( it feels like an average, ordinary morning at first. oliver doesn't wake up on his own, but begins to stir as soon as the curtains are torn away from the windows and light filters through. from under the covers, he gives the most pathetic, bitchy whine and raises a hand to grab hold of the pillow and shove it over his head. because the hangover? also relatively standard. his hand presses under the pillow, fingers moving over his ri--lack of rings, and that's when he starts waking up.

bleary eyes squint out beyond the bed, taking in the colors of the blankets he's shoved under, the room around him, and oliver opts to roll himself right out of bed and onto the floor along with his comfortable blanket.

he lives here now. or lives there for several more moments, because fuck mornings and fuck waking up, and especially fuck waking up when he's missing legitimately every charm he's refused to remove for years. slowly, he climbs up to his feet, ignores his wardrobe, and wanders out into the hallways in the tee and boxers he'd been sleeping in.

so he can find the closest person and reach a hand out to grab onto them. )

Hey.

( he's not awake. but he is squinting at them. )

What the fuck?

( the pool is, thankfully, inside. it saves oliver the effort of bitching about how too bright the sun is, that no amount of sunblock will prevent him from burning. and yet despite it being indoors, he's still lounging under an umbrella with his sunglasses low on his nose in his black swim trunks. in his hand is a bright green solo cup, which he idly sips down while keeping an eye out for others who show up.

when someone comes up close enough, he lays down on the chair and reaches down to the side for a paintbrush dipped in bright neon pink. he raises it with a small grin curling the corners of his lips up, leaning in a little closer to his new companion. )

Want to do me a favor? I need a canvas. And it probably won't fuck you over. Probably.

( oliver tolerates a fair amount of contact from others. he'd argue he's not really touchy-feely, but he lets nick lounge all over him, and frequently hangs all over pierce. but being tied to someone is less than ideal. when he's shoving himself into someone else's space, there's always the option to pull away. now?

he's frowning down at their tied together hands, fingers flexing. )

What time is it? ( can he sleep this off. )

( throw whatever at me, and i'll run with it! or yell at me at crowbars and we can plot something out. )