourself short,” said Hal.

He patted Oliver’s hand warmly, a smile playing at the edge of his lips again, as if he knew something Oliver didn’t.  

“So, what is this between you two exactly?” he asked.

Oliver knew the question was coming. Hal wasn’t the type to beat around the bush and this did concern him directly. The automatic ‘nothing’ on the tip of Oliver’s tongue wouldn’t come out. This desire for proximity with Barry, he’d expected it to either fade away with time, or to simply disappear at Hal’s return, but thinking about it now, Oliver was surprised to realize he didn’t want it to end just yet.

“Well, we’re not getting married tomorrow, that’s for sure,” he said.

“ah, but it is something?”

“It might be. Something to talk about anyways. Later-”

Oliver spotted Barry heading back their way and hurried to change the topic. He would not be caught dead being the first one to admit in front of Barry that there was something brewing between them. Barry slipped in the booth next to Hal, pressing himself close and sandwiching him between them. They fit well together like this.

“Got everything, Babygirl?” teased Oliver.

“Sure thing, Daddy,” sneered Barry.

It was the least sexy way Oliver had ever been called daddy, but somehow it still went straight down to his crotch and cut the winds out of any retort he would normally have parried with. Hal laughed with delight at his reaction and Barry raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

“Really?” he asked.

“I can’t help it,” Oliver shrugged, “you’ve conditioned me to it.”

“You are never getting in my bed again,” said Barry.

“So you’ve said already. Several times.”

“I mean it this time,” said Barry, he looked him right in the eyes, daring, “not before you take me on a few dates.”

Completely unnecessarily, warmth flooded Oliver’s cheeks.  

“You made him blush!” crowed Hal.

Oliver punched him in the shoulder in retaliation and hid his face in his hands, mortified, as the sound of Hal and Barry’s delighted laughters burst around him. They were going to be a pain in the ass he could feel it. Peeking through his fingers he saw Hal throw an arm about Barry’s head to drag him in a kiss and it was like the final piece of the puzzle slotted into place. It was worth it, they were worth it and the future seemed so very bright indeed.

He couldn’t wait.