26. between blake and byron

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

That afternoon, Oliver materializes in arguably the worst section of the library—which, of course, is non-fiction. He spares its contents a derisive glance before he steps through the gaps between the shelves. A cursory glance around the library tells him that it's just how he prefers: almost completely deserted, and suitably gloomy thanks to the May shower pattering against the windows.

As expected, he finds Mrs. Thistlecloth behind the librarian's desk. She seems to have taken the liberty to adopt his Villain, I have done thy mother mug, which Oliver thinks is nice. If he'd had the chance to write a will, that would've been at the top of the list.

Before he can ponder what the other items would be, he's distracted by a flash of neon blue in the poetry corner. It's the same section where Finn invited him to that faithful Halloween party. The same section where Oliver realized with distant horror that he was falling.

He feels no different when he slips between the shelves this time to find Finn sitting on the floor next to the little step ladder, his legs stretched out in front of him. Only, there's no fear this time. He knows what it feels like to be in love with Finn O'Connell. You don't have to fear the fall when you already know that the landing doesn't hurt.

"Hey, you." Hands in the pockets of his coat, he tilts his head a little to meet Finn's eyes.

"Hey." Finn grins up at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. He pats the hardwood floor next to him. "Want to join me down here?"

"Don't mind if I do." Oliver slumps to the floor next to him. Leaning an elbow on his knee, he does a quick scan of Finn's face. "You look happy."

"I am." Finn's smile, if possible, grows even wider. "I told you about my mum's panic attack the other day, right? Well, afterward, I asked my therapist if she knew any others who were currently accepting patients. She gave me a list, and I left it on the kitchen table."

He shifts a little, too giddy to sit still. "Mum never said anything about it, so I figured she just threw it away. But today, she told me that she's doing it. She got a spot, and her first appointment is in two days."

For a second, all Oliver can do is blink. "Finn, that... that's amazing."

"I know! It's just a first meeting, obviously, but I really think it could work."

"I'm sure it will." Without thinking, Oliver reaches across the space between them and squeezes Finn's hand.

Looking down at their intertwined fingers, Finn says: "I genuinely didn't think this was possible. Ever since she told me, it feels like... I don't know, like spring. That fresh, open feeling you have on the first sunny day when everything feels possible. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah. It does." With Finn's foot pressing against his, Oliver knows exactly what he means. He's silent for a moment. Then, he quietly says: "I need to tell you something as well."

"What is it?"

"Well. Er." Oliver clears his throat. "Remember when I first came back and told you I was given another year?"

Tentatively, Finn nods.

"I... I kind of made it sound like that entire year was for me to help you."

Finn's expression turns panicked. "You're leaving?"

"No! No. I just wanted to explain." Oliver takes a deep breath, presses his palms flat against the floorboards. "During this year, I was supposed to help several people, not just you. It's actually a competition, of sorts. Whoever finishes the most cases gets to stay another year after this."

He can see the exact moment realization sets in for Finn. "Ollie," he whispers.

"I'm not saying this so you feel guilty," Oliver rushes to say. "The opposite, really. I'm not here because I have to be or because you're a charity case or whatever you're probably thinking. I'm telling you this so you know that I chose this." For some reason, he can't tear his gaze away from his boots. "I wanted you to know that."

Finn makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "God. You're such a—" He breaks off. "I can't believe you potentially gave away years of your afterlife just to be with me. Why on earth would you do that?"

"You know why," Oliver softly says.

Except, when he dares to look at Finn, he realizes Finn doesn't seem to know.

And that, of course, makes things difficult.

That means he has to say it.

Oliver remembers the first time he read Hamlet like it was yesterday. He was fourteen, huddled under blankets in a bedroom miles away from Blissby, SparkNotes pulled up on his phone. He remembers how he paused when he reached the letter that Hamlet writes to Ophelia; But that I love thee best, o most best, believe it.

His fingers hovered over the lines as he read them, again and again, eyes stuck on the superlative. But that I love thee best. He tucked the words away, carried them with him from one town to the next. Sometimes, he wondered what that had to feel like. To love someone best; to be someone's favourite.

Now, Oliver tries to pull together his own version of it. He looks around at the poets that surround them, the Blakes and the Lord Byrons. All of them managed to say it. Surely, he can say it as well.

"Ollie?" Finn asks.

"It's. Uhm." He gives a tiny shake of his head. "You know that feeling when you've been out in the cold in the winter and then you come back inside?"

The furrow between Finn's brows only deepens. He looks like he's about to lift a hand to Oliver's forehead to check his temperature. "I have experienced seasons, yeah."

"It's like you don't even know you were cold until you feel the warmth. And, like, when you hold your hands under hot water, it hurts at first because you're not used to that temperature?"

Oliver can tell that Finn is trying to follow, but his eyes look slightly glazed. He scratches his neck. "What?"

Oliver scrubs a hand over his face. He wishes he could've written this down beforehand. He prefers his confessions when they're part of a soliloquy; pre-rehearsed soul-baring walked a sure-footed iambic parameter. Not rambling uselessly about winter and pins-and-needles.

"I wanted to spend as much time with you as possible," he says, holding Finn's gaze like that'll help him telepathically communicate his feelings, "because I have a hundred jokes that only you will understand. Because I miss you even when I'm next to you. And because... because you feel like coming home."

Silence.

Finn stares at him with an expression similar to the one he wore when he read Hamlet on the bus in sixth form: that same quiet confusion as he puzzles through the words and tries to arrange them into something that makes sense. Finally, they seem to give up their meaning to him.

His eyes widen. "Ollie. Are you trying to tell me you like me?"

"For fuck's sake, Finn." Oliver doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I like Sisters of Mercy. I like Maltesers. I like hate-watching films and painting my nails and making playlists no one else understands. I don't like you."

"Oh," Finn says. And then: "Oh." From one second to the next, his cheeks turn rosy, matching the crimson Oliver is sure he's glowing. "I love you too."

Oliver almost laughs. Of course. Of course, this boy, who carries birds behind the sidelines and buys pastries for his mum and always, always wishes the cashier a nice day, says the words like they're nothing.

No. Not like they're nothing.

Like they're easy.

It gives Oliver the courage he needs to test them out himself. "I love you," he whispers. His face is suddenly so close to Finn's, it's almost impossible for his lips not to brush his jaw. "I love you. I love you."

Finn laughs the way he always does when he's flustered, a small exhale that sounds completely involuntary. His hands find Oliver's face and pull him in for a real kiss. It's clumsy at first, too tentative to be more than an awkward brushing of lips.

Then, something in Oliver snaps and he slides a hand into Finn's hair and kisses him like he's wanted to for over a year. Finn gasps softly into his mouth, still tasting like that specific brand of chewing gum he used to buy back then as well, and Oliver thinks this. This is what he couldn't explain. Kissing Finn O'Connell is coming in from the cold to find yourself thawing for the first time in ages; it's sliding a key back into its lock and finding the house behind it just like you left it.

It doesn't matter that they haven't done this in months. Just like you never quite forget the layout of the home you grew up in, Oliver easily finds his way around, the two of them falling back into each other with the ease of a sense memory replayed thousands of times.

"More than Sisters of Mercy, huh?" Finn says eventually, reddened lips curved into a breathless grin.

And Oliver admits: "More than anything, probably."

Finn's smile softens. With his hand still resting on the back of Oliver's neck, he pulls back to look Oliver in the eye. "How much longer do we have?"

"Six months."

Finn lets out a little breath. "Six months is not nothing."

"No," Oliver agrees.

"Maybe it's easier when you can prepare for it." Finn brushes a strand of hair behind Oliver's ear, infinitely gentle. "Count down the days."

"Maybe," Oliver echoes.

Finn gives a small nod, like that settles it. Then they're kissing again, until Oliver is dizzy and has to lean back against the step ladder for support. Chekhov's ladder. He grins, half-delirious as his hand tangles in Finn's hair. They're not kissing on the ladder, but it's close enough. And besides—this isn't a play, something to escape into when his life is showing cracks.

It's better than a play.

It's real.

For once, Oliver doesn't think about the future, doesn't dwell on the past. He doesn't think about being anywhere else at all.

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i told you there was fluff <3

i hope you enjoyed this chapter-- the next one will be very sweet as well!

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today's song is lover of mine by 5sos