FIVE MONTHS AND TWENTY-FOUR DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Almost six months after Oliver's death, Finn grimaces as he studies himself in his mirror. "Don't you think this is too casual?"

From his position on the floor, Oliver shakes his head. "It's just dinner."

His pointing out the obvious doesn't seem to do anything to reassure Finn. Eyes fixed on his reflection like he's trying to win a staring contest, he tugs at the collar of his jumper. It's one of Oliver's favourites—a dark green one that contrasts with Finn's hair and brings out his freckles. From experience, Oliver knows that it's one of the softest items in Finn's closet.

When Finn continues to frown unhappily at himself, Oliver heaves himself to his feet. Putting his hands on Finn's shoulders, he turns him around so they're facing each other. "Finn. They already know you. It's no big deal."

"Yeah, it is," Finn argues. He seems to struggle briefly with the next words. "They... they know we were together, right?"

Oliver's cheeks warm at the memory. "Yeah."

Finn nods, like that proves his point. "Then obviously it's important."

"Trying to establish a dead man's good taste?" Oliver asks wryly.

The look that Finn cuts him is entirely unamused. "I wish you'd stop joking about that. It's not funny."

"No," Oliver sighs. "It's not." He studies Finn a moment longer before reaching out to tousle his hair. It's so much longer than it used to be, soft strands almost getting caught in his rings. Carefully withdrawing his fingers, he tells him: "You look nice."

For a second, Oliver is afraid that he's overstepped the lines, blurred as they are after the other night. But then, Finn ducks his head, a tiny smile on his lips, and nods.

He heads for the door, clearly expecting Oliver to follow.

Only Oliver can't move. He feels suddenly breathless, like there's a vice around his lungs, cast iron keeping him from drawing oxygen.

One hand on the doorknob, Finn glances over his shoulder. "Coming?"

"I—" He tries to draw another breath. Can't. "I'm not sure I should be there."

Even though he wishes he weren't, Oliver is aware of the irony here. Months ago, he was fighting tooth and nail to keep Finn away from his foster parents—now he's asking him to go there alone, like he hasn't ached to be back in his old bedroom every minute he's spent at Dover.

But when Finn returns to stand in front of him again, he isn't looking at Oliver like he thinks Oliver is being ridiculous. He's looking at him like he understands.

"Ollie," he says, voice soft. "Just give them a few minutes. You deserve to see it."

"See what?"

He meets Finn's eyes just long enough to catch the flicker of something almost unbearably warm in them. Like it's the simplest thing in the world, he says: "How loved you are."

***

Staggering up to the Walkers' house makes Oliver feels like he's stumbled into a film still. It all looks exactly as it did the last time he saw it over four months ago, a movie paused for him to jump back into. The same coarse brick. The same windows, blinking sleepily down at him as the sun sets behind the roof. The same bright flower pots on the front steps, filled with plants that Daniel will try to keep alive this summer before admitting defeat with the first cold snap.

Oliver has never felt the strange brand of pain that courses through him at the sight. That's probably because he's never gotten a second glance at any of his former layovers. It was always the same old game of It's not you, it's us (it was almost always him), a quick goodbye, a taxi ride without a single glance in the rear view.

And now he's here, looking at a home he never made it back to; a home he didn't realize was one until it slipped away from him on the November pavement.

How can he feel so much more homesick now that he's back?

"Let's get this over with," he says.

Finn gives him a sidelong glance and walks up to the door. While he rings the bell, Oliver tries to tamp down on the strange thing welling up in his chest. It only semi-works.

Standing there, in the little square of warm light that spills from the kitchen window, he feels a longing so acute he thinks he might drown in it. It's similar to what he feels walking down the pavement in the evening sometimes, watching families go through their routine behind their windows, their quiet lives illuminated like carefully arranged stage sets. In a way, those walks have always felt symbolic. They perfectly encapsulate what he felt like growing up: always looking in from the outside, a silent ghost slinking through a liminal space. Blink, and you miss him.

He jumps when the door in front of him opens.

"Finn!" Gabby exclaims, and Oliver almost weeps.

The first time he saw the thirty-something Black woman waiting for him at the station, he was frightened. Not because she was particularly intimidating (at least not more than any of the women who had come before her). But because, as she stood there on the train platform with a sign with his name on it and a smile like the sun, Oliver wanted, desperately, to trust her. And trust, he knew, was a dangerous game.

The first days, weeks, months, he'd held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop—for her eyes to harden when he had to ask her for money for a field trip, for her voice to grow clipped when she told him to help set the table, for her smiles to turn into frowns when she inevitably realized that tending to a surly teenager was more fun in theory than it was in practice.

Except it never did. Gabby Walker never smiled at him any differently than she had that first day.

No differently than she smiles at Finn now.

"I hope you're hungry," she tells him as she waves him inside. "Daniel went a bit overboard with the pasta."

Finn murmurs something sheepish and steps inside. It's only when the door begins to close that Oliver can get himself to move. He darts across the threshold a split second before the lock clicks back into place.

While Gabby ushers Finn down the hallway, Oliver stands frozen. In Psych, he learned about the link between the sense of smell and the limbic system—about how certain odours come with an immediate emotional response, resurrecting memories you never knew you buried.

Inhaling the smell of Daniel's spaghetti bolognese and the same laundry detergent that used to cling to his own clothes for years, nostalgia hits him like a freight train. As if in a dream, he wanders down the hall, looking at the coat rack (emptier without his jackets) and the unchanged photos on the walls.

And then, he hears it: Milo's voice, ringing like a bell.

Oliver can't make out the words, but the sound of it alone is enough to make his heart feel like it's cracking, spilling everything he's fought so hard to contain into his chest.

"How old are you now, Milo?" Finn is softly inquiring as Oliver nears the kitchen.

"Thirteen," comes the proud answer.

Thirteen. The word repeats in Oliver's brain like a broken record as he works up the nerve to step into the kitchen. He releases his breath only when he spots Milo. He's sitting in his familiar seat, legs tucked under himself and his mouth already red with tomato sauce. He looks older than he did when Oliver last saw him, but only if you really look for the changes; a little less roundness to his face, a little more care to the way his hair is styled. Other than that, he is still the little boy who beat Oliver in Mario Kart and asked for bedtime stories every night.

Oliver can hardly take his eyes off him as the dinner progresses. Daniel—was his hair this grey four months ago?—asks Finn about his football season until Gabby cuts in to inquire about his plans after school. Finn answers every question between mouthfuls of pasta, perfectly polite. If Gabby or Daniel notice the way his eyes keep darting toward where Oliver is leaning against the kitchen counter, they don't show it.

Eventually, the main course is over and Milo disappears into the living room to watch one of his shows, as always.

"Well," Gabby comments as she sets the empty pot into the sink, "Looks like we didn't cook too much after all. You eat better than Oliver did."

The mention of his name feels like a bucket of cold water poured over his head. Finn freezes, his glass of water halfway to his lips.

"Gabby..." Daniel begins.

"I'm sorry," she rushes to say. "We don't have to talk about him. I know it's hard."

Slowly, Finn sets his glass down. His eye contact wiht Oliver is a tentative question. Oliver gives the faintest of nods.

"It's all right." Finn offers them a smile. "It's nice to have someone to talk with about him. Someone who actually knew him, I mean."

The relief on Gabby's face is almost tangible. "Right," she says. "I just... I still can't believe he's gone. Some mornings, I still go to his room to wake him, you know? And every time I remember he's not there, it hurts just as much as the first time."

Oliver feels like he's stepped outside his body, somehow. Slowly, he drifts towards the table, sinking down on the seat Milo occupied. Up close, he can see the shimmer in her eyes.

"I know what you mean." Eyes brushing Oliver, Finn admits, "At school, I keep thinking he'll turn a corner or sit in the library again."

"It's just fucking unfair," Daniel says. Oliver has never heard him so choked up. He also doesn't think he's ever heard him swear. "After all the shit he went through, he deserved better."

"For what it's worth..." Finn murmurs, never looking away from Oliver. "I think the time he spent with you was the happiest he's ever been."

Eyes burning, Oliver gives a small nod.

"I like to think so." Gabby smiles even as her hand clutches a tissue. "He never spoke much about his time in the system before he came to us, but I know it was hard. I just wanted to make it better." Her breath hitches. "To show him that he could stop running and just be. But I still felt like he was bracing himself, right up until the end."

Oliver is already fighting tears. Then, Daniel's next sentence makes the world tilt. "We were looking into adoption." He says it easily, like it's nothing, like it's a simple fact Oliver should've just known. "But at that point he was seventeen and we were told that the entire process would probably not be finished in time for his eighteenth birthday. We didn't tell him because it didn't feel fair to dangle it in front of him and then have it taken away. And besides..." He shakes his head. "We didn't think we needed any stupid papers for all of us to know that he was part of this family."

Part of this family.

"Finn," Oliver rasps, voice urgent enough to make Finn jump, "Can you tell them I love them?"

Finn hesitates for all of a second. Then, he turns his eyes on Gabby and Daniel and says, earnest as ever: "He loved you three. A lot."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think he did." Gabby lets out a strange noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Dabbing at her eyes, she says, "I'm sorry I'm such a mess. It's just—after the funeral, there were a few weeks when I couldn't cry at all. Now, I can't seem to stop."

Gently, Daniel rests a hand on the back of her neck, the way Oliver has watched him do a hundred times—when Gabby was stressed over a research project, after her mum got hospitalized, that one time Milo got in a fight and almost got suspended. Oliver doesn't know why that gesture undoes him. Maybe it's just that he never thought he was important enough to undo them.

But sitting there, looking at the shadows under his foster parents' eyes, listening to what they're saying, the truth is so obvious he can't believe he never saw it. They miss him. And not just like an acquaintance they knew for a few years. Like a son.

You deserve to see it. How loved you are.

Under the table, Oliver reaches out and squeezes Finn's hand.

Finn squeezes back.

***

It's dark outside by the time the conversation winds down. Finn helps Gabby do the dishes—just like Oliver used to do—while Daniel tucks Milo in.

"Thank you, Finn," Gabby says into the comfortable quiet. "I don't know what it is, but tonight is the closest I've felt to Oliver in a while."

"I know what you mean." Finn pauses, eyes straying toward Oliver again. "Uhm... before I leave, can I maybe use the bathroom?"

"Sure. It's upstairs, right at the end of the hall."

With a nod, Finn strolls out the door. Oliver shoots another glance at Gabby before he trails after him.

By some unspoken agreement, they do not stop in front of the door at the end of the hallway; they stop at the first door on the left. Carefully, Finn nudges it open, glancing at Oliver for permission before he steps through the threshold.

The room behind reminds Oliver of something trapped in amber. It all looks just like he left it, down to the mess of blankets on his bed. While Finn quietly shuts the door behind them, Oliver fights against the lump in his throat.

He stands frozen in the doorway while Finn takes in the clothes and the make-up scattered across Oliver's desk along with his revision notes, the bass guitar catching dust in the corner. He pauses at Oliver's nightstand, breathing a soft laugh when he sees the stack of tattered paperbacks teetering on its edge.

"Your shrine," he teases. His thumb gently traces the spines of half a dozen plays. He looks at Oliver again. "I always meant to ask. Why Shakespeare?"

Slowly, Oliver makes his way over to him. The small booklet at the top of the stack slides easily into his hand—as if it was moulded to fit into his palms, pages eagerly splaying open like they remember his touch.

"Contrary to popular belief, I didn't get into Shakespeare because I wanted to be pretentious. Although," here, he cracks a small smile, "I did enjoy that part as well. It's because he was everywhere. Every library stocked him. Every school had him on its curriculum." He gingerly sets The Tempest down again. "When your life feels like it's crumbling away beneath your feet every other month, you learn to find things you can hold on to."

Even without looking up, he can feel Finn studying him. "Why did we never hang out here?"

He gives the same reason he did a few nights ago. "Because I was scared."

When Finn only tilts his head imploringly, he sighs. It feels so silly now to say. "I didn't believe that this was anything other than temporary, and so I stopped myself from... I don't know. Needing too much, I guess. As if I could somehow make it last longer if I didn't show the universe how much I wanted to keep all of this."

He gestures limply around his room. In the blueish tint of the evening, it looks small, cold. The walls are emptier than he remembers—no posters, no pictures. Almost like he never fully moved in, or like he was ready to move out at a moment's notice, all his belongings easily packed up in the same bags he arrived here with.

The room of someone on the run.

"Introducing you to Gabby and Daniel felt like something big. Something... permanent." He lets out shaky breath. "I didn't trust that permanence."

In the half-light, Finn looks heartbroken. "Fuck, Ollie."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Fuck."

They don't have to say the rest: that it didn't really matter in the end. That he kept it all at arm's length so he wouldn't get used to holding it only to lose it all anyway, except without ever having held it in the first place.

It should be no surprise that, after devouring tragedies all his life, Oliver would be nothing short of thorough when it came to fabricating his own.

"If I could go back, I would do it all differently," he says.

"I know."

Oliver isn't sure who moves first. They're like magnets; one moment, they're two steps apart, the next Finn's arms are around him, fingers curled into the fabric of Oliver's shirt.

"HALO would kill me if they saw this," Oliver says into Finn's hair. "I'm the one who should be there for you."

"Oliver," Finn says without loosening his arms. "Please shut up."

Oliver does.

They stand there hugging for a long time.

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

i love them so much i don't think you understand!!!!!

i hope you enjoyed this chapter-- it's one of my favourites of the whole book. was this how you imagined the dinner going? :,)

we're slowly nearing the end of this journey (there are still five chapters and an epilogue left) and i'm so curious: how do you think things will play out? do you think there'll be a happy ending? (i'm so evil i'm sorry)

today's song is sad beautiful tragic by taylor swift <3