Four Times Oliver Sallow Got Caught Staring at Finn O'Connell

(+1 Time He Didn't Look Away)

4. From Lovers To Strangers

Eighteen years old. Still Oakriver, though he sometimes wishes it wasn't.

It's been two weeks since he and Finn broke up. It doesn't feel entirely real. Even before they were together, their afternoons in the library were a fixture in his daily routine—every time he remembers that Finn won't come, he feels something akin to the disoriented feeling that comes with missing a step on the stairs. There's a feeling of wrongness to it. To being alone.

It's precisely why Oliver never wanted anything like this in the first place. He's gone the last decade more or less on his own, and it was boring and maybe a little bit lonely but it was fine. This is... not that. It's so not fine he feels a little bit like crying every time he passes Finn in the hallways.

It's like they're back to being strangers. It's worse than being strangers, really. At least when they didn't know each other, Oliver could count on Finn smiling back at him reflexively, or lifting a hand in a wave like he did that first day on the football field.

Oliver wishes he could go back to that time. Then he wouldn't know what Finn O'Connell's laughter—his real laughter—sounds like or how he kisses or how infuriatingly kind he really is. He wouldn't know all the little quirks that he was going to miss.

He does, though. Miss him, that is. And, somehow, that makes him irrationally angry. He wanted this, didn't he? Their break-up was something he'd been bracing for since day one, a natural conclusion to a relationship that was already more long-lived than it had any right to be. Why, then, does he feel so fucking miserable?

"Hey, you." He jumps when his foster mom pokes her head through the open door. "Have you eaten anything today?"

It takes Oliver a concerningly long moment to remember. "A bit this morning," he tells her without looking up from the essay he's been trying to write for the last two hours. He's on his belly on the bed, his hair falling around his face in an oil-black curtain.

"Nothing at school?"

"Yes. I had one of those pudding thingies. You know, the ones that come in a plastic cup and taste like nothing."

"Not good enough," Gabby determines. "You're coming with me to the chippy."

Oliver pulls the most pathetic face he knows to do. (It's not very hard to pull off, in his state.) "But," he says, gesturing limply at the laptop in front of him, "essay."

"You're not writing an essay on a Friday night. That's illegal, or something." Gabby claps her hands. "Up."

With a sigh that's only slightly over-exaggerated, Oliver gets up from the bed. He briefly entertains the idea of pointing out that she is grading papers almost every Friday night, but thinks better of it. It isn't like he was making any progress on his essay anyway. His discussion of the themes in As You Like It turned very quickly into dissociating while thinking of Finn and that self-satisfied smile he wore every time he made his stupid little joke.

Oliver wishes he could get an exorcism to forget all these things. Hell, at this point he would even settle for a lobotomy.

As if compensating for his sullen silence, Gabby is annoyingly chipper as she shoos him into the car. "So," she says, as she puts it into drive. "How was our week?"

"It was great," Oliver mutters.

"So was mine! Thank you so much for asking," Gabby says.

"You're welcome," Oliver returns in the same sarcastic, overly sweet tone. It's clear from his voice that his heart's not in it, though.

There's a beat of silence before Gabby says, "You know, Oliver, if there's ever anything you want to talk about... I'm here. And so is Daniel."

Oliver slumps a little more into his seat. He should've known this was a trap. Gabby is uncannily observing when it comes to his moods; sometimes, he feels a bit like he's a test subject in one of her experiments. He knows that if she could, she would probably hook him up to an fMRI machine and try to read his thoughts. Or whatever it is that science-y people do.

"I know," he says lamely. (He does know. He's thought about telling them several times, but he just can't. He's barely holding himself together as it is, and he has a distinct feeling that his foster parents' pity would be the thing to unravel him.)

Gabby reaches over to give his knee a little squeeze.

Oliver averts his eyes, and realizes with a start that they've turned onto High Street. "Uh, Gabby?" He can't stop his voice from ratcheting a little higher in his panic. "I thought we were going to the chippy."

"We are. The one on Sombersby Road is closed, remember? Mel is still on holiday in Menorca." She does another quick scan of his face and gives a chuckle. "This one is Blissby's second-best chippy, Oliver. I assure you, their fries are just as good."

Oliver's answering smile feels more like a grimace. He feels a small part of his soul shrivel and die as Gabby pulls into a parking spot at the side of the street and ushers him toward the chippy right beneath the flat where Finn lives.

Stupidly, Oliver's first instinct is to check what he's wearing. He was operating on the assumption that they would be ducking into the chippy at the other end of town, as far away from this place as possible, and so he didn't bother changing out of what he's wearing—which is, incidentally, a pair of black sweatpants, make-up that's smudged after a long day at school, and the sweater Finn left at his place six weeks ago.

The decent thing would've been to put it back into his locker with the rest of the things Oliver was returning. Unfortunately, the terrible, aching part of him decided to cling to it—not unlike a child clinging to a favourite blanket—and make the woolen monstrosity a standard piece of his loungewear. If Gabby or Daniel noticed the new addition to the wash, neither of them has said anything about it so far.

"Gabby," he says, voice thin. "Can't I wait in the car?"

She glances at him over her shoulder. "What? Why?"

"Look at what I'm wearing."

"Oh, please," she tuts. "You always look fashionable. Also, on account of my not being an octopus, I'm going to need a second set of hands."

Oliver knows when to admit defeat. He ducks his head in a futile attempt to make himself smaller, and follows her down the pavement, casting nervous glances up at Finn's window as they pass underneath it.

He only relaxes a fraction when the door to the chippy has fallen shut behind them. While Gabby goes up to the counter to order, he sinks onto one of the chairs near the exit and pretends to focus hard on something on his phone (there is nothing on his phone except an embarrassing message to Finn that he drafted in his notes app in a weak moment. It reads something like I thought this was what I wanted, but I still have your match dates saved in my calendar, and I wish I could've seen you win last week. I miss your hair and your smiles and your terrible jokes. The library feels wrong without you in it. Sorry for being a self-destructive dick, please will you forget everything that happened and ignore how fucked I am in the head?)

He's released from his self-inflicted torture when Gabby dumps two greasy paper bags into his arms. Adjusting his grip on them, he follows her out into the street—and almost runs straight into Finn O'Connell.

"Fuck, sorry," he manages, scrambling to just barely stop their takeaway from spilling all over the street.

"It's okay," Finn says, just as instinctive. He's carrying a trash bag in one hand and wearing his mum's Crocs.

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Oliver feels breathless as he catalogues the familiar planes of Finn's face. This is the closest they've been in two weeks—this near, he can make out the freckles on Finn's nose, the tiny scar on his chin where he fell when he was eight. He doesn't miss the way Finn's eyes dart down to take in his sweater, looking for the briefest moment as if he might cry.

It's Gabby who cuts through the tense silence. "Finn!" She beams. "How are you?"

"I'm well. Thank you, Mrs. Walker." He offers her a strained smile. "How are you?"

"Good! We were just getting dinner from the chippy."

Oliver is extremely busy studying the cracks in the pavement.

"That's lovely," Finn says, because trust him to be an utter delight even when in severe emotional distress. "Enjoy your meal."

He casts one last look at Oliver before he continues on his way to the rubbish bin.

"Ready to go?" Gabby asks. If her tentative tone is any indication, the strangeness of the interaction didn't go unnoticed.

Oliver nods silently and follows her to the car. Once he's in the passenger seat, he glances out the window again for one last look at Finn. He's just going back inside, running a hand through his hair in that way Oliver knows he does when he's upset.

It's surreal, all of it. Three weeks ago, they were kissing against a bookshelf. Now, they can't even look at each other.

Oliver can still read Finn like a book, but he knows the contents are no longer meant for him. He wonders how long it'll be until he forgets the language they shared altogether. He wonders if that'll hurt less, or even more.

The food is cold by the time they make it home. Oliver doesn't think he could've stomached it either way.

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you know i had to do it to 'em

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! angst is still my favourite thing to write, in case you couldn't tell <3

the next chapter will be the last one-- it's set in the future and gives a little glimpse into our boys' life at uni! until then x

(also, thank you guys so much for all the super sweet birthday wishes!! i had a grand ol' time 😋)