Archive of Our Own ^beta

Television shows are fake, Oliver knows this. The magic of the movies happens in the liminal space between the screen and the viewer, in the moment when the pact is made to believe – believe that an ad man can put on a suit and become Santa Claus, and that a group of kids can band together to find buried treasure and save their homes, and that the power of love really can defeat all evil.

So, when it’s 75 degrees outside and Oliver’s standing in a set decorated for Christmas while feeling anything but festive, he has to believe in the magic of television too. Otherwise, he might lose his goddamn mind.

They’re setting up for a Christmas dinner scene – a big, happy 118 family gathering at Chimney and Maddie’s house to celebrate the season.

The set is alive with activity – PAs and gaffers, camera operators and grips – the army it takes the make every single episode. It’s a little chaotic, a lot noisy, and completely unique to any other job out there.

They’re going to be shooting in this set for at least a few days, moving between the kitchen, the dining room, the living room – a whole world of Christmas delight boiled down to a few minutes of on-screen time.

Oliver’s loitering just out of the way, where the living room blends into the false outdoor patio. He’s got his camera in his hands, finding frames of the fake Christmas tree in the corner with a million twinkling lights and mismatched ornaments, the cheery cedar boughs on the fireplace, the paper snowflakes in the windows made to look they were crafted by kids’ hands. The set dec crew had outdone themselves turning the murder house into a holiday wonderland fit for any Hallmark movie.

“You waiting to get kissed?”

Oliver’s head snaps up. Ryan’s appeared at his side. He’s mostly in costume, wearing a black button-down and sharp black dress pants. Somewhere a crushed velvet maroon jacket is waiting for him. He looks, well, he looks good. And Oliver hates it, just a little bit.

Oliver isn’t so lucky. Wardrobe has him in garish Christmas sweater, patterned with Christmas trees and red trucks, and frankly Oliver’s surprised there isn’t any tinsel or baubles hanging from it.

“What?”

Ryan pointedly glances up, a smirk on his mouth.

Above Oliver's head, hanging from another decorative bough along the archway, is a sprig is mistletoe.

“Okay?”

Ryan’s grin deepens. “What? They don’t have mistletoe across the pond?”

Oliver huffs. “Yes, we have mistletoe.” He’s kissed a few people on Christmas in his day – some as joke, others not.

Ryan looks up at the little green plant with its white berries again. Oliver tries not to stare too hard at the stretch of Ryan’s neck. “So, who’re you waiting for?”

The thing is, Oliver doesn’t know. The thing is – the Ryan thing is – well, it’s a problem. A confusing decade-long mess he tries not to look at straight on in case he doesn’t like what he sees. In case he does. That way madness lies.

“Not waiting for anyone,” Oliver says finally. “Just standing here.”

“Oh, really? Just conveniently under the mistletoe?”

Oliver narrows his eyes. He’s in a flirty mood then, Ryan. All big brown eyes and standing too close like they don’t know the taste of the inside of each other’s mouths.

And no one’s going to say anything, because he does this, they do this. On and off and around and again. A carousel with no exit.

“Just conveniently out of the way,” Oliver counters.

“Hmm,” Ryan hums, lips tipping down into an amused frown.

“You lot are really missing out on Christmas crackers though,” Oliver says. He wants to raise the camera; capture the way Ryan looks in the light. Clearly freshly shaven, just out of hair and makeup.

“Maybe,” Ryan agrees on a shrug, “but you have that weird Christmas pudding thing.”

Oliver feels his eyebrow raise. “It’s not weird.” He doesn’t need to defend something he doesn’t even eat, but he does anyway.

Ryan tips closer to him, a subtle shift in his hips. “What’s your favorite Christmas dessert then?”

Before he went vegan, it was a yule log cake. As a kid he was enamored with the perfect buttercream swirl in the center and the sugared cranberries on top. Now he quite likes gingerbread cookies because the substitutions don’t have to do that much work. And he gets to bite the heads of the little men first.

“Well, now you two have to kiss.”

Oliver’s head snaps to the side so hard he fears he might have hurt his neck. Aisha, Kenny, and Jennifer have joined the huddle. They have matching conspiratorial grins on their faces and sometimes, just sometimes, Oliver hates being known by so many.

“Fuck off,” he tells them.

“You know it’s bad luck to refuse a kiss under mistletoe,” Kenny says, because he’s the biggest shit of them all.

“Not refusing,” Oliver counters. “No one’s offered anything.”

“I know that’s not true,” Aisha says and now she’s smirking too. Oliver doesn’t want to meet her sharp-eyed gaze.

The lights fill the set with heat and Oliver’s itching in his sweater, too warm and feeling penned in by people who know him too well.

“You know,” Jen begins, “there’s also a tradition that says you’re supposed to pluck one of the berries from the mistletoe with every kiss, and you keep kissing until all the berries are gone.”

Kenny’s smiling so broadly it looks like it hurts. “How ‘bout that?”

Next to Oliver, Ryan hasn’t moved away, and he swears he can feel the heat of his body through their clothes.

“You looking for some kisses, Kenneth?” Ryan reaches out, making like he’s going to grab for Kenny’s face and reel him in.

“Get out of here.” Kenny playfully bats Ryan’s hands away. “Those aren’t meant for me.”

Oliver feels the blush high in his cheeks and down his neck. He glances from Ryan, who’s smiling softly at him (for some reason), to Aisha, who looks like she either wants to smack him or ruffle his hair.

“Okay, okay, come on,” Aisha says, making waving motions with her hands like she’s rounding up kids. “Let’s move it.”

Jen squeezes Oliver’s forearm before she grabs Kenny by the hand and drags him off. Aisha gives him a wink that Ryan can’t possibly miss before following them. Oliver will see them soon enough when the cameras start rolling on the next scene.

“Well?” Ryan asks, when they’re alone again. As alone as anyone can ever be on a busy set. His full attention is back on Oliver. He’s got pink in his cheeks and Oliver would consider photographing him in color just for that.

“Well what?” But Oliver knows what. He’s not stupid – foolish, perhaps.

“Just one can’t hurt,” Ryan responds and he licks his lips. He licks his lips like they aren’t standing near dozens of people, people they know, people they work with; like moments like these aren’t important, aren’t revealing.

“Can’t it?” Oliver asks.

It’s quick. Ryan pushes in and kisses him firmly on the mouth. He tastes like he just brushed his teeth and Oliver shivers in his sweater, tries not to drop his camera.

Ryan’s grinning when he pulls away and Oliver wants to kiss him again.

“Don’t tell set-dec,” he says, and it doesn’t make any sense until he reaches up and plucks a single berry off of the mistletoe sprig.

Oliver snorts. “That’s theft.”

Ryan grabs Oliver’s wrist, forcing him to let go of his camera with that hand, and places the white berry in his palm. “Now you’re an accomplice.” His warm fingers linger on Oliver’s palm, his wrist.

“These are poisonous, you know,” Oliver deadpans, but he’s fucking tickled.

“Well, don’t eat it.” Ryan’s voice is teasing, but so fond. Oliver’s absolutely fucked.

He rolls his eyes but wonders how he’ll get the little berry home without crushing it. He has jars of dried flowers on bookcases and dressers – he can find a place for this, somewhere to keep it safe through the season into the new year and beyond.