SEVEN DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

The funeral happened. Finn wasn't very present throughout it. He wasn't very present a lot of the time.

They'd scheduled it on a Sunday. The December sun beamed from a bright blue sky as a small crowd gathered around a headstone. The black suit that his father had borrowed him had a hole in the lining of the pocket. While the priest droned on and women with too much perfume whispered hollow condolences, Finn dug his thumb into it until it swallowed his knuckles, then his entire fist.

He wanted it to split at the seams. He wanted to take every single person around him by the shoulders, all the people from school who hadn't spoken to Oliver once and the people who'd crossed to the other side of the street when he'd passed just last week, and ask them what the hell they were doing here.

"A real shame," murmured Dorothea Bailey, one hand pressed to the cross necklace at her throat.

"Such a bright kid," agreed Marge McKinnon.

Finn strained his hand against the fabric until it dug into his skin.

He jumped when a figure sidled up to him. "Hello, Finn," Mrs. Thistlecloth said softly.

Finn nodded at her, eyes fixed on her red-rimmed ones, the crumpled handkerchief clutched in her hand. He hadn't cried once. He'd expected it to happen in church, or maybe on the walk to the cemetery. Instead, he'd sat in the pew for an entire hour, listening to a priest give a generic eulogy that Oliver would've torn to shreds, his eyes so dry they stung. What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he fucking crying?

"Are you here all alone?" Mrs. Thistlecloth inquired.

"Yeah," Finn said tonelessly. "My parents couldn't make it."

She looked away, but not quick enough for him to miss the pity that flashed in her eyes. Gazing over at the black mass gathered around the pit in the ground, she murmured, "He would've hated this, don't you think? All the affectation. Who even are these people?"

Finn couldn't have told her. None of this made sense. Not the crowd. Not the sunshine singing the back of his neck. Not the idea that there was a body in that pit, hidden in a closed casket that someone must have picked out and paid for, for which a receipt was flying around somewhere amid a flood of petrol station sympathy cards.

He wished he could feel any anger over it. Or sadness. Or anything at all that wasn't the horrible numbness that had started to spread in him the night that Gabby Walker had called on his parents' landline to speak to him.

"Do you want to go over? Say hi?" Mrs. Thistlecloth gently asked.

Did Finn want to go over? Did he want to meet eyes with Oliver's foster mother, who had been sobbing through a speaker the first and last time they'd talked? Did he want to shake his foster dad's hand, an introduction a year too late? Did he want to say hello to Milo?

God. Milo.

"No," he said, and then: "Thanks."

He left without another word. No one but her noticed he had ever been there.

***

At school, everything was business as usual. Classes carried on as if nothing had happened; in the hallways, students continued to laugh and shout and shove each other into lockers; on the bulletin board, someone had put up a note that read Wanted: Student librarian.

Finn wandered through the chaos in a trance. He felt like he'd been dropped into a parallel universe where November 17th had never happened. He couldn't fathom that the world could keep spinning without Oliver Sallow stomping through it in lace-up boots and a scowl.

The worst part was that no one understood how it felt for Finn. No one knew that Oliver Sallow and Finn O'Connell had been anything more than loose acquaintances who ran into each other in the library every once in a while. Finn had made sure of that.

And so, he did what everyone else did. He dragged himself to his classes, even though none of them seemed to matter much anymore. He bought himself a meal in the cafeteria and moved the food around on his plate until the rest of his team was finished eating. He went to practice and did the drills and showered and didn't scream at the injustice of it all even though his entire body was alight with it.

He took his time getting dressed—anything to delay the inevitable way back home, to his too-quiet room and his mother's questioning glances—, so he was the last one left in the locker room when Kavi burst through the door.

Finn didn't lift his gaze to look at him, busy tying off his shoelaces. "Forget something?"

"No." There was a second of hesitation. Then, Kavi crossed the room and sat down next to Finn on the bench. "I was there when they emptied out his locker, and... I dunno, I thought you should have it. Don't show it to anyone. I kind of nicked it from the pile when they weren't looking."

Slowly, Finn straightened.

Bundled between Kavi's outstretched hands was Oliver's leather trench coat. The one he had worn to school almost every day. On its lapel, a tiny bee quoted Shakespeare.

In the months after their break-up, Finn had at first felt anger, then a strange sort of nostalgia at the sight of it still firmly affixed to Oliver's jacket. Now, the pin made his throat feel like there were hands wrapped around it.

"Why are you giving me this?" Finn choked out.

Kavi shook his head, brown eyes warm as they flitted across his features. His knee tilted, just a bit, to press against Finn's. "Finn."

It was the first time in years that he called him by name, his expression the most serious Finn had ever seen. More serious than when Aarun had sprained his ankle during a match. More serious, even, than when he'd bombed his Maths GCSE.

Finn couldn't grasp what it all meant. His breathing was getting short again. A panic attack. He was going to have a panic attack.

"I... I have to go," he managed.

Kavi called after him, something that sounded like a question, but Finn couldn't make out the words over the ringing in his ears. Leather trench coat clutched in his hands and his shoelaces still untied, he burst into the school courtyard.

He was faced with the same choice he'd had to make over a year ago, that September afternoon when they'd first met. He could either run into the school building and try to make it to one of the empty classrooms, hoping that as few people as possible spotted him on the way. Or he could go straight to the library and hide out in the bathroom that was almost never occupied.

He made the same decision he'd made then.

It was the first time he entered it since the day they'd broken up. The familiar smell of it, dust and old paper, was enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Heart thumping, he pushed the feeling away and staggered past the rows of books, towards the door at the back of the room.

On instinct, he glanced at the librarian's desk—and froze as Oliver stared back at him. A picture of him was put up next to a gently flickering candle. It was a school photo of him looking unimpressed in front of a tacky blue backdrop, his lips a defiant line of deep purple that refused to tick up in the slightest. Below it, looping cursive said: To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream.

Finn's legs buckled the moment he reached the bathroom. He slid do the floor in almost the same spot he had last time, his back to the wall, the tiles cold through the fabric of his pants. Except, he suddenly understood, this wasn't a panic attack.

This was a week of tears breaking through the dam all at once. He'd barely reached this conclusion before they started spilling down his cheeks, his first sob a ragged sound that echoed from the walls. Another one came, this time muffled into the leather of Oliver's coat as Finn clutched it to his chest and buried his face in it. It still smelled like him.

It was then that he understood. Oliver was gone.

Finn would never run into him in the hall again. He would never hear his laugh from another room, or catch a glimpse of him riding Lucretia down the street. He would never again hear Oliver Sallow say his name. Because he was gone.

It was a pain unlike anything Finn had ever felt. He was sure that Oliver would've had a word for it—would've found a way to turn it into something poetic, something cathartic, something with meaning. All that Finn knew was that it hurt.

His sobs had turned into raw hiccups by the time the door creaked open. He lifted his head, expecting, for just a second, to find Oliver towering above him like he'd had that first day, music crackling out his earphones.

Instead, his eyes found a woollen cardigan and socks with strawberries on them.

Wordlessly, Mrs. Thistlecloth shut the door behind her and sank to her knees in front of Finn.

"He's gone," he said, voice cracking as his fingertips curled tighter into the leather.

Mrs. Thistlecloth's throat moved as she swallowed. "Yes."

Finn nodded. The tears were still coming, dripping down his chin and onto Oliver's coat, but they were silent now. With shaky hands, he accepted the handkerchief Mrs. Thistlecloth offered him.

"He loved these, didn't he," he rasped as he clumsily blew his nose. "I bet he wanted one as well. Embroidered with his initials and everything."

"He did make eyes at it a few times, yes." They were silent for a moment, listening to the water moving through the pipes, the way Finn's breathing slowly evened.

Finally, Mrs. Thistlecloth spoke again. "Finn... Have you ever thought about going to counselling?"

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

i am so sorry for this please don't come for me

i promise there's fluff next chapter to make up for it. heaps of it. tons!!

also, this was the last chapter set in the past! i hope you enjoyed this story line. baby finn and oliver will forever have my heart :,)

today's song is labyrinth by taylor swift because i'll be getting over you my whole life and oh no, i'm falling in love again and you know how much i hate that everybody just expects me to bounce back just like that. i will show myself out