EIGHT MONTHS AND THREE WEEKS PRIOR TO THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

On February 10th 2021, Oliver found himself ducking under kitschy heart garlands strung in the school hallways, pink posters tacked to the lockers announcing the annual rose sale. It was a silly tradition—and a dreadfully American one, in Oliver's opinion—where students could have roses delivered to the objects of their pubescent affection on February 14th.

To him, it had always seemed a rather humiliating affair; in the middle of class, someone would come knocking at the door and distribute the flowers to a blushing handful while the rest watched with a mix of envy and second-hand-embarrassment. The proceeds went into the year's prom.

Oliver had never had anyone to send roses to, on Valentine's day or otherwise. This time, he, to his own horror, found himself slowing his steps as he approached the make-shift stall set up in the hallway. He wondered what Finn would say if he sent him one. Then, he grimaced as he recalled with clarity the way Finn had left class last year, cheeks as red as the small bouquet in his hands.

Tearing away his gaze, Oliver left the stall behind.

Not roses, then. But maybe something different.

***

On the 14th, Oliver arrived at school extra early. The lockers at Blissby School were organized by last name—S and O were close enough together that Finn's locker was only a few feet down the hall from his. His lock combination was as familiar to Oliver as his own by now, used mostly to drop off little notes between classes or to get his books when Finn was too tired after practice to stand up and retrieve them himself. Today, the delivery in question was different: it was a bag of Maltesers, a Lucozade Sport (the orange flavour; Finn's favourite), and a printed code for a Spotify playlist he'd spent hours curating last night.

With his hand on the locker door, Oliver hesitated. Was he being too presumptuous doing this? It wasn't like they were boyfriends or anything. But... they had been hanging out for almost six months now. Since their first kiss, nearly four months had passed. And these weren't roses, nothing obviously romantic. Just a regular gift.

Channelling the courage of every romantic hero he had ever read about, Oliver closed the door and clicked the lock back into place. Then, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather trench coat and hurried down the hall to his first class.

As expected, his lessons dragged that day. At half past eleven, the door burst open and a girl from the rose committee strolled inside. Oliver hated the way he tensed a little as she came towards him, only to make a hard left at the last second and hand the flower to the boy one desk over.

Not boyfriends, he repeated in his head. It was for the best if Finn didn't gift him anything. It would make it easier for Oliver to detach himself once he had to leave.

And so, he wasn't disappointed. Or jealous. Or even just the slightest bit crestfallen as he strode into the library that afternoon.

"Oliver!" greeted Mrs. Thistlecloth.

She was sitting behind the librarian's desk, waiting for him to arrive before she could end her work day. She was a spindly white woman in her late fifties who was as much an institution at Blissby School as the library itself. With her wide-rimmed glasses and her crisply ironed blouses, she always had a rather severe appearance—until you looked at her feet, where nine times out of ten, brightly patterned socks peeked out between her shoes and the hem of her pants. Or until you found her beaming at you with a hot cup of coffee at the ready, as was the case for Oliver almost every afternoon.

"Hey," he came to a halt in front of her desk, his hip leaning against its edge. "How are you?"

"Fine! Fine." Adjusting her glasses, she got to her feet. "I, ah—I had a chat with Finn O'Connell today. I wasn't aware he perused this library so often."

Oliver blinked. "Finn was here?"

"Indeed he was! As a matter of fact, he left something for you." With that, she suddenly ducked, giving Oliver a few seconds to school his expression as she vanished behind the desk.

It immediately slipped again when she reappeared. What she set down on the desk had to be the most beautiful bouquet that Oliver had ever laid eyes on. It consisted solely of dark flowers—black orchids, deep purple calla lilies, assorted blossoms in shades of mourning.

Gently touching a finger to the petal of a black dahlia, he asked, "These are for me?"

Mrs. Thistlecloth looked pointedly from the sombre bouquet to Oliver's own attire. "One might hazard that guess, yes. But do convince yourself."

She pointed at the little card that was tied to the vase with a string. Fingers shaking, Oliver undid the knot so he could open it. In Finn's messy handwriting, it read: When we are together, darling, every night is Halloween.

It took Oliver a second to place the quote. When he finally realized what it was from—an episode of The Addams Family show from 1964—he abruptly had to set the card down.

Finn O'Connell was going to be the death of him.

Oliver wasn't someone to be impressed with chocolates or red roses, but this—the unfamiliar sensation of being known, the quiet affection contained in their inside joke—was fatal. All of a sudden, he became aware of just how much time he'd already spent in Blissby. Enough for his heart to do all sorts of strange things over a boy he should've known only in passing. Enough for said boy to figure out more about him than most others had ever cared to try.

When you lived your life in a string of unconnected sequences, nostalgia crept up on you faster than most others. It rendered even month-old memories soft around the edges, the scenes all the more precious for their impermanence.

Oliver was a one-man travelling theatre, constantly disappearing under cover of night only to pop back up in a different location, his own act the only thing that remained a constant. The audience was never the same, and most of the time it knew this, satisfying itself with the brief spectacle of observing him from afar. He knew that to grow so attached to one face in the crowd was unwise for both of them. But bending down to smell the flowers, the flutter in his chest had nothing at all to do with fear—just wonder, as sweet as the perfume of the black roses.

He was so caught up in cataloging every flower that he barely heard Mrs. Thistlecloth's goodbye, only catching the flash of her banana-patterned socks in his periphery as she padded past him.

He did notice the sound of Finn O'Connell clearing his throat. In an instant, Oliver whirled around, his back against the edge of the desk as he watched Finn approach. He was wearing his atrocious neon-blue windbreaker over a rumpled school uniform, his wet hair dripping onto the polyester. Oliver wanted to kiss this walking fashion crime of a boy senseless.

"Hey." Brandishing the bag of Maltesers, he offered Oliver a toothy grin. "Thanks for these."

"Thanks for..." Oliver gestured at the flowers. He hoped his make-up was enough to conceal the way his face was burning up.

"Oh. Yeah." Eyes crinkling at the corners, Finn came to a halt in front of Oliver. He cast a quick glance around the library to make sure no one was around before he got on his tiptoes and hauled Oliver into a short kiss.

Brushing his hair behind his ears—a nervous habit he'd had ever since he'd grown it out at fourteen—, Oliver inquired, "How many roses did you get, then?"

"Dunno." Finn popped a handful of Maltesers into his mouth. "I gave them to the rest of the team. One for almost everyone."

Oliver raised a brow, unsure whether he was more impressed by this year's number of admirers or the deep-running homoeroticism of men's sports teams. "Out to break some hearts, I see."

"I think they'll live." Finn plopped onto the librarian's desk, careful not to knock over the vase, and offered Oliver the Maltesers.

With a disbelieving chuckle, he accepted. It was a heady feeling; Finn O'Connell could've been snogging almost a dozen girls, and instead he was sitting here, in the gloomy library, sharing sweets with him out of all people.

When he got home, he would put the flowers on his nightstand, grinning every time his eyes fell on them. When Gabby asked who they were from, he would shrug, quietly thrilled by the present and the mystery alike. Eventually, he would press the petals between the pages of one of his lesser-loved classics and then tuck them away into the wooden jewellery box he'd nicked from a foster mum whose name he couldn't remember. His own little treasure, for when he felt self-indulgent.

For now, he just sat there, Finn's shoulder pressed against his and the bag of Maltesers in his hand, savouring the sweetness while it lasted.

***

finn o'connell: OLIVER

finn o'connell: GUESS WHAT'S NEXT WEEK

O: the ides of march

finn o'connell: ...

finn o'connell: Ollie, you MUST know by now that I wouldn't know what that is

finn o'connell: It's our first real game of the season!!! Outside!!!! Bc it's spring!!!!!

O: i'll come

finn o'connell: Maybe if you don't have anything to do on Saturday, you could come watch? But only if you have nothing else to do

finn o'connell: Oh

finn o'connell: Okay!! 😊

O: :)

***

Oliver had never watched a football game on purpose. He'd been forcibly exposed to the sport a few times—in most of his foster families, watching the euros and the world cup had been unavoidable—but he'd never done more than squint impassively at the screen.

Today he, for the first time, thought he understood the appeal.

It was noon, and he was sitting on the bleachers behind the school. Despite it being the weekend, the stands were packed—Oliver spotted a few familiar faces from his classes and the library, though none of them seemed to notice him. Which was understandable. Seeing Oliver at a football match was so deeply unnatural that the information probably didn't even process for most of them. With his boots propped up on the backrest of the empty seat below him, sweating in his leather trench coat, he'd felt decidedly out of place for the first few minutes of the game.

Then his eyes had found Finn, and all his unease had evaporated. Oliver thought he finally understood why people called it the beautiful game.

Of course, he had heard about what Finn was like on the field: how, even though he was the shortest player on the team, he outran any of them. How he handled the ball like it was attached to his foot, simply an extension of him that he easily carried across the grass. How he was so strategic it seemed like he was seeing the game from a bird's eye perspective, always knowing exactly where to pop up, who to pass to, how to structure his team's entire play.

What Oliver had not known was how he looked while he did it. He didn't think he had ever seen Finn grinning like he did as he sprinted up and down the sideline—bright and unrestrained, his teeth flashing as he easily took the ball off one of his opponents. Oliver could hear the laughter in his voice as he shouted encouragements at his teammates, a flush high on his cheeks. Huddled between them after he scored, his hair mussed from all the hands ruffling it, he was blindingly brilliant.

"He's really good," remarked a tiny voice next to Oliver.

Oliver tore his eyes away from the playing field for a second to look at Milo. His little foster brother was sitting on the seat next to him, neck craned so he could see what was going on. His tiny hand was placed on Oliver's knee, its warmth seeping through the fabric of Oliver's pants.

"Yeah," he agreed, unable to hold back a smile. "Have you ever played?"

Milo grimaced. "Too much running."

"Mh."

"It's cool to watch though."

Oliver nodded, breath catching at the sight of Finn pulling up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. Good lord. Maybe he had been missing out on something here.

"You still haven't brought him over to have dinner," said Milo.

Oliver blinked, taken aback. When he turned his head again, Milo was regarding him with a stern expression. "Pardon?"

"Mum said that she told you to bring him over sometime. But you haven't." Milo shifted in his seat, leaning more heavily onto Oliver's knee.

"Well... why would I?" Oliver asked. It was a weak attempt at distracting him, and Milo saw right through it.

Eyebrows furrowed, he stated: "Because you're boyfriends. People bring boyfriends home to eat." While Oliver was struggling to find the words to tell him that they weren't together—or any words, really—Milo tilted his head, considering. "Do you think he likes Lego?"

"I... I don't know."

Below them, the referee whistled, followed by deafening cheers that told him they'd won. Oliver looked back to see the players filing off the field, shaking hands and grabbing water bottles.

Finn chatted with the other team's captain for a few seconds before he suddenly lifted his gaze to the bleachers. His face lit up when he spotted Oliver, his hand coming up in a small wave. That smile. It outshone the spring sun with ease.

Staring at him, Oliver thought he understood what Icarus must've felt.

While his thoughts circled around dripping wax, Finn's eyes continued to roam the slowly emptying stands. Oliver winced when he understood what he was looking for. His parents were nowhere to be seen.

Lowering his head, Finn followed his teammates into the locker room.

Oliver and Milo remained in their seats until the bleachers were all but cleared. His eyes fixed on the door of the gym, Oliver waited for Finn to reappear. When thirty minutes had passed and he felt like he'd seen the entire football team head home, he tugged Milo to his feet.

"Where are we going?" he questioned.

Oliver shuddered just saying the words. "Locker room."

Milo summed up his feelings with a delicate wrinkling of his nose.

Hand in hand, they climbed down the bleachers, dodging the last stragglers. Oliver could feel their eyes on him as he tugged Milo along to the gym; a leather-clad satanist and his tiny shadow, both looking utterly unimpressed with the whole affair.

Once inside, Oliver let the stench of men's deodorant and decades' worth of sweat guide his way. He'd been lucky enough to transfer to the school old enough to not be subjected to compulsory P.E. lessons, so he was unfamiliar with the tiled maze of Blissby School's gymnasium, but the smells still awoke a visceral feeling in him. One whiff of Adidas body spray and he was thirteen again, standing gloomily on a basketball court in a garish neon-coloured bib. They'd picked him for his height a few times. Eventually, his teacher had given up and left him to read his paperbacks on the bench.

If someone had told that version of Oliver that he would end up semi-dating a football prodigy, he would've lost his mind.

His and Milo's aimless wandering came to a halt when they turned the corner. The door at the end of the corridor—Changing room: home, it declared—stood slightly ajar. Hesitantly, Oliver gave it a nudge with the tip of his boot.

The locker room it revealed was exactly as Oliver had imagined. Pallid mint-green tiles. Lockers and benches adorned with stickers of football teams and crude drawings that Milo hopefully couldn't make out. A rubbish bin spilling over with empty Lucozade bottles and the silvery wrappings of protein bars.

And there, on a bench in the very back of the room, Finn.

"Milo." Oliver gently pushed him down on the bench closest to the entrance. "Wait here a sec, yeah?"

His foster brother, looking deeply disinterested in all of this, gave a nod.

With another glance at him, Oliver crossed the room. Finn didn't look up at the heavy fall of his boots. Elbows braced on his knees, he kept his head down, towel-dried hair standing up in all directions. The light mist that hung in the still air, courtesy of the showers, rendered his figure hazy.

"Hey." Oliver came to a halt in front of him. He nudged his foot against Finn's. "Panic attack?"

"No," Finn told the floor. "Not a panic attack."

Oliver waited a few seconds for an explanation. When nothing else came out, he sank down next to Finn on the bench. Like this, they were close enough for their shoulders to touch; close enough that Oliver didn't miss how shallow Finn's breaths sounded, a tell-tale catch in every inhalation.

"Finn," he softly said.

Another beat of silence. Finally, Finn raised his head. "It's stupid."

"Feelings generally are," said Oliver. His voice came out sounding lighter than he felt. Finn's eyes were red-rimmed, his skin pale. Either he'd just gotten half a bottle of shampoo in his eyes during his shower, or he'd been crying.

"It's just..." Finn shook his head, throat bobbing as he swallowed. "They said they'd come."

Oliver's breath left him in a soft whoosh. His shoulders sagged. He wasn't exactly the best person when it came to comforting words, least of all those concerning parents. Still, he offered a quiet, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I mean, I knew it might happen. She hasn't been to one of my games since..." He paused. "Since I've been captain."

Rubbing at his collarbone, Oliver glanced at the light blue captain armband still sitting next to Finn on the bench.

Before he could say anything, Finn repeated: "It's fine. I don't know why I even bothered to ask. I mean, it's just school football." His voice softened with every word, until it was barely more than a whisper. "It's not a big deal, is all I'm saying."

"Yeah, it is."

Finn looked up. "What?"

"It is a big deal," Oliver firmly said. He had never been so passionate about sports in his life. "This is your thing. It's their job as parents to care."

"They do care," Finn murmured. "I think. My mum is just... And my dad probably forgot. I dunno. Maybe next game." He smiled, fragile and forced. "At least you're here."

Without thinking, Oliver reached out, taking Finn's face in both hands. Like this, he could see the way his wet hair curled around his ears. His eyes followed the trail of a drop of water as it made its way down his cheek. Slowly, enunciating every word with care, he said: "You did amazing, Finn O'Connell."

The laugh that Finn let out was more of a sniff. Shoulders loosening, he tipped forward, his damp hair tickling Oliver's face as their foreheads came to rest together. "Thank you, Oliver Sallow."

Oliver wasn't sure if it was the vapor of deodorant or Finn that made him feel a little lightheaded. From the corner of his eyes, he made sure that Milo was too busy frowning at the Sharpie art on his bench to pay any attention to them. Then, he tilted his head and let his lips brush Finn's.

Finn gasped, a soft noise—like he was still surprised by the affection, like they hadn't been doing this for almost five months now.

Oliver leaned back, his thumb resting over the dimple that had appeared in Finn's cheek. The smile he wore now was different from his grin on the playing field. It was quiet and soft, only for Oliver to see and all the more devastating for it.

Before he could think better of it, he asked: "When's your next game, then?"

"In two weeks." Finn sounded giddy as he said it, his expression slightly disbelieving.

"I'll be—"

The door to the locker room burst open before Oliver had the chance to finish his sentence. In an instant, he and Finn sat at different ends of the bench, watching as Kavi—Finn had taught him to distinguish the twins by then; Kavi's face was a little bit rounder, and he had a chipped front tooth—ducked through the doorway.

"Oh." His eyes widened as they fell on the two of them sitting bolt upright, Finn with his ears a vibrant red, Oliver with his dark lipstick incriminatingly smudged. "Shit, sorry. Forgot my bottle."

In painful silence, he padded across the room, sending a bewildered glance at Milo. "Whose..." he began, then broke off, apparently thinking better of it. Oliver silently counted the seconds in his head. Finn's knuckles were white where his fingers clutching the bench.

Finally, Kavi found his bottle. Lifting it, he all but fled the room, only turning around once more to say: "See you at practice, Birdie."

The door fell shut.

"Fuck me," Finn whispered to the ceiling.

"Language," Oliver reflexively said, looking at Milo.

Neither of them had much else to say after that. Oliver watched as Finn pulled on his windbreaker and slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. Together, they made their way out of the building, Milo walking between them.

"Do you think he'll tell anyone?" Oliver asked as they stopped next to Finn's bike.

Finn rubbed at his eyes. "I don't know." He undid the lock chaining his bike to the fence, fingers clumsier than usual. "He'll probably tell Aarun. And Aarun—God, if he finds out, he'll tell the entire team."

Oliver exhaled. He would've had no problem with people knowing, but he had a feeling Finn wasn't too keen on anyone finding out. Tentatively, he asked: "How would you feel if he did tell the others?"

Finn busied himself by fussing with the zipper on his bag. "I don't want to think about it, to be honest." He lifted his gaze, briefly meeting Oliver's eyes. "Thanks for coming."

With that, he swung himself onto his bike and took off.

Oliver looked after him until he disappeared around the corner. The words I don't want to think about it bounced through his head. His mind was an echo chamber—with every ricochet, the syllables sounded more like This isn't important to me and We're not serious enough to tell anyone about and I'm ashamed of it, of us, of you of you of you.

Averting his eyes, Oliver took Milo's hand. "Let's go back. Your mum's probably wondering where we are."

Milo made a face. "She's your mum as well."

"Sure."

Slowly, they took off in the opposite direction Finn had gone. Even though it was only noon, Oliver suddenly felt tired all the way down to his bones.

"You still haven't invited him over for dinner," said Milo, mournful.

"Yeah." Oliver looked down at his feet. "I know."

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

I'M SO SORRY, i forgot there was a tiny bit of angst in this chapter as well 😭 i hope the fluff in the beginning makes up for it :,)

i honestly loved writing this chapter. oliver swooning over football!finn is so personal to me. did you guys have a favourite part? <3

until next week!! more softness incoming and this time in the present timeline (gasp???)

p.s. today's song is, of course, valentine by 5sos :)