FOUR MONTHS AND TWENTY DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Everything is as it always was. Or at least, as it has been since Oliver's been gone.

It's been one month and nine days since Finn's last seen him. If it weren't for the number still saved in his phone, Finn could pretend he never came back. (Some nights, he's tempted to just delete it, for both their sakes. He never does.)

In the meantime, spring has draped itself over Blissby, and Finn has done what he's always done. Go to school, and try not to think about the fact that Oliver's locker is empty. Go to practice, and try not to think about the fact that his last game is coming up. Study, and try not to think about the fact that his A-Levels are only a few weeks away. Go to therapy, and try not to think about the fact that he doesn't have that many sessions left. Watch Bake Off with his mum, and try not to think about the fact that he'll be leaving her in a matter of months.

It's an easy enough routine to fall back into. Really, it is.

Until he gets the call.

It's in the middle of practice. Normally, he wouldn't even look at his phone—it's pure luck that he spots it in the grass next to the bench during a water break, screen upturned to show his mum's caller ID.

His mum never calls.

He scrambles to pick it up, still out of breath from the scrimmage. "Mum?" he asks. "Is everything okay?"

"Finn." There's a terrible sound like a sob on the other end of the line. "I know you have practice. I'm so s-sorry. I—" She breaks off again. In the background, some kind of tinny announcement is made through a speaker.

"Mum," Finn says again, "Where are you?" 

"The shopping centre," she manages. "In the Benetton on the first floor."

Finn pulls his bib over his head in one jerky motion, letting it float to the ground as he takes off toward the locker room. "I'm on my way. I'll be there in ten minutes or so, okay? Just—just wait for me."

With that, he hangs up. Behind him, his Coach yells Birdie!, something about where he thinks he's going, but Finn doesn't turn around.

In the locker room, he doesn't bother changing—he just pulls his windbreaker over his football gear and stuffs the rest of his uniform into his duffel bag. He's fighting with the laces on his Converse when the door flies open and Aarun and Kavi burst inside.

"Hey," Aarun pants. "Is everything all right?"

Finn's throat is so tight he almost can't get the words out. "No. My mum called. I have to go."

Wordlessly, Kavi crouches down in front of him and bats his shaking hands away. He quickly ties the laces, then wrestles the duffel bag from Finn. "Go. We'll drop your stuff off at your place after practice."

Finn stares at the twins with a feeling like he might cry.

"Go!" Kavi says again.

He bolts to his feet and out the door, down the hallway and into the courtyard where his bike is chained to the fence.

The shopping centre is a twenty-minute ride from his school. He makes it there in twelve.

As he leans his bike against the wall and rushes through the entrance, all types of horrible images fill his head. He's never heard his mum sound the way she did on the phone, but he knows even before he sees her what's going on.

It's even worse when he skids into the changing rooms at United Colours of Benetton. Hers isn't hard to locate—it's where the ragged breathing is coming from.

Slowly, he comes to a halt in front of it and taps his knuckles against the door. "Mum? Can I come in?"

A sniffle. Then: "Yeah."

Slowly, Finn opens the door. He finds her sitting on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest, face splotchy with tears. Even now, her breaths still sound strained, her hands trembling where they're resting in her lap.

Silently, Finn closes the door behind him and sinks down on the floor next to her. He knows there's nothing he can do while she's like this, so he does the same thing that Oliver did all those months ago: he sits there, his shoulder pressed against hers, and waits it out.

"I'm sorry," she finally sniffs without meeting his eyes. "What a great mum I am. Making you leave practice early so you can watch me cry at bloody Benetton."

"Hey," he murmurs, handing her a crumpled tissue he finds somewhere in the pocket of his windbreaker. "It's all right. What happened?"

At that, her eyes well up again. "Your dad," she gestures vaguely while blowing her nose.

She doesn't say anything else, but Finn understands. Of course she wouldn't leave the house alone to go shopping. She came here with him. And he left her.

The anger that coils in his gut is an ugly, venomous thing. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," she whispers. "God, Finnie. We really make a pair, don't we?"

Not anymore, he wants to say. He's better, now. Every morning, he takes his meds. Every night, he does his muscle relaxation exercises. He goes to therapy and does the homework and even though he still gets panic attacks sometimes, the space between them is growing day by day.

He wants to tell her how much talking to Samira helps, how much more in control he feels.

But he knows that right now isn't the time. You can't chip away at decades' worth of stigma and misconceptions on the floor of a changing room, so he tucks the thought away for later and silently rests his head against hers, listening to her breathing even out while they wait.

"It's so stupid," his mum eventually says. "All of this. It's so bloody stupid. I just wanted a cardigan, nothing else. I used to love going to the shops. Heck, I worked at a store. And now I can't even—" A hiccup cuts her off.

Finn lets out a slow breath as he tightens his arm around her. He knows this specific brand of anger. The frustration with yourself mingled with the exhausted little voice whispering Why me? Why can they go about their day, and I can't? Why have I had three panic attacks just this week and they not one in their entire life?

"It's not your fault, Mum."

"Isn't it though?" When she finally looks at him, her eyes are brimming with fresh tears. "I let this happen to me. I let it consume me, let myself fall into it because it was just so much easier and now—"

"Mum," he says, firmer this time. "You are not your mental illness. It hasn't bloody consumed you." She opens her mouth to disagree, but he presses on. "And I don't think you are weak or a bad mother or whatever you keep telling yourself. I'm angry at Dad for not seeing you and I'm angry that we don't talk about these things.

"I wish I could help you. I wish you would help yourself, but I know how fucking hard that is, so I can't be angry about that. I love you and I wish I could make this go away for you and I wish you would stop beating yourself up about something you can't control." He breaks off, his chest heaving. Breathlessly, he adds, "Sorry for swearing."

His mum laughs then, a wet, exhausted sound. In the changing room mirror, he can see everything they have in common: their matching red hair, their identical eyes, their summer-souvenir freckles. But he also sees the differences: the way he holds his chin high while hers is drooping, the determined set of his shoulders where hers are hunched over. A few months ago, he knows he looked just like her.

He prays that a few months from now, she will look more like him.

***

It's another fifteen minutes before his dad comes back. He looks genuinely taken aback when he stumbles inside the changing room to find them there, Finn's mum's eyes still clouded, his own holding lightning.

"Hey. Aren't you supposed to be at practice?" his dad says, oblivious. "And what are you two doing on the floor?"

Finn has to grind his teeth so he doesn't snap at him right here. "What does it look like," is all he says as he gets to his feet and offers his mum a hand. She doesn't look at his dad as Finn helps her up.

While they ride home together, Finn takes his bike. He tries to calm himself down on the way, but it's no use. The anger is still there, begging to boil over. To burn.

Finn knows that he can't keep all of it bottled up, so he settles on this instead: a quiet, contained fire out of his mother's earshot.

"Dad," he says when he steps through the front door. "Can we talk?"

His father emerges from the kitchen with a questioning look. Finn turns and heads to his room, hearing him follow behind.

"What was that?" is the first thing he says once the door is shut behind them.

"What was what?"

"You left her alone," Finn says. "Why?"

With a sigh, his dad sinks onto the edge of his bed. His eyes linger on the coat draped over Finn's desk chair, the little pill container on his nightstand. "Because... well, after you started with your whole therapy thing, I did some research."

Finn perks up. "And you found her a therapist?"

"No." He frowns. "But I found some articles. About how you aren't supposed to be... helping people like your mother continue their avoidant tendencies."

"Dad." Finn pinches the bridge of his nose. His head is suddenly pounding. "There's a difference between enabling someone and going at their pace. That she went out with you to go shopping at all was a big step for her. Do you think she'll ever trust you to do that again after today?"

At that, his dad finally has the decency to look stricken. "I thought it would be good for her. The article said it was good to expose her. And not gradually, but all at once."

"Oh, for fuck's—it's a bloody article written by some random person, Dad! You can't just DIY exposure therapy! This kind of stuff is serious, you need a professional—"

"Will you keep your voice down," his father demands. "She has worried enough for one day. She doesn't need to hear us fighting as well."

Clenching his fists, Finn takes a deep breath in through his nose. He thinks he understands now how Oliver felt. It's like arguing with a wall.

"Dad," he tries one last time. "If you've been researching agoraphobia, then you must see that Mum needs help. I'm doing so much better since I've been seeing Samira. If we can just get her to—"

"We're not getting her to do anything," his father says with finality. "If she can't be alone in a changing room, then I'm sure she can't be alone at some therapist's office either."

Finn watches in disbelief as he gets up and crosses the room, leaving the door open behind him. He wants to shout that this is enabling, wants to grab his father by the shoulders and shake him until he sees his point. But he knows what it's like to be in denial. And he remembers how he felt with Oliver—like a cornered animal biting the hand that tried to feed him, mistaking the open palm for a threat.

Time. That's all they need, he tells himself. Just a little more time, and they'll see it for themselves.

With his heart still skittering in his chest, he sinks onto his bed and does what he always does when he's upset: he closes his eyes and puts on his headphones. The playlist he chooses is one of his favourites, put together by someone with much better taste than him and the dedication to give each mix a cover image and a fancy name.

This one is called doubt thou the stars are fire. It's a confession. A promise.

What feels like forever ago, it was also a Valentine's gift.

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

hello!!! <3

no oliver this chapter, but a whole lot of angst. the relationship between finn and his mum is honestly so dear to me oh boy. listen to the song i attached (mum by luke hemmings) for maximum pain if you too love to suffer!

next chapter will be back in the past on valentine's day!!! it's very sweet and angst-free, i promise. until then!! <3