Chapter Text
After our dramatic love confession at the end of June, things with Oliver had been pretty uneventful through July and August. We carried on real-boyfriending pretty similar to how we fake-boyfriend-ed. We’d see each other a few times a week and text every day, and probably spend way too much time together on the weekends. I had stuff at his place now, and he had some stripey pajamas at mine. I tried my best not to panic when things got too sincere, and I had come to recognize his pushing-past-the-panic look when it was clear how well I knew him. Outside of our usual banter, the biggest argument we got into was probably during my birthday in July when, during my friend’s soiled-again-by-James Royce-Royce’s surprise party, he got me a gift even though I’d asked him not to.
It was, of course, small but stupidly thoughtful and made me think about the fact that I’d have to get him something come his birthday in January… January… fuck, I had to put it in my phone so I didn’t forget.
So… it was nice? It was going really well? I was trying to get used to it all, and trying very hard not to worry about when the other shoe was going to drop.
I was clinging to him one early September morning and he was trying to get me off of him so he could get out of bed.
“If you keep this up I won’t have time to go for a run,” Oliver explained.
I glanced at the clock, still clinging. “Oliver it's 5 in the morning. You're not due in court til 9.”
“Well I'm going for a long run.”
I whined, feigning offense. “I'm glad a long run sounds better than a long cuddle with me.”
He sighed. “You know it doesn't. But my body doesn't maintain itself. And I'd rather like to keep you around.”
I let go abruptly, suddenly more awake than I'd like to be at 5am. “Oliver… you know I don't just like you for your body. I mean I love your body. I mean, I'd love your body no matter what. I mean-” why was this so difficult? “I'd love you, no matter what you looked like.”
Oliver gave me a soft smile. I had a feeling he was hiding something underneath it. “I know. I was only joking. I just wanted you to let go.”
“O-okay.” I sat there uselessly and he got up. I pretended to go back to sleep as he put on his exercise clothes, kissed my forehead, and headed out the door.
Something about that morning felt very, very off.
I was at my work station at CRAPP when I received a call from Alex.
“Hello old fellow,” Alex chirped, “there's a woman on the line for you. Name of… you know, I didn't catch her first name but I believe the last name was Blackwood?”
“Oliver's a man, Alex.” I rolled my eyes. “And you've met him. Put him through.”
“Peculiar. I'm almost certain it was a woman on the phone.” A pause. “Anyway. Could you remind me how to put her, I mean, him through. ”
I chuckled and I did, wondering but not quite worrying about why Oliver would call me on my work phone.
“Luc.” A somewhat familiar, clearly concerned, and distinctly middle-class female voice said over the phone.
I sat up. “Y-yes. Who's this?”
“It's Mariam. Oliver's mother.”
“Um… okay. What's happened? Where's Oliver?”
She huffed. “Trust me, you're the last person I wanted to call but… but… Oliver’s in the hospital and I'm at a charity conference in Paris. I'm afraid I won't make it for several hours.”
My mouth was dry. My heart was beating. My brain was thinking of the worst. “Is he… was he… what's happened?”
“He fainted in court.”
“Thank God,” I breathed, relieved he hadn't been hit by a car or something.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry, I just thought it'd be worse. That's terrible. I'll head there straight away. Which hospital?”
She told me, and I left work.
Fuck.
The tube couldn't move fast enough, but I knew it'd be quicker than trying my luck with a cab during busy downtown London traffic. My leg bounced and I tried not to think about whether or not Oliver had fallen far, whether or not he'd been hurt, whether or not he was awake yet. I tried even harder not to think about all the reasons this could have happened, whether or not he was pushing himself too hard, whether or not he was eating enough.
Suddenly my brain was piecing things together that I'd never fully noticed before. Like, he seemed to be wearing his belt tighter lately and his excitingly clingy t-shirts weren't quite as clingy. He didn’t have any cake at my birthday. He'd stopped sharing my dessert with me at restaurants. Come to think of it, we hadn't been to a restaurant in a month.
Just get there. I took deep breaths. Just get there.
Getting to him was kind of a blur. I think they almost didn't let me see him on account of me not being family, and I think they took pity on me when they saw how much that fucked me up. That, or Oliver had conveniently woken up within minutes of me getting there and told them to let me back.
We were outside the door when the nurse said to me, “He's hit his head pretty badly and has quite the headache, so please,” she squinted, “no shouting.”
Was I shouting? I must have previously been shouting. But I didn't care. And I didn't care that she was cross with me. I swallowed and nodded and she let me in.
“Lucien…” Oliver looked so relieved to see me from his hospital bed.
I almost ran and threw my arms around him, but I thought that might shake up his headache situation. So I did this sort of… run, then stop, then briskly walk over thing before taking his hand into mine. “Oliver…” I pulled him into a gentle hug. “I'm so glad you're alright.”
He let me hold him for a moment, raising a tentative hand to my arm. “Sorry to worry you.” He said finally.
“You didn't. I mean, of course you did but-” God I was bad at this. “I… I'm here.”
The nurse got me a chair and I sat with him, holding his hand. I hoped I was doing a good job of that, but my palms were sweaty and I was definitely… fidgety. I didn't say much since I knew he had a headache, and he didn't say much… probably because he'd apparently hit his head pretty badly. Though from what I could tell there was no bleeding.
Finally, his brow furrowed. “How… how are you here? How did you know? You're not an emergency contact of mine.”
My brow furrowed as well. “Um… your mum called me?”
This clearly surprised us both. But we were clearly too distracted to comment.
We sat for a bit longer.
“Oliver… do they have any idea why this happened?”
He shrugged. “They're doing tests. They took some blood. But…” he massaged his temples. “I'm fairly certain it's nothing. I forgot my bircher at home this morning and didn't have time to eat after my run. If anything I'm just… quite embarrassed.”
I did some mental maths, which was fairly difficult considering, well, maths, and considering well, Oliver in the hospital. “So… you went for a 2 hour run and didn't eat anything all day? It was past 1 when your mum called.”
He sighed. “I said I was embarrassed Lucien. Please don't make it worse.” Shit. I was fucking this up. “And I didn't skip breakfast on purpose. I ran out of time.”
I did some more mental maths and felt my lips turn into a thin line, suddenly no longer caring about whether or not I was fucking this up. “And lunch?”
“Forgot to pack it. And they hadn't anything healthy that I could get to on time. The salad bar I usually go to had too long a line.”
“So you thought it healthier to not eat?”
“Please don't shout,” glared the nurse.
I looked to her, and then Oliver, who was helplessly massaging his forehead.
“Sorry, I… sorry.”
Hours later because, well, hospitals, the doctor arrived. He announced that Oliver was right about part of the issue being not eating all day and explained that his blood sugar was low, but that his other test, which I didn't quite understand, didn't indicate that this was a consistent issue. “Just make sure to eat a hefty meal after taking exercise,” said the doctor. He then asked, “Any chance you're vegan?”
Oliver took too long to answer, so I offered, “he's vegetarian.”
“Makes sense. Your iron’s low. Keep that up and you'll become anemic.”
I stared. “Sorry, are you saying he needs to eat meat?”
The doctor shrugged. “That's one option. The other is supplements.”
“I already take supplements.” Oliver finally added, his eyes closed.
“Then I suggest you eat meat. Red meat. And nurse your concussion for two weeks.”
And with that, he left.
And after we got our much more helpful discharge paperwork, so did we.
After failing to hail a taxi an embarrassing number of times, I shuffled Oliver into an Uber and he said nothing about their business practices. We had just gotten to his house and I had just gotten Oliver carefully up the stairs, into a pair of pajamas, and in bed when his mum rang his phone.
“Yes mum?” He answered, and she wailed. Making a helpless face, Oliver handed the phone to me. “Tell her I'm asleep. Please.”
I would have protested if he hadn't looked so pathetic. “Hi Mariam.”
“I just arrived in London. Have you left the hospital?”
“Yes, we've left the hospital. I got Oliver home.”
“Well is he alright?” She said, exasperated.
“Yes, Oliver’s okay. He's asleep.”
“But I just spoke with him.”
“Um… that wasn't him. It was… me?”
“I think I know my son's voice, and I assume you wouldn't call me mum.”
I slowly left the room and hovered in the corridor.
“Look, he's asleep now. And he's got an awful headache. Maybe you can come ‘round and see him tomorrow?”
“Are you trying to tell me whether or not I can see my son? I'll be at his in a half hour. After which, you can leave.”
I drew in a shaky, angry breath. “Look, if you want to come I can't stop you. But I'm not leaving so you can pick him apart and make him feel like this is all his fault!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lucien, please don't shout.” Oliver moaned from the bedroom.
I lowered my voice. “You're important to Oliver. But so am I. And he's rather important to me. So I'm not leaving.”
With a huff, she hung up.
I walked back into the bedroom and found Oliver crying. Before I could even think about it, I hurried over to join him on the bed, but then I wasn't quite sure what to do when I got there. Patting his arm didn't seem to be quite enough here, so I… sort of… pulled him into me and cradled him.
“I'm so sorry Lucien,” he sobbed.
I cradled him in my arms. “Don't be sorry. It's okay. I got you.” I found myself saying.
Somehow, in that moment, it became so much easier to just hold him, be there for him, care for him.
By the time his mum arrived, he really was asleep. And thankfully she was tactful enough not to wake him up. Which left me to… entertain her?
I was making us tea as she sat in Oliver's tiny kitchen, looking quite out of place and unsure what to do with herself.
“You…” she finally said, “seem to know your way around.”
“Yeah, I stay over quite a bit,” I said without thinking and then face palmed. “I mean, I didn't mean, not to imply that, you know, that we, you know, I just meant-”
She stared at me and I held my breath.
“Yeah, I got nothing.” I let out finally.
I politely joined her at the table and she politely sipped her tea, occasionally granting me an assessing glance, which was honestly a pretty generous reaction to me basically saying, ‘yeah, I do your son. Like, all the time.’
“So… how did you and Oliver meet?” She finally decided to ask me.
“Mutual friend,” I said, not feeling particularly chatty.
“That's… surprising.” She stated.
I shrugged. “Not really. She's a disaster like me. Probably Oliver's most disastrous friend and my most sane friend.”
She gave me a look that implied that she didn't quite know how to take that. Which was fair. I wasn't exactly selling myself.
“And…” she tried again, “You work for… C-R-A-P-P?”
I tried very hard and did not laugh at her spelling it out. “I do. How… how did you find that by the way?”
She shrugged. “You said you worked for a beetle charity. There's only one beetle charity in London.”
I snorted, “or rather, the world.”
She squinted. “Why… why do you work for a beetle charity?”
I shrugged. “They need preserving?”
“And that justifies not using your MBA?”
Shit. She knew things. She'd probably done her research.
“Okay,” I sighed, “let's get this over with. What have you read about me?”
She adjusted, clearly uncomfortable. “Well, I know about your parents, for one.”
“Yes. They're rock legends. And?”
“And about your reputation.”
“Yup. It's shit.”
“And given your reputation I rather hope you're careful with my son considering you,” she did air quotes, “‘stay over quite a bit.’”
She was beet red. I was dying inside.
My hands flailed for a moment before I said, “Look… look… not that it's any of your business, but we are careful.”
She looked away, clearly embarrassed.
“And I haven't got HIV.”
She fixed me with a glare. “There's more than just that going around.”
“I haven't got a fucking STD!” I told her, and then we were interrupted by the footsteps of a very tired, and very disheveled Oliver, approaching the kitchen and rubbing his head.
“Lucien…” he grumbled, “please stop shouting at my mother about STDs.”
I opened my mouth to explain the context but… okay, fair.
“Oliver!” She jumped up to go to him and to my surprise and unreasonable amount of delight, he held out a firm hand in front of him and she stopped, clearly shocked, in her tracks.
“Please mother…” he groaned, “you stop shouting too.”
I think that broke her. She looked around, appalled for a moment, before realizing she didn't have anyone to be appalled with. There was no David to say ‘stop upsetting your mother' and no uncle Jim to poke fun at Oliver who was clearly having a very tough time, and no Christopher to swoop in and be the golden child. It was just her, a disgruntled Oliver, and the boyfriend that she'd convinced herself was a walking STD crammed into a tiny kitchen, and she had no idea what to do about that.
“Darling?” Oliver looked past her, looked at me softly. My heart fluttered. This was new. Pet names were new. “Could you make me some tea and bring it to the sofa?”
And he left the kitchen.
I heard them from the living room as I made the tea. I was taking calming, soothing breaths.
“You need to take better care of yourself,” his mother was saying.
“I know mum. I'm very sorry to have worried you.”
“And to let this impact your work!”
“I know mum. But it's fine. I rarely have a sick day.”
“And now you're to take two weeks?”
He sighed. “I may be able to go in sooner.”
Like hell he will , I thought.
“Just take better care of yourself. It's very hard for a mother to see her son not take care of himself. You wouldn't understand.”
“I know mum. I know.”
“You'll never understand.”
“I know mum.”
This was fucking torture. But if I told her to go fuck herself again I'd probably exacerbate Oliver’s headache.
I arrived with the tea and sat on the other side of Oliver, wrapping a protective arm around him. She glared at me. He brought his fingers to touch my hand and squeezed gently.
“Thank you for your concern, mum. I think I've got it from here.”
“But who will take care of you while you're home this week?”
“Um, I will.” I said.
She squinted, “haven't you got work?”
“I'll take time off.”
“Well that seems rather irresponsible. I'm staying for a few days.”
“That won't be necessary,” I tried.
There was a pause. And then Oliver turned to me. “Lucien. Please go book my mother a hotel. 4 stars or above. Close to here. My wallet is in my briefcase.”
She looked at me smugly. I tried to hide my contempt as I got up to go. Oliver caught my hand. “If you try to pay for it yourself I'll be very angry.”
Well, that just made me feel fucking pathetic. I tried very pointedly not to stomp away but may have failed at that.
“He’s got a nasty temper,” I heard Mariam say.
I didn't quite hear Oliver's response, and I wondered if I would have wanted to.
Mariam left for her hotel. I ordered Oliver and I a late dinner, and since I wasn't ready to broach the fact that it was now literally doctors orders for him to compromise his values, I ordered him a salad that had vegetables that the internet told me had iron in it. I ordered myself a salad too so I could… I don't know. Suffer with him? Not eat a burger in front of him?
Anyway, I was poking at my salad because salad. Oliver was poking at his because… everything.
“The food okay?” I asked him finally.
“Thank you for ordering it Lucien. I'm finding I'm not hungry.”
“Oliver…”
“I'll eat it. I promise. I just feel…”
He didn't finish that sentence. I didn't make him. I rubbed a hand on his back. I was getting better at that, I think.
“Foolish.” He said finally.
“I mean…” I tried, “It… it was a mistake. You forgot to eat. It happens.” Maybe if I said it enough times I could convince myself of it.
He gave me a sullen look. I tried to give him a reassuring look back.
Eventually he took my hand in both of his and gave it a kiss. “Thank you for today. I don't know what I would have done without you.”
I shrugged. “Probably not had to say, ‘stop shouting at my mother about STDs,’ but. Happy to help.”
He let out a breathy laugh. “Don't diminish it Lucien. I'd love it if you stopped swearing at my parents, but I assume she's the one that brought it up. And I… I can't even tell you how relieved I was to see you in the hospital.”
Shit. He really felt like he could count on me. Shit. I really didn't want to let him down. And… shit? I guess in this instance, I really hadn't.
I kissed his forehead. “Let's go to bed, darling.”
Having his mum around for the next few days was its own version of hell. Oliver kind of took her side and insisted I go to work during the day, so I mostly had to deal with her in the evening in which she’d mostly ignore me. When I’d arrive Oliver would either be sitting on the sofa with her looking empty inside, sleeping, or pretending to be asleep. That's what he was doing on Friday anyway. He'd texted me.
Mum thinks I'm asleep, please come upstairs when you get here.
“Don't bother him, he's asleep,” Mariam had said to me.
“Got it. I just… need something from upstairs.
She huffed.
I snuck into his room and crawled to him on the bed.
“Hi baby,” I said, still trying out the whole pet name thing.
He pulled me into his arms and nuzzled into me. “Hi darling. I missed you,” he murmured.
I was still getting used to the whole Oliver counting on me thing. Or, anyone counting on me for that matter. And the whole, I don't know, not fucking it up?
I nuzzled back and wrapped my arms around him. “I'm here now. Do you think your mum will leave this weekend?”
He groaned. “Hope so. And don't tell anyone I said that.”
I tried to hide my smile. “Who would I tell?”
“You never know with you.”
Don't be offended, he has a concussion, I told myself.
“I think I'll go back to work on Monday,” he said.
“Like hell you will!”
“Lucien…” he groaned, massaging his head, which was now just code for stop shouting.
“Sorry, I'm… really bad at this, aren't I?”
He frowned. “At what?”
“At… taking care of you.”
“You're not. But my head’s spinning too much for me to reassure you right now.”
Fuck, why did I need so much reassurance?
“And you're not burdening me by needing reassurance. I'm just tired.”
Fuck, why did I need reassurance for needing reassurance?
“Lucien, stop making that face. You're great. You're a great boyfriend.”
“I-I…” if I said sorry he'd probably try to reassure me again. “Thanks. I'm… trying.”
“Whether I go to work on Monday or not, I think it's wise to convince my mum that I will be so that she leaves.”
“You sneaky boy, you.”
“Please Lucien. I already feel guilty.”
“Sorry.”
So, that's what we told her. And with me being able to stay with him all weekend, she really had no other reason to stick around. I was pretending to wash up in the kitchen so I wouldn't have to be a part of their goodbyes.
“Thanks for staying mum.” Oliver was saying.
There was a pause, and then she muttered something.
“You're right. He does. On both accounts.” I heard Oliver say.
And then she left.
“He does what?” I asked.
“Hmm?”
“Um, who? Who's he? And what does he do?”
“Were you eavesdropping?”
“Of course I was. Was that about me?”
He smiled. “Yes. She was talking about you. She said… ‘he swears a lot but he clearly cares about you.’”
I felt my jaw drop. “Oh my God does she not hate me anymore?”
“Lucien…” he rubbed his forehead.
“Sorry.” I whispered, “does she not hate me anymore?”
“I doubt she ever hated you. But she probably disapproved of you. And I'd say you're on the path to approval now.”
“I want you to know that I'm very purposely not shouting in celebration,” I murmured softly, walking over to him. I wrapped my arms around him. “And I'm so glad it's just you and me now.”
He took a little longer than I'd have expected to hug me back. I guessed maybe it was due to the concussion?
Anyway, I killed the shit out of taking care of Oliver all weekend. I made him iron rich vegetarian recipes I found online, which I only burned once and got take-out instead. I gave him cuddles and drew him baths and read books to him since it hurt his head to look too closely at the page. I even gave him a fucking massage and he melted into my touch like an adorable puddle. I made sure he drank water and ate and took his pain meds for his headache and everything.
Oliver was pretty quiet, but I assumed it was because of the concussion. I was hesitantly feeling like a pretty successful boyfriend. Which is why I was shocked Sunday night when I walked into the bedroom where Oliver had been supposed to be napping to find him setting out work clothes.
“Um… what are you doing?” I asked him.
“Figured it'd be one less thing to worry about tomorrow morning,” he said rather monotone, not looking at me.
“Um… what do you mean?”
He looked at me blankly. “Court. I'm due Tuesday. I need to go in and prepare tomorrow.” He walked past me to the bathroom, still not maintaining any eye contact.
I followed him, kind of dumbfounded.
“Can the court not read a discharge summary? You're meant to stay home for another week.”
He went into the bathroom and closed the door, not responding. I sort of sunk and waited outside like a lost dog. I heard running water.
Okay, I was starting to feel extra guilty about dumping him through a door. Waiting for him was torture.
He came out clean shaven and walked straight past me again and into the bedroom.
“Um… hello? What the fuck?” I said probably a little too loud considering Oliver was rubbing his head again.
“Speaking of one less thing to worry about tomorrow morning,” Oliver said, keeping up his cool tone, “I think it's rather time you went home.”
I didn't really respond to that. I didn't really know how to respond to… to any of this. I think I just kind of… stared for quite a while. Oliver stared back for a moment before his gaze went empty and seemed to be fixed right through me. Then, he brushed past me again and walked down stairs.
I stood there for a second, not quite processing, feeling on the edge of hurt and scared and devastated but not quite there yet. Then, I followed him.
When I arrived in the kitchen Oliver was shaking up mason jars with quite a mess of oats and almond milk and fruit around him.
“What are you doing now?” I asked him.
“Making bircher for the week.” He wouldn't look at me.
“Oliver…”
“I appreciate your help. And your emotional support. I'll take it from here, Lucien.”
Something about the words “emotional support” spoken in the coldest tone after I'd spent the week worried sick about him, cooking for him, tending to him, and dealing with Mariam fucking Blackwood stung in a way I didn't know Oliver was capable of stinging me. I mean of course I was painfully aware that anyone you loved that deeply could hurt you just as deep but… I was really starting to think that Oliver wouldn't. That he himself wasn't capable of hurting me in this way. That it wasn't in his programming. I swallowed a lump in my throat and walked over to him slowly, not touching him but close enough to if I wanted.
“Oliver… please don't do this.”
“What, my job?”
“No… I mean, yes, but.” I drew in a shaky breath, “Please don't pull away from me again.”
To be honest it had come out a lot softer, a lot more vulnerable than I had intended. The sentence hung in the air for a bit. Oliver stopped shaking his jar and leaned against the counter. I stood there, rather helplessly, waiting for him to look at me at least.
“I'm not.” He finally sighed. “I'm not pulling away like last time. I'm not breaking up with you. I think I just… need some space.”
I felt my mouth quiver. “Some space so you can stop taking care of yourself? Run yourself into the ground?”
“Lucien please, I've got quite enough on my mind without your theatrics.”
Okay. It was definitely in his programming to hurt me.
“Oliver, please don't do this again.”
“This is nothing like before,” he said, continuing his cool, empty tone.
“Then why does it feel like it?”
“Because unsurprisingly, you're being dramatic.”
Forget hurt. It was apparently in Oliver's programming to break my heart all over again. But… I couldn't let him do this to himself. And I guess I was pretty angry.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” I raised my voice slightly.
“Are you? Seriously shouting at me when I've been asking you all week not to shout?”
“And why is that Oliver?” I said in a hushed but angry tone.
“Because I've got a headache.”
“A concussion,” I corrected him, “You've got a fucking concussion and you're seriously going into work?”
“You wouldn't understand, Lucien. My career is very important to me, a sentiment you clearly can't relate to.”
Okay, what the actual fuck. I stood there for a moment and wondered if I deserved that, wondered what the hell I could have done so wrong. A byproduct of my silence was that the sentence hung in the air for a bit. Oliver must have been sitting in what it felt like to say that to me. He didn't exactly seem proud of it but… he was fairly hard to read.
“Are you just being a tit so that I leave you to suffer alone?” I finally asked him.
“I’m not being anything. But if your inclination is to respect my wishes and leave I suggest you do so.”
I shook my head, feeling tears gather. “Nope. Sorry. I know you too well. My inclination is to stand here and let you say awful things to me until you realize you're being a stubborn prick and agree to stay home tomorrow.”
“I'm going to work tomorrow.”
“It's literally doctor’s orders, Oliver. You could damage your clever barrister brain, or fucking faint again.”
“I'm not going to faint again.”
“Um, you fucking might. Especially considering you and I both know this was bigger than just a one off mistake.”
“Lucien, you are not a medical professional and I haven't got an eating disorder.”
He walked past me again, but this time I caught his arm. He paused. I thought I saw him soften but I wasn't sure.
“Oliver please…” I heard myself saying in the same soft, vulnerable tone as earlier. “I love you. Please don't do this.”
I watched him take in a shaky breath, still not looking at me. “It brings me no pleasure to hurt you, Lucien. But if you insist on trying to change my decisions, I really do suggest you go home.”
He shuffled out of my touch and went back upstairs.
I stood for a while, unsure what to do with myself. He'd left all his bircher out and he didn't have the air of someone who was planning to come back down. The idea of him skipping breakfast tomorrow felt unbearable, so even though he'd spent the last 20 minutes making me feel like shit I took the time to put the jars in the fridge, definitely not crying while I did so.
I waited for a bit longer for him to maybe come down, not feeling quite generous enough to tidy up the splashes of almond milk and oats on the counter.
After lingering far too long, I finally left.
I didn't sleep well that night, and the next morning I had typed out and deleted several texts. My almost-texts ranged from, I don't agree with you going in, but I do hope you have a good day, to please eat something today, to, please don't pull away from me for good to fuck you for last night to you're a prick.
None of them felt right, especially not the ones saying fuck you or calling him a prick. I hated being a better person. I was such a fucking sap.
I settled with,
I'm angry with you, but I love you. If you need me please call.
I thought that was pretty damn mature of me.
I wasn't expecting a reply, but to my surprise I received:
Hurts to look at screen, apologies for short text. Love you too. Please don't worry.
I typed out, If it hurts to look at your screen why are you going into work?
My thumb hovered over send. But I deleted it.
I tried to get through work tasks and was doing a pretty shit job of it. Oliver's cold words, calling me theatrical, dramatic, and insulting my career rang through my head. These were all things I'd used to believe about myself. They were things he'd convinced me he didn’t believe about me. I know I had told him to call, but I honestly wasn't sure what I'd do if he did.
Well, it turns out what I'd do is stare at my phone, paralyzed with confusion. My screen lit up with his contact and a photo of us that I'd set as the picture.
I almost didn't want to answer, but I did tell him to call. And… what if he was hurt again?
Anyway, by the time I had the courage to try to answer it had gone to voicemail. So I waited for a voicemail.
“Lucien…” said Oliver's tired voice. “I feel quite foolish. I'm sorry for yesterday. Please call when you can.” There was a pause, and then, “I need you.”
Fuck me.
I rang him.
“Lucien,” his voice came through.
“What is it?” I said rather coldly.
“You… you were right. I shouldn't have come in. I'm trying to read evidence and my head is spinning.”
I sighed. “Not surprising considering you needed me to read Evelyn Hugo.”
He paused. “I understand you were right. I behaved terribly and said some unkind things. You have every right to rub that in right now.” A longer pause. “...please come get me. I'm afraid I'm rather dizzy.”
I felt my lips purse and I tapped a finger on the phone. I thought about telling him to fuck off and try his luck and hailing an ethical cab but. Fuck. I loved him too much. “Give me the address.”
He did. I left work. Again.
And that's how I found myself walking through a courthouse, watching important people in 3 piece suits walk around doing their important jobs and feeling quite out of place. I entered a corridor that seemed to be where the barrister’s offices were. I was stopped by a professional looking man with dark hair.
“Can I help you?” He asked, looking a little perplexed to see me there in the skinny jeans and loose button up that passed at my office.
“Um, yes. I'm looking for Oliver Blackwood’s office?”
He gave me a quick once over. “Ah yes. You must be Lucien.” He offered a brief smile. “He's stubborn for coming in today. His office is two doors down to the right.”
“Great, thanks.” I headed that way.
“Tell him to go home!” he said over his shoulder as he continued to go be important somewhere.
I walked into his office, and it was the most Oliver office. Nicely decorated. Cozy. Ridiculously tidy apart from the pile of papers surrounding Oliver as he sat on the floor, rubbing his head. I noticed thinking that usually this would be a moment for me - that usually I'd be happy to discover something new about Oliver’s world. But I was distracted by hurt and rage and… a very helpless Oliver.
“Lucien?” He looked up at me.
“Oliver,” I joined him on the floor. He looked vaguely bewildered for a moment, and realizing I was probably sitting in a pile of confidential information I said, “I won't look at any of it. I promise. Do you need help packing up?”
He shook his head quickly. “I can handle that bit. Could you sit at the desk while I do that?” he looked at me, really looked at me for the first time since yesterday evening, his gray eyes full of remorse, appreciation, and trepidation. I gave him the best gentle smile I could muster before doing what he said.
I scanned the contents of Oliver's desk while he shuffled papers into boxes. It was such an Oliver desk. Not too showy, but not plain either. A tidy kept pen cup. A loose color theme. And to my surprise, a framed photo of us. I took it in my hands and looked it over. It was a selfie we had taken at the beetle drive.
I felt a warmth settle over me. I never thought Oliver to be the kind of person to keep a photo like that at his desk, let alone frame a photo that was clearly a selfie. I thought about him going to print it, buying the frame, setting it up and looking at it when he had a tough day. And with everything going on, it made me want to ball my eyes out.
Oliver was standing now and doing a pretty shit job of it. I went over to help him, taking his arm.
“Lucien, I…”
“We’ll talk later. Let's get you home.”
I think part of why I didn't want to talk was because I really wasn't sure what to say. I knew he'd probably apologize in the most sincere, Oliver way, but was I meant to say “no biggie?” Was I supposed to tell him it was fine that he threw years of insecurity in my face after I spent the week caring for him?
Ironically, if it wasn't for Oliver I would have just taken it. But Oliver had shown me I deserved better than how he had treated me yesterday.
Or maybe I didn't. Maybe I'd really fucked up and deserved that somehow. Maybe I was being… dramatic or theatrical. I mean, I knew I was no picnic, and there had been plenty of times I was mean to him as well. I'd dumped him through a door and told him to fuck off after he'd driven me the Lancaster and stood up to my arsehole father for me. But this felt… different.
Anyway, I wasn't about to leave him. He had stuck with me through all sorts of meltdowns. So I sat, mind spinning on his sofa while he slept upstairs.
I woke up to Oliver shaking me gently. I realized I had fallen asleep on the couch.
“Time is it?” I grumbled.
“10. I… wanted to see if you wanted the bed.”
I sort of stared ahead. I didn't look at him.
“Meaning, of course, that I'll trade you for the sofa.”
I sighed. “I'm not going to make you sleep on the sofa in your own house while you've got a concussion, Oliver.”
There was a tense silence. Oliver sat across from me on the sofa.
“Lucien,” Oliver finally began, “I’m afraid I owe you a larger apology than I have the capacity for at the moment. For now I'll say that I'm very sorry to have treated you so poorly. What I said was completely uncalled for, and wasn't true at all. I didn't believe it as I was saying it. I've been scared and defensive and foolish, and… you were right. I was taking that out on you so you'd leave, and so I wouldn't have to face the truth.”
I looked at him. He looked like a kicked puppy. I almost softened, but I stopped myself. “Which is?” I asked him.
This time he averted my gaze. “Which is… I eat too little at times. And I take up too much exercise.”
“Which adds up to what?” I asked expectantly.
His leg started bouncing and he looked at the ground. “I'll see someone and get diagnosed. But I'm fairly certain I have an eating disorder.”
Okay, the truth was out there now. He had said it. But now I had to deal with him being all sad puppy like, and it was actually breaking me.
“Look, it's okay Oliver-”
“It's not Lucien.” He put his hand in mine and met my eyes. “You didn't deserve for me to speak to you that way. And I'll never speak to you that way again. And in case I haven't already made it abundantly clear, you are not dramatic or theatrical at all. You were caring for me in a way that I didn't feel ready to be cared for, and it shows your immense capacity for love that you kept trying to care for me, and that you showed up for me today. And that comment I made about your career was just… cruel and I didn't mean it. You're remarkable, and I'm sorry I ever made you feel anything less than remarkable.”
I felt tears well up in my eyes before I felt my lips turn slightly up. “And this was the version of the apology you did have the capacity for?”
He laughed lightly. “I suppose if I felt better I'd be on your doorstep. But I was in enough of a state to need you to rescue me, so I suppose we could skip that step this time.”
“Ugh!” I let my head fall back, “Please don't say ‘this time.’ Please don't let there be a next time. I'm tired of one of us fucking up all the time.”
“I will say that the beginning of our relationship was rather… eventful,” he raised a hand to wipe my tears, “but we did go a few months without incident. And I'd like to think that the incidents we do have come from the fact that we care about each other so fiercely that it scares the shit out of both of us.”
I smiled and kissed him. He kissed me back gently.
“I get it Oliver.” I eventually said, “what you're experiencing… it's really scary. It's hard to admit. I obviously wish you hadn't taken that out on me, but I do get it. And I'm here to support you… or at least I'll try to be.”
About a month later, supporting him looked like getting him his first burger in 3 years. We were sitting on my couch, which I guess was now Oliver’s usual spot for compromising his values and eating meat. I wanted to give him a proper experience, so I got him a soda and chips to go with it. Anyway, I'd already eaten my whole meal, and Oliver had eaten most of his chips and drank the majority of his coke. He had slid off of my couch and onto my floor, sitting with his knees tucked up to his chest and his hands in his hair. He was staring down the bacon cheeseburger I got him like it was a duel in a western film.
I slid down onto the floor to join him. “You know,” I kissed his cheek, “I think you'll look really hot eating that burger.”
Oliver let out a breathy laugh. “I'm not sure that means much after you already said that about me eating chips. And sipping a coke.”
“In my defense, you did in fact look sexy doing both of those things.”
“Lucien.” He rolled his eyes, but he kept smiling.
“You can do this, baby.” I ended up saying to him. It was his therapy homework, after all. Previous therapy homeworks had included salmon, which I admittedly over cooked, and chicken, which I bought rotisserie style from Tesco in order to avoid any issue. A burger was a huge step.
“I know,” He said, “it just feels so… wrong.”
“In a health way or an environment way?”
“...both.”
“Capitalism isn't your fault Oliver. Eat the damn burger.”
He groaned and put his forehead in his hands. Okay, I needed to change tactics a bit.
“Look, if you eat that burger I know you'll look so sexy and I'll want to do you right here on the couch.”
“Lucien,” he laughed, “that's hardly helping.”
“What? I'm providing… positive reinforcement or whatever your therapist said.”
“I hardly think that's what Cindy meant.”
I pretended to think on this for a moment. “If you eat that burger I'll let you cuff me to something and have your way with me.”
He laughed again. “Can you think of a single reinforcer that isn't sex?”
I genuinely thought really really hard about that. “I'll let you read me a boring article. And I won't even say anything about it being boring.”
“You just said it would be boring now.”
“I'll give you an undisturbed reading-it-to-me experience and I'll even ask questions about it.”
“You're ridiculous.” He smiled at me.
I smiled back before providing him what I was pretty confident at this point was a reassuring rub on his shoulder. “You can do this, Oliver.”
He took a deep breath and let out a huge sigh. And then finally, he picked it up and took a bite.
I was right. He looked really fucking sexy eating that burger.
“That's… so good.” He said, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Not as good as watching you.” I teased.
He swallowed his first bite and then turned to kiss me, setting it down. His lips tasted like salt and beef, and I could get used to that.
“Thank you Lucien.” He said before kissing at my neck and rubbing my thigh with his thumb.
“Any time.” I smiled as he kissed my skin. “Now finish it before I withhold sex from you as a punishment.”
He laughed and went to take another bite.