TWELVE MONTHS AND ONE WEEK PRIOR TO THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Needless to say that, like most serious afflictions, Oliver's ailments did not vanish on their own. A few days after the trip to London, the symptoms had only worsened. They ranged from somewhat uncomfortable to deeply mortifying; sudden stumbling over his words due to too much direct eye contact; heart palpitations like he'd just run a great distance when he hadn't moved an inch; flushing all shades of crimson for no reason at all.

Also, apparently, delusion.

Because as October ran its course, a new thought planted itself in Oliver's head: the idea that, maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that Finn O'Connell wasn't straight. It was almost definitely wishful thinking; a projection on a blank screen that simply didn't know to shatter his hopes.

Sometimes, Oliver thought he preferred the uncertainty. There was a sense of comfort in roaming the gray area of Finn O'Connell's undisclosed sexuality—Schrödinger's unrequited crush, if you will. You don't know what you can't observe. You can't get your heart broken if you never get explicit confirmation of heterosexuality.

Other times, Oliver wanted nothing but to look inside Finn's head. Like that afternoon. Finn was sitting cross-legged on the librarian's desk, his hair still dripping onto the windbreaker he'd put on after practice, a flush high on his cheeks.

In a weak effort to save himself from a heart attack, Oliver had removed himself from his immediate vicinity and had instead retreated to one of the nearby shelves, putting returns back into their respective places. Usually, he found this exercise soothing, almost meditative. Not when Finn O'Connell was chattering away only a few feet away.

"There's a Halloween party at James's place this weekend, did you know?"

Getting on his tiptoes to reach the second-highest shelf, Oliver said, "The blonde James or the shredded James?"

There was a brief pause. "Er, the last one. Our goalie."

A well-loved Whitman slid neatly back in its place. Oliver fetched the next one from the box he'd set down next to the step ladder. As he did, a thought flashed in his mind: if Finn were to stand on the first rung of the contraption, he would be at the perfect level for Oliver to kiss him. With more force than necessary, Oliver shoved the ladder aside.

Not for the first time, he wished that life were like a play. Then, the mere presence of the step ladder would've been a clue cheekily placed there by some director. What was it that Chekhov had said? One must never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn't going to go off. One must never place a step ladder in Oliver's path if it wasn't going to be conveniently used to make out on.

Good lord. Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face, careful not to smudge his eyeliner. He was Macbeth tormented by visions, only instead of ghosts he was experiencing homoerotic fantasies at every corner. And he hadn't even killed anyone, for fuck's sake.

"You should come."

The sound of Finn's voice made his head snap up again. Glancing over his shoulder, he found the root of all evil smiling sheepishly at him.

"What?" he stupidly asked.

"To the party," said Finn. "Or do you have other plans?"

Did Oliver have other plans? Like keeping a shred of his sanity? A little bit of dignity, perhaps? No matter—his mouth was already forming the damning sentence. "Sure. I'll come."

"Nice." Finn's grin spread, cheeks dimpling. "What are you gonna dress as?"

"Er. Vampire?" Oliver ventured.

"You're already dressed as a vampire. Come on, Ollie, be a bit creative."

"What are you going as?"

"Dunno yet." Absentmindedly, Finn tugged at the strings of his hood. "Maybe... maybe we could dress up together?"

By now, Oliver had given up all his distraction efforts and had succumbed to simply leaning against the infernal ladder, the books forgotten at his feet. "Like, a couple's costume?"

"No," Finn defensively said. "Just like... a costume for two people."

Oliver pretended to think hard about it. Finally, he gave a shrug. "If we must. Make a list of ideas until tomorrow night."

"Oh, all right," snorted Finn. "Shall I send them to your assistant, my liege? Or will you be able to accommodate the opening of texts in your busy schedule?"

Oliver managed to wrangle back a smile. Just barely. "Very funny, Finn O'Connell."

"Thanks." Finn grinned, obviously pleased with himself. "I thought so too."

***

They went as Gomez and Morticia Addams. It wasn't very creative, as far as not-couple-couple's-costumes went. It was, however, easy, cheap, and the only compromise they could reach after a heated text debate that lasted into the early hours of the morning.

And that was how Oliver found himself sitting in his bedroom with Finn O'Connell in the evening of the 31st of October. It was all cool. No big deal.

"It's going to take hours to get this stuff out," Finn murmured miserably.

Oliver glanced up briefly from the hand mirror propped up in front of him to see what Finn was whining about. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, styling his hair in the mirror on the wall. To achieve Gomez Addams' slicked-back look, he had gone to town on the hair gel Oliver had given him—his tousled strands now lay forcibly flat, held down by enough product to turn them from bright ginger to a dark auburn. It looked adora—stupid. Incredibly fucking stupid.

"You're not the one with the face paint," Oliver said, quickly looking back at his own reflection. He didn't mind the face paint, really. Or the rest of the make-up. This was mostly because Morticia Addams' look wasn't that far off from his everyday look.

With a bracing inhale, he started on the eyeliner, all the while chanting Sisters not twins, sisters not twins in his mind—a souvenir from his time watching beauty YouTubers before school every morning. He knew the statement referred mostly to brows, but he was rather liberal with all the family relations on his face. He doubted Siouxsie Sioux had spent hours perfecting her make-up every morning.

"You're really good at that," came Finn's comment from somewhere behind him. In the mirror, Oliver could see that he had turned fully around to watch Oliver.

Lips twitching, Oliver turned around and crooked his finger to beckon Finn closer. "C'mere. I'm gonna do your moustache."

Finn grimaced even while he obediently shuffled across the room. "Do I have to?"

"Yes," Oliver said firmly. "This only works if we commit."

With the expression of a man stepping up to the gallows, Finn slumped down cross-legged in front of Oliver. "Fine. I'll be able to wash this off though, won't I?"

"Yeah. Your mum's got make-up remover, right?"

"I think so."

Nodding as if that settled things, Oliver scooted closer. "Stop being a big baby then. Okay if I touch you?"

Finn blinked. "Yeah. I mean, sure."

Consent obtained, Oliver gingerly placed a hand on Finn's jaw. He immediately dropped it when Finn drew in a sharp breath. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Finn said. The tips of his ears were bright red. "Sorry, just... your rings are really cold. And your hands, too."

Oliver glanced down at his hand. On almost every finger, metal bands glinted—not part of the costume, but his usual jewellery that he figured Morticia would approve of. "Sorry. Iron deficiency," he said by way of explanation and rubbed his hands together a few times to warm them up.

When he reached out this time, Finn smiled. "Thanks."

His dimples were even more devastating up close. Oliver had to get this over with quickly if he didn't want to humiliate himself with something terrible like a voice crack. Focusing only on Finn's upper lip—definitely not the rest of his mouth; or his long, copper lashes; or how warm his skin was against his fingertips—Oliver brought down the eyeliner. His hand was the opposite of steady. Still, somehow he managed to draw a straight line, pencilling on Gomez's trademark moustache.

"There." He dropped his hands into his lap, exhaling. "All done."

"Thanks," Finn said, again. Oliver thought there was something strange about his voice. Delusion making an appearance again, no doubt.

Together, they went to stand in front of the mirror. Despite the way his heart was still hammering, Oliver couldn't help but grin. They looked ridiculous in the best way possible.

Finn was an entirely different person in the pin-stripe suit he'd borrowed from his dad, a bowtie around his neck and a pair of shiny dress shoes on his feet.

As for Oliver... he would've gone out like this every day if they didn't have to wear a school uniform. He was wearing one of Gabby's older dresses, deep black and reaching just past his knees (she told him he was allowed to keep it afterward—score!). Underneath, he had fishnet tights and a black mesh shirt to ward off the October chill; his hair was cascading over his shoulders, straightened for the occasion.

Finn's soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "You look nice."

With distant horror, Oliver watched the way his own eyes lit up at the compliment, and still he was helpless to stop it. "Thanks." He cleared his throat. "You too."

Finn nervously adjusted the bowtie around his neck. "I don't know. I feel silly."

"That's all right. You just can't show that you feel silly."

Finn didn't meet his eyes. "I don't know how you do it. Stand out like you do, I mean. Doesn't it scare you, to be stared at by everyone?"

"No," Oliver honestly said. "It feels good knowing I'm in charge of how people perceive me. Makes me feel... settled in myself."

When Finn finally looked at him, there was something raw about his gaze—something that almost looked a bit like yearning. Then he blinked, and it was gone.

"Well, then." He swallowed, hard, and straightened his shoulders. "Let's let them look their fill, cara mia."

***

Look, they did. Oliver and Finn had barely made it up the steps to James Bailey's house before what felt like the entirety of Blissby School's football team flocked around them. It was fascinating, how effortlessly Finn transformed in front of them. He held himself differently, spoke a little louder, grinned a little broader. The only tell that betrayed his nerves was the glances he shot Oliver as they passed the threshold, as if reassuring himself that he wasn't entering the lion's den on his own.

"Mate, what the hell is this?" exclaimed Aarun slash Kavi—Oliver couldn't keep the twins apart for the life of him, especially not in the din of the crowded hallway. He was waving a hand at Finn's face and the eyeliner moustache that resided on it.

Finn's shoulder pressed back into Oliver's, just a little. "Fuck off," he laughed, slapping his friend's hand away. "We're Gomez and Morticia Addams."

We. A pleasant little prickle ran down Oliver's spine. He wasn't the only one who noticed. The telling plural suddenly directed all eyes at him, as if Finn's words were the rubbing of the oil lamp and Oliver the genie appearing out of nowhere. From one second to the other, he felt himself in the second-hand spotlight.

He raised a hand. "Evening."

For a few seconds, the only sounds filling the silence were the music and laughter sounding from further down the hall. Finally, James Bailey took a step forward and nodded at him. "You a whiskey man?"

Oliver was a whatever-was-cheapest man. He shrugged. "Sure."

James Bailey grinned, bright and boyish. The entrance test was passed.

Oliver and Finn were all but dragged into the kitchen, where James made a show of pouring both of them a drink. Oliver tried not to grimace as the first drops hit his throat, burning and bitter. Next to him, Finn made a face, but bravely chugged his own glass. A second later, another boy thrust a rum and coke at him. Finn accepted it without a second thought.

It didn't take long before they got separated. While Finn was whisked off to a game of beer pong, Oliver retreated to the back of the living room to study the Bailey family's bookshelves. Over the years, this exercise had become a bit of a game to him, and usually the first thing he did when he came into a new foster family. He didn't judge a book by its cover; he did, however, judge adults by the books they chose to display in their living rooms.

In this case, he was presented with two shelves, ceiling-high and made of dark wood. He scrunched his nose when he found that the one on the left was filled entirely with non-fiction. Self-help books, sad-looking booklets on dieting, a few travel guides to various cities around the UK, all of them standing straight as soldiers. The other shelf looked the opposite: here, well-loved paperbacks leaned on their neighbours like drunks, some of them stacked to fit them all.

Pulling one of them out, Oliver was delighted to find that it was a romance novel of the variety that Gabby kept in her bedroom, away from prying eyes like Oliver's. Sipping on his whiskey, he held it a little closer to the nearby lamp to study the abs on the cover.

With his research completed, he eventually drifted towards one of the leather couches. A cat was curled up on the armrest—at Oliver's arrival, it lazily cracked one eye open before going back to dozing. It was all the invitation Oliver needed to reach out and gently scratch its tiny head while he let his gaze wander around the room.

Sometimes, when he was at parties like this one, he felt as though he was observing his peers from behind a glass wall. He could see them and some of them could see him, but there was always a degree of separation. He wasn't there to participate; he was a theatre-goer trying to make sense of the ongoings on the stage, analysing the characters and the way they progressed throughout the night without ever getting involved.

Once, he'd tried to explain this feeling to Gabby. She'd said it sounded lonely. Oliver didn't think so. Not when it was all temporary. Like the theatre-goer knew not to get too attached to the characters in a play, Oliver knew not to delude himself into thinking that he would ever stay long enough in one place for the glass wall to crack. And anyway, there was a freedom in being able to come and go as he pleased, to be able to float through the rooms without being tethered to anyone.

Tonight was different.

Although he sat on his own, his eyes kept flitting to where Finn stood, instinctively picking his ginger hair out of the crowd. He was on what had to be the third round of beer pong, crowded around the living room table with his friends, their heads bowed so as not to hit them on the lamps that swayed from the ceiling. Faintly, Oliver could hear Finn giving a weak protest—then, the pong ball was shoved into his hand and he was dragged along for another round.

"He's going to make himself sick," Oliver murmured to the cat.

It purred on, unbothered.

"Think I should go check on him?"

The cat cracked open one amber-coloured eye to give him a deeply judgemental glare.

"Yeah, you're right," Oliver agreed. "I'm not his mum."

Still, he didn't take his eyes off Finn as the hands on the clock crept closer to midnight. He only left his spot on the couch when he had to go to the bathroom, perplexed when he returned to find Finn nowhere in sight.

"Hey." He went up to Kavi and Aarun. The one closer to him pressed a hand to his heart when Oliver suddenly popped up out of nowhere. "Have you seen Finn?"

They exchanged a glance. One of them raised his brows. The other furrowed his. Oliver, who was not privy to whatever twin telepathy they had going on, waited impatiently.

Finally, the one with the slightly rounder face jerked his head at the sliding doors that led out into the garden. "He went through there."

Oliver nodded his thanks and took off into the night. After the close heat of the living room, the cool October air was like a balm. Over the garden, the moon hung plump and silver, spilling just enough light that Oliver could make out the path that wound around the house. He passed the smokers, the girl crying on the phone, her friend emptying her stomach into a rosebush, and reached the low brick wall that encircled the premises.

The garden gate creaked in protest as Oliver pushed it open. Finn didn't look up.

"Hey." Oliver leaned against the wall. "Need me to hold your hair?"

"'m not throwing up," said Finn, sounding deeply offended. He was sitting on the pavement, his knees tucked to his chest. Oliver's heart gave a strange tug when he realized how similar this picture was to how Finn had looked in the library restroom the first time they'd spoken. "Just needed to get out of there for a bit."

Oliver hummed softly. He hesitated for a second—then, he resolutely pulled the garden gate shut behind him. He didn't sit down next to Finn for fear of how his affliction would act up if he got too close to him now, but he walked to stand beside him; his dress brushing against Finn's sleeve, Finn's arm pressing against his shin. A compromise. "How many rounds of beer pong were that? Five?"

"Dunno." Finn rested his forehead on his knees. "Lost count. Where did you go?"

"I spent some quality time with James's cat."

"Spotty?" Finn mumbled into his pants. "That's impressive. She usually scratches anyone who comes too close."

Even though he couldn't see it, Oliver grinned. "She probably knew I'd scratch back."

Finn huffed a quiet laugh. His head lolled back to gaze up at Oliver, and Oliver... he knew he should've probably looked away, but he couldn't. Not when Finn was looking at him, eyes big and sincere, his slicked-back hair coming apart from too many hands ruffling it.

Oliver was so caught up in the constellation of freckles on the other boy's nose that he didn't register his next sentence right away. "I'm really glad we're friends, you know."

Friends. The word hit Oliver like a knife through the ribs; a piercing ache in some kind of vital organ he couldn't pinpoint. "Yeah," he managed. "Me too."

Finn, oblivious to the arms he was wielding, continued, "The last months were kind of a shit show, but... At least I can always look forward to seeing you at the library. It's the best part of my day, did I ever tell you that?"

"The library. Yeah," Oliver nonsensically murmured. His eyes were darting to the garden gate. He needed an escape plan, and quick. He couldn't let Finn see him unravel. That was not part of the Oliver Sallow brand.

But Finn wasn't done yet. Possessed by the spirit of every drunk teen girl ever, he earnestly said, "And you're, like, so smart. The smartest person I know, probably. And you're not even as scary as everyone says. Not even at all."

What sin had Oliver committed to be punished like this? "Thanks, mate," he said, a little too curt, and leaned down. "Come on, let's get you inside. You're going to catch your death out—"

He never got to finish his sentence. Because as he bent, determined to hoist Finn to his feet and have this unbearable conversation over with, Finn had different plans.

It only took the slightest tilt of his head, a hand sliding carefully into Oliver's hair.

For a stumbling heartbeat, Oliver did not process what was happening.

Then, all his systems kicked into overdrive because—Finn O'Connell was kissing him. It was upside down, and Oliver's neck was bent at an odd angle, but that was undoubtedly what was happening.

It was over before it had ever truly begun—Finn stole a kiss with just the faintest brush of lips, and then he was leaning back again, a smooth criminal. If it hadn't been for the hand still resting gently on the back of his neck, Oliver would've thought he'd hallucinated it.

His legs buckled. Obeying the pull of gravity, he sank to his knees in front of Finn, finally at eye-level. The glass wall was shattered, nay, pulverized. Finn had stripped it all away in the bat of an eye, and Oliver was so surprised by it that he forgot to be terrified.

"Your moustache's all smudged," he scratchily pointed out. It was the only thought his brain could produce aside from Lips. Soft. Nice and WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK and Thus with a kiss, I die.

Finn clumsily touched a hand to Oliver's cheek, the pad of his thumb running over the seam of Oliver's bottom lip. "Your lipstick as well."

Oliver swallowed. "Tragic."

Finn laughed, eyes squinting with how wide his grin was. Oliver's breath caught in his throat when Finn took his face in both hands, his own fingers gripping onto the lapels of the stupid suit Finn was still wearing. Their lips slotted together easily now that they were both the right way around.

In an instant, Oliver forgot about the cold pavement digging into his knees. Forgot about the fact that the party was still going on and that anyone could walk past right now. He forgot why he hadn't done this sooner, forgot that he was still dressed as bloody Morticia Addams and probably getting white face paint all over Finn's face, forgot that he had ever done anything other than kissing Finn O'Connell.

That was until Finn suddenly hiccupped.

Reality crashed down on Oliver in an instant. He pulled back, his hands loosening their grip on Finn one reluctant finger at a time. His dark premonition was right. The terrible truth shone clear as day in Finn's glazed eyes, in the elastic smile that stretched across his features, broad and uninhibited and unlike anything Oliver had ever caught on him: there was no chance in heaven or in hell that Finn O'Connell was going to remember a thing about this kiss come morning.

"Fuck," Oliver whispered.

"Yeah," replied Finn, swaying slightly even as he sat.

Oliver took a second to wipe the traces of lipstick from the corner of Finn's mouth with his thumb, divesting him of the last evidence that this had ever happened.

Then, he let gravity finish the job and flopped gracelessly onto his back to stare at the night sky, defeated.

**************************

this is one of my favourite chapters AHHHHHH

i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!!! did you have a favourite part? (i think mine is probably oliver picking up james's mom's erotica to "research" the cover. legend behaviour imo)

today's song is wish you were sober by conan gray (lol). until next week!! <3