19. date night

ELEVEN MONTHS AND ONE WEEK PRIOR TO THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

It was the 1st of December 2020 when Oliver came over to Finn's place for the first time. Finn remembers the date because of how long he'd been staring at it on the calendar on the kitchen wall beforehand, the sacred five words noted in the tiny rectangle in his mum's neat handwriting: Saoirse & Arthur Date Night.

With his mum barely leaving the house and Oliver's foster parents usually staying in because of Milo, it was almost impossible to find one evening where they had a house to themselves.

Now the day had finally arrived, and Finn was so excited he felt like he was going to puke. It was probably the long build-up that made it feel like such a big deal. When he met Oliver at the library that Friday, both of them were barely able to focus on their schoolwork, too busy exchanging giddy glances and watching the clock hands move at a snail's pace. At exactly seven p.m., Oliver snapped his book shut and stood, starting the painstaking process of locking up the library.

Meanwhile, Finn stuffed his things into his bag and all but raced outside, to where his bike was chained to a tree. Oliver had offered to give him a ride home on his motorcycle, but Finn had politely declined. He didn't even want to imagine the rumours that would stir up. People in this town loved to run their mouths.

Instead, he rode his bike home like his life depended on it. As he carried it into the staircase of his parents' flat, he tried to see his home the way Oliver would view it. It... wasn't much. His family lived in a small flat on High Street, right above a chippy. The dimly lit staircase reeked of grease and fish. Did it always smell this much?

God. Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he slumped down on the bottom step. In the narrow landing, his own breaths ricocheted.

Ricochet. He'd learned that word from Oliver. There was a mental list he had: Oliver Sallow's Encyclopaedia Of Big Words. They were the kind that no other seventeen-year-old would ever use in every-day conversation, but that slipped into Oliver's sentences without a second thought. Sometimes, when he felt on the brink of a panic attack, Finn went through them in his head.

Ricochet. Ubiquitous. Plethora. Maudlin. Idiosyncrasy.

He was on dichotomy when there came a buzzing at the door.

Finn shot to his feet quickly enough to feel a little dizzy. With one hand, he tousled his hair before thinking better of it and trying to smooth it back into place. A second buzz echoed from the walls. Gathering all his confidence, he reached out and slowly pulled open the door.

Even though he'd been prepared for it, there was still something startling about seeing Oliver Sallow on the sidewalk.

"Fancy seeing you here." Oliver smiled. It was a crime, that. Oliver was stingy with his smiles, which only made their effect that much more devastating. They transformed his entire face, his eyes crinkling at the corners, slightly crooked teeth flashing. When a beat passed and Finn still stood frozen in shock, Oliver nodded at the staircase behind him. "Gonna let me in?"

"Oh. Y-yeah, sorry." Finn quickly stepped aside.

Oliver's shoulder brushed against his as he entered, footsteps echoing around the stairwell. The door fell shut behind him, shutting out the noises of the street. It was a strangely intimate silence that settled, both of them eyeing the other in the half-light.

Finn reached for Oliver's hand. "Come on, then."

Oliver gamely let himself be tugged along. If he noticed the chippy smell, he didn't comment on it. Or on the cracks in the stone floor. Or the water damage on the ceiling. Instead, all he said was, "I parked Lucretia around the corner, just in case."

"Is she not jealous you're spending time with me?"

"Who says I told her about you?"

"Ha-ha."

They reached the first floor. Finn fumbled a little bit before he managed to fit the key in the lock, and then again when turning it. Finally, the door gave way with a soft click. He cleared his throat and awkwardly beckoned Oliver inside.

So far, they had mostly interacted on neutral ground. Afternoons in the library, hanging out in London, subtle waves in school hallways, even that afternoon getting ready for the Halloween party at Oliver's house, the door cracked to let in the sounds of his foster parents chattering away just down the hall... those had felt easy. Now, Finn watched Oliver struggle to take off his lace-up boots on his mum's flower-patterned Welcome doormat, and his heart pounded like it was trying to evacuate his chest.

As if reading his mind, Oliver suddenly looked up, blowing a strand of black hair out of his eyes. "This is weird."

"Oh, thank God, I thought it was just me." The words all ran together in one big sigh of relief. "I don't even know why this is a big deal. We hang out all the time."

"But never completely alone," Oliver pointed out.

"No," Finn agreed. With his socked foot, he pushed the door shut behind them.

He had to get on his tiptoes, just a little, to pull Oliver down to his level. And then, he was kissing Oliver Sallow, in the middle of the dark hallway of his parents' apartment, childhood photos of him watching from the walls. It was surreal enough to make him feel a little light-headed. Pulling back slightly, he asked, "Want to go to my room?"

Oliver nodded, but made no move to actually let go of him. A laugh muffled against his lips, Finn walked them backward, one hand stretched out behind him to stop him from running into anything. Somehow, he still managed to ram his elbow into a doorframe. It was an awkward little dance, but Oliver's hands on his back, fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, made it worth the bruise.

Blindly, Finn felt for the light switch behind him. It was only when the light on his desk spilled gold into his childhood bedroom that Oliver thought to detach.

Finn plopped down on his bed, watching sheepishly as Oliver made his rounds through the room. He took his time: studying the football trophies lined neatly on the shelf, the photos stuck to the walls—most of them with his teammates, some with his parents—, the handful of books on his bookshelf.

"A connoisseur of the classics, I see," he commented. In his hand, he held one of the Diary Of A Wimpy Kid books.

"You see correctly," Finn confirmed. In his head, he added connoisseur to his Big Words list.

Oliver moved on, tracing a finger along the spines of the atlases in the second row. Finn used the opportunity to study Oliver. Today, he was wearing high-waisted black pants that were cuffed at the ankles and a dark red blouse with ruffles at the sleeves. His hair was messily pinned back with his favourite clip—a claw clip, Finn had learned—and an entire jewellery store glittered on his hands.

Earlier that morning, Finn had heard one of the boys from his team make a joke about how Oliver looked even more like a vampire than usual today. Finn didn't think there was anything wrong with that. Oliver looked nice. He always looked nice. He...

He was coming towards him.

"Staring."

"'s only fair," Finn said, craning his head back to meet his eyes. "You were looking at my stuff."

Oliver hummed. Gesturing at the walls—a muted grey—he said, "I like your room."

Finn smiled. I like having you in it, he didn't say. He thought that was kind of obvious.

In the comfortable silence, Oliver bent down to bump his forehead against Finn's. It was a thing he often did instead of asking for a kiss—a bit like a stray cat coming to collect its daily dose of affection.

Chuckling, Finn tilted his head slightly so that their lips brushed. One hand, he wound around the back of Oliver's neck. The skin above his lacy collar was warm and smooth, his pulse fluttering under Finn's thumb. Not yet assaulted with hair dye, the fine wisps of hair were softer there than everywhere else. On an earlier occasion, Finn had discovered that they were a warm chestnut brown, same as Oliver's roots.

Somehow, Finn was sure that he was the only person who'd noticed. He cradled the knowledge close to his chest, his own private treasure. There was so much softness to Oliver Sallow if you just knew where to look for it.

By the time they separated, Finn's cheeks felt flushed. "Do you want to change into something more comfy?" he asked.

Oliver looked like he was about to argue that leather and lace were peak comfort, but then thought better of it. While he disappeared into the bathroom down the hall, Finn raced to the mirror on his wall. With his fingers, he tried to bring some sort of order into his tousled hair. It only worked a little bit. Then, he quickly changed into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie that didn't smell like locker room.

He was just slumping onto his bed again when Oliver reappeared. A good thing, that. He was pretty sure his legs would've given away beneath him if he'd been standing.

In London, he'd never caught a glimpse at Oliver after he'd been in the bathroom—the lights had always been off and Finn too tired from an entire day of running around the city to do more than star-fish on his bed while Oliver slipped into his own bunk. Now, he for the first time saw what he looked like without make-up.

Which was... still really pretty. Also, almost unbearably soft.

Without the stark eye-liner and bruise-coloured eyeshadow, Oliver looked startlingly like the seventeen-year-old he was. His features were delicate, all fine angles and rosy cheeks. His hair fell onto his shoulders, slightly wavy from its containment in his hair clip.

His glare, however, stayed the same. Dressed in black sweatpants and a worn t-shirt of a band Finn had never heard of, he said, "I know I look naked without make-up, you don't have to look so shocked."

"You look nice," Finn softly said.

Oliver blinked. "Well, you look like a shapeless blob." Before Finn could get offended, he gestured at his eyes. "I just took out my contacts."

Finn's face lit up at another of Oliver Sallow's real human flaws uncovered. "No way. Do you wear glasses at home?"

"Sometimes," Oliver grudgingly admitted. "They look stupid though. Mess up my entire aesthetic."

"Of course," said Finn, nodding solemnly.

Eyes narrowed—it was unclear whether he was trying to be intimidating or just squinting to bring Finn into focus—, Oliver came to a halt right in front of him. "Do not, under any circumstances, tell anyone about that."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Finn laughed. His eyes were fixed on the mole on Oliver's left cheek, usually covered in a thick layer of white make-up.

Oliver bent down. There it was again, the forehead bump. This time, Finn did nothing except bump his forehead back. Oliver frowned, his eyes fixed on Finn's mouth like he was trying to get him to kiss him through the sheer force of telepathy.

"Something wrong?" Finn asked.

Oliver drew a deep breath in through his nose. "You're insufferable, Finn O'Connell."

"Thank you."

There was an exasperated exhale; then, Oliver took his face in both hands and kissed him on the mouth, hard, like he was proving a point. Finn gladly let himself be shut up, his hands coming to rest on Oliver's waist, fingertips curled into the worn fabric of his shirt.

It only took the faintest of tugs to get Oliver to move. Finn hadn't thought much about the trajectory. He only understood the consequences of his actions when Oliver suddenly straddled his lap. He perched there, knees digging into the mattress on both sides of Finn, hands hovering above Finn's shoulders like he wasn't quite sure this was allowed.

"Is this okay?"

Momentarily breathless, Finn leaned back a little. His head was spinning. It was very hard to think with so much boy in his lap. How the hell had he ever thought he was straight?

"Finn?"

With a jolt, Finn remembered that Oliver had asked him a question. "Yup. Yeah. I mean... ten out of ten."

Oliver's lip curled like he wasn't entirely sure why he was deigning to do this with Finn, out of all people. In the next breath, he locked his hands behind Finn's neck and kissed him like he meant it. The weight of him—the warmth of his body, the reality of his chest rising and falling against Finn's—was a heady feeling.

The decision to slide a hand into his hair wasn't much of a decision at all—more an instinct, the easy answer to his need to have something to hold onto.

"For someone who keeps insulting my hair, you sure have a thing for it," Oliver remarked breathlessly.

Finn cracked his eyes open just enough to peer at his face. "I already said I liked your hair."

"You said that it's crunchy."

"So? The two aren't mutually exclusive," Finn argued.

"And they say romance is d—"

Oliver didn't get to finish his sentence. Like Finn, he immediately froze at the noise that sounded through the door, left unassumingly ajar: the clicking of a key in the lock, followed by two pairs of footsteps shuffling inside.

"I thought you said—"

"They weren't supposed to be here until one," Finn murmured.

"Sweetie, we're back!" his mum called. Finn wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Being called sweetie by his mother was literally the last thing he wanted when he had a whole boy in his lap.

"Okay!" he yelled back. To Oliver, he whispered, "I think you need to leave."

Oliver got up without another word, leaving Finn feeling suddenly cold.

His mother poked her head through the door not ten seconds later. "I'm sorry, I know we said—Oh." Her eyes widened when they fell on Oliver. "I didn't realize we had a guest."

"He was just about to leave," Finn said, rubbing at his neck. He hoped he didn't look as flushed as he felt. "We were working on a school project."

"On a Friday night? I didn't realize I had a model student living under my roof," she laughed. Finn didn't miss the way her voice wavered halfway through.

With a sinking feeling, he catalogued her state. She was wearing make-up and her favourite evening dress, and although neither was disturbed, there was something there. The tightness to her shoulders. The slight redness to her eyes. A thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, the skin beneath looking even pastier than it usually was.

Finn swallowed, hard. "Yeah, well. I'll just walk him downstairs."

"Good night, Mrs. O'Connell," Oliver said.

His mom barely spared him a glance. Her eyes were slightly glassy as she stepped aside to let them pass, too preoccupied with trying to hold together her smile to pay attention to much else.

Neither of them spoke as Oliver painstakingly pulled on his boots and shrugged on his coat. Finn handed him his helmet and his bag, and then they were on the staircase again, making their way downstairs.

Oliver only spoke when they were outside, a furrow between his brows as he rifled through his bag. "Sorry, I need to put my contacts back in before I..." He finally resurfaced with a small plastic container.

Finn watched as Oliver used his phone's front camera and the light of the streetlamp to re-insert his contacts.

Still blinking rapidly, Oliver asked, "Does that happen often?"

"What?"

"Your parents coming home early when they were supposed to go out."

Finn crossed his arms in front of his chest. "No." It wasn't technically a lie. The last time they'd been out had been half a year ago. They also hadn't made it past nine p.m. then, but that still didn't make it often. It was a twice-in-a-year-occurrence. Just a statistical blip.

Oliver didn't look convinced. "Is she in therapy?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"With the fact that she's agoraphobic?"

"Not diagnosed." Finn didn't know why the words came out so defensive. He'd told Oliver about this himself, hadn't he? It made sense for him to ask about it. Still, there was a part of him that felt like a feral animal, ready to bite and lash out as if he were the one being pushed into a corner.

"Right." Oliver's gaze slinked elsewhere. "Sorry. It's none of my business."

Finn said nothing.

Together, they walked until they reached Lucretia. "Well... see you Monday, then."

Finn swallowed. He hated the weird feeling in his stomach—that nauseating awareness of a confrontation. He wanted to get on his tiptoes, kiss Oliver until it went away, or until he at least knew that Finn wasn't angry at him, not really. He also didn't know who he was angry at though.

In the end, he just nodded. "Yeah."

By the time he made it back to the flat, his mum had settled into her usual spot on the couch, a cup of tea cradled between her hands. Finn's dad was standing in the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher they'd turned on before leaving.

Finn neared him slowly. "Everything okay?"

His father shrugged. In the light filtering in from the street—he hadn't bothered to turn on the ceiling light—his gaunt face looked insurmountably tired. "I suppose." He studied the mug in his hands, thumb rubbing over a fine crack in the porcelain. "I really tried, you know? I picked a restaurant we've been to a hundred times. She used to love it there. And then, halfway through appetizers, she just gets up and wants to go home."

Sighing, he set the mug down on the counter and glanced over his shoulder. Through the crack in the door, they could just barely catch a glimpse of Finn's mum in the other room. With the blanket around her shoulders, she looked so small. The sight made Finn's chest well up with that strange brand of protectiveness he only ever felt for her.

"It's like, no matter how much I try, it's not enough."

Finn looked at his father again. There. That was someone he was allowed to be mad at. "Not everything is about you," he snapped. "Maybe you'd notice what's actually wrong if you for once just paid attention."

With that, he stomped back to his room. Through the closed door seeped the sound of dishes clinking angrily in the kitchen and the faint chattering of a Bake Off re-run on the telly.

Everything as it always was, then.

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hello everyone!! and hello to all the new readers who have found their way here this week because of Emelradine 's reel! the reads on this book almost doubled this week and it made me so happy but also. a bit nervous! i hope you all are enjoying the story so far <3

we had a little bit of angst this chapter but mostly a lot of fluff! finn playing with oliver's hair is so personal to me, actually <3

that is all from me today-- have a wonderful weekend, my loves!