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heartbreakgrill · 3 days

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Delicate: Vessel (Sleep Token); Part 7; "Stay here, honey."

a/n: tehe hi friends! we havent spoken much so...the tortured poets department was literally written for daisy and oliver, that's all i gotta say. i listened to i can fix him (no really i can) and guilty as sin this entire writing sesh. i missed yall tho! i feel like i havent written in 5ever. anyways enjoy friends :)

“Jesus, just pick it up.”

Oliver squinted his tired eyes at his phone screen. His body was twisted around, his neck arching to try to read the contact name that was flashing across his screen. This was the fourth time they had tried calling him. I was snug against his side, occupying the rest of his strength. I went to move away a bit, just to allow him some room to answer the phone without being contorted like a pretzel.

He felt me tug back from his hold and immediately set the phone back onto his bedside table. The screen was faced up. It was probably just me, me and my stupid naivety- but I was touched that he set it that way. My stupid belief that I meant just as much to him as he did to me made it so. Trust, love. Two feelings I had when I was with him that were now more familiar than the anger and fear I used to be consumed by.

Oliver latched his other hand, now free, around my back. His fingers splayed out around my hip, nose nuzzling into the bare crevice of my neck. I sunk into his body, an anchor sinking into cold, salty sea water.

“Eh, fuck ‘em. They’re just taking time away from me and my flower.”

I snorted at the pet name, though I secretly (not so-secretly) loved. “You’re so cringey sometimes.”

“Cringey?” He reeled his chin back, glaring down at me with those icy hazel eyes. “Girl…”

“Girl!” My mouth widened as the word so easily fell through his lips. I fought against giggles that were winning. “Who are you? Where’s Oliver?”

His laughter was deep, steady, chest rocking beneath my head, “Shh, don’t tell anyone. I’m his twin brother, Isaac. Oliver is on a top secret mission. He said you’ll always be in his heart, but he must go, fulfill his duty as a spy.”

“What the fuck,” I stated, nuzzling my head in bare chest in hopes the escape his jokes. I let out a small sigh as I fed into his humor, “You don’t have to lie to me, Isaac. I know he’s off with his secret girlfriend. Just, if you can speak to him, let him know that I won’t cry over him. I won’t miss him. Besides, his twin brother’s kinda…hot.”

“Secret girlfriend? What are you even talking about?”

Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t trained to read body language. Maybe it would’ve gone over my head if I didn’t know him, the very shell of him, so well. I could have looked past it, could’ve turned it over in my head, blurred the lines, pretended like I didn’t know the way his eyes flickered, disruption taking over his hazel pupils, as he glanced, so minutely, to his cell phone.

And, maybe it was me. Maybe I was really that insecure. Maybe I was stupid. Maybe I’d never really learn to trust him, based on the entirety of our situation.

I think Oliver noticed the flicker that tilted at the corners of my lips because his face fell, just a bit. And he rushed to cover it up, “There is no secret girlfriend, darling. I promise you that.”

And he did what he was so subconsciously genius at- he manipulated the situation, moved on from it, by wrapping me up, pressing the tip of his nose to mine, and saying, “You are my one and only, Daisy. The only one I want. Need.”

I was stupid, like I always was, and kissed him.

We continued on that morning, laying around like we always did, in the early hours of the dawn, long before anyone would wake up. They had a show later, but Oliver didn’t care about getting rest. He wanted- needed, he claimed- to be with me. I guess his idea of resting involved fucking me and kissing me and feeding me with his ownership.

He always asked the strangest questions, always reminiscent of that first night on the roof. He asked like he was trying to memorize the nocks on my bones, prophesied my future in a romantically dramatic way. It was usually when we were laying around like this, silence comfortable in our breaths.

Today’s was formed as more of a statement, curious intonation, “Tell me more about your mom.”

It took me by surprise, like he almost always did. It forced me to slow my own thoughts for a moment, articulate my memories, and find delicate words. Mostly, I wondered, “Why do you wanna know that?’’

Oliver was forced to think now, but he didn’t have much of a response, “I don’t know. I was just…wondering, I guess. I mean, you’ve told me your dad’s an ass, but you had to have gotten your beauty somewhere.”

I knew he used that compliment in a much more meaningful way than the surface level allowed it to be understood. So, I blushed, tilted my head, “Well, I could talk for hours about her. Don’t want your ears to bleed.”

“Nonsense, my love. Your voice is music to my ears.”

I nuzzled my nose to his cheek. Then, I mustered up the courage to fight my sadness and began with, “She was…literally everything to me and Sam. She…dad left when I was 5. Sam, 12. Mom was, like…30? I think? So young. She opened up her own flower shop not long before he left. But, it wasn’t nearly enough money for us to live off of. So, we, like, moved into the tiny ass apartment that was above the shop. It smelled like Chinese food because of the restaurant. And, sometimes, that mixed with the flowers. And my allergies are terrible! And, not to mention, mom smoked. So…it was rough. Sam and I shared a room, so we were together more than we should have been. We were…we were so mean to mom. We, like…took out dad’s absence on her, the fact that we had to live in this shitty apartment. Meanwhile, she was just…this ball of light. She’d stay up till 3am, in the shop, blasting Taylor Swift, arranging flowers, writing this silly little poem book she hid beneath her mattress and thought I never found and read. She picked up shifts at the Chinese restaurant literally every day. She never took a day off, not even on holidays. God, she must have been fucking miserable. But…no matter what…she was, just, like…kind. I think…no, nevermind.”

I sniffled and cut my own words off, teary eyes shutting. I didn’t want to be all sappy and emotional in front of Oliver, especially not at this time of day. As I tried to steady my breathing, Oliver’s arms tightened around me.

“Hey,” he swept a hand to my cheek, drawing my eyes to his, “Daisy…keep going. Please.”

“I think Sam really misses her. He…he’d help her out, with chores, making dinner, getting the trash cleaned up when she’d be overwhelmed and forget about it all. And at the time he resented her. But, he was a teenager. He didn’t know any better. But he beats himself up over it. I just…wish he’d be kinder to himself.”

“And what about you?” Oliver whispered once I had let a pregnant pause of silence go.

I looked up at him, struck by the question, like always, “What…about me.” My eyes drifted as my mind wandered, “I…I’d sneak downstairs, far too often, watch her from the doorway while she danced, sang, drank cheap wine, tossed flower petals all around. She’d always catch me. I was a noisy kid. But, she’d never punish me. She’d grab my little hand, drag me into the room with her, play all our favorite Taylor songs.”

Oliver cracked a joke which burst a ray of sunshine through the sadness layering itself overtop the room, “God, now I feel terrible for making fun of you.”

I punched him in the stomach, closed fist splaying out into a gentle palm on his belly. “You should. She meant a lot to me and my mom. I…she’s why Sam got into music. She had this- this beautiful voice. She’d write songs, along with her poems, and record them on this tape player.”

“Where is it now? Back at your apartment?”

“No,” I shook my head, “at hers. We never really cleaned it out. Sam still pays the lease.”

“And the flower shop?”

“A stupid fucking smoothie bar. I was really hoping one of us would take it over, run it, keep her alive. But…it’s just not feasible. Too expensive.” I’d always felt guilty for that- not investing in mom’s memory. I felt like I’d buried her back in my hometown and sealed shut whatever conscious thoughts I had of her in her grave with her rotting body.

It was just too much. She gave us everything and the world failed her, killed her. Every ounce of light that had been in her eyes was completely spoiled by the time the cancer had taken over.

The thought made me shutter. Oliver noticed and brushed a soothing hand through my hairline. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

“No, no,” I tapped his stomach, “we should. I never really…never really mention her to anyone. This is nice.”

Oliver kissed my temple sweetly, “I agree. So, tell me about these late night dance parties you’d have.”

And, so, we spent the next few hours talking about my mom. Her smile, the inky flowers she had wrapped around her elbow, the way she’d let me stand on her toes while we waltzed across the shop.

We talked and talked. I cried and Oliver wiped my tears. He told me he’d give Taylor Swift another try.

And I found myself falling further.

Then, it was suddenly nearing 8am, when I knew for sure my brother’s alarm would be going off. So, we finished quickly with whatever we’d been doing. Then, Oliver helped me get dressed, which took much longer than it should’ve with two people pulling one person’s shirt over her head. It was because he stuck my head through, then dipped his head to my stomach, tracing my abdomen with wet kisses.

I giggled and shrunk away from the ticklish feeling. He laughed and chased me with his strong hands, encasing my hips with his splayed fingers. I tried pushing his touch away, writhing like a worm, but he was able to plant more kisses onto my skin.

Then his phone started ringing again.

Our movements paused. I slowly pulled the shirt the rest of the way down, meeting his eyes as my vision was cleared from that blockage. His hands moved, passively, to his sides. His body language, that distant, distracted look in my eyes burned.

“Oliver,” I accidentally whispered, then, “just answer it.”

He knew. He knew it was a challenge, a probe at the situation. He knew I was testing him. And, if he failed, if he refused to pick up the phone and answer the call, I’d run out.

I think that- losing me, watching me walk away- was just something he could not deal with right now. So, he made up some excuse while slinking over to the phone, “Probably just someone from the label. Or a stupid spam caller. No big deal.”

I was still facing away from him, still small, shrunken in on myself, when I said, to no one but the air, “Please.”

He didn’t hear me. “Hello?”

I turned around to face him, watching the muscles on his face carefully, paying attention to how he reacted to whoever was on the line. After a moment, he pressed the speaker button, and held the screen towards my vision.

“Spam,” Oliver scrunched his nose as he hung up.

Intuition, maybe jealousy, nibbled at my skin like some flesh-eating piranha. I gave one shake of my head, easily falling back into the casual, comfortable air that was routine between us. I smiled, a joke on my lips to push us past the awkwardness, “So, what kind of top secret mission is Oliver on? Drugs? Or…war?”

“Oh, all of the above!” He dramatically replied.

“Well, you tell Oliver that I need to be getting back to my own bed,” I tapped his chest, awaiting him to let his arms loose.

But, he squeezed tighter, even wrapping his occupied hand around me, “No! Please! Stay!”

“Won’t you ever get tired of me taking up space in your bed?” I giggled at his hair, tickling my neck.

He hummed a rejection, “Never. This is, like, our own secret sanctuary. Here, in this room, we can be whoever we want.”

I focused on his eyes, touching my nose to his. Then, he kissed me before mindlessly reaching behind himself to set his phone back up.

Face down.

I felt like throwing up.

The feeling was worse when I was alone, leaving his apartment like I had just signed an NDA. I tried my hardest not to overthink things, but considering our precarious relationship, this was a very difficult thing to do.

Somewhat luckily, Oliver had been normal the rest of our time together, easy-going, non-suspicious. That’s how someone who didn’t have a secret girlfriend should act. So, why couldn’t I be satisfied with that?

(Why did he place his phone face down? Why had the look in his eyes told me something different, something worse-?)

It would have made so much sense to find out that he did, in fact, have a girlfriend. After all, he’d been telling me all summer how unavailable he was. This would make so much more sense than the mindless, kind of shitty excuses he had for not being able to commit to me. Was it, then, my fault for getting involved with him? For fucking a taken man? Perhaps I’d pushed myself onto him, forcing the situation. No, no, it couldn’t have been. After all, he’d sought me out numerous times.

And, if this were the case, I was supposed to then end things? As soon as possible? Find her social media, send a fucking hey girly text message, throw myself off of a bridge in the process?

The way he kissed me when I left, the way he whispered, “I’ll miss you. You should come to the show tonight. My shining star. You’d make it all worth it. Until then, beautiful,” against my cheek, his eyelashes fluttering against my skin- there was no way I was the side piece. He was too invested in me.

Maybe she wasn’t real. Maybe he didn’t have a girlfriend. No, really- he just couldn’t have a girlfriend. It felt impossible. He was too…too caring, too gentle with me. He treated me so delicately it…just-

“Shit! Sorry!”

I had not been watching where I was going once I left Oliver’s room, which was extremely irresponsible of me. Anyone of our friends, my brother for Christ’s sake, could be walking these halls, on their way to visit the very person’s I’d just vacated. It was worse this week because Oliver’s room was on a different floor than everyone else’s. I had no way of excusing myself if I was caught up here. All I could do was be careful and hide when I heard someone familiar.

Yet, again- I was fucking stupid. I was careless. Mindless.

And I had run right into Adam.

“Daisy!” He looked up from his phone, still safe in his clutches because I’d only knocked into his left shoulder. “Shit, sorry. I’m a clutz.”

I forced out a chuckle, trying to seem chill, like I hadn’t just been having sex- 3 times- by his best friend, boss, lead singer of his band, my brother’s best friend.

“Oh, hey, Adam! No worries! I have plenty of bruises to prove I’m even more of a mess. What’re you up to?”

If I could gain control over the situation, be the one to ask the questions first, maybe then I could worm my way out of it without being exposed.

Then, a distant, deadly memory blared through my skull like a freight train. Last week, backstage. Adam, telling me where Oliver was, encouraging me to go to him. A knowing smile.

Fuck. This hole was deeper than I could ever crawl out of. Maybe he- maybe…maybe. Maybe he forgot-

“Daz…” he knew. He knew. Adam knew. He tilted his head, flicked his brows, gave a smile that suggested I just give up the facade already.

Before he could go on, I interrupted him, “Listen- just…please, just…no lectures, okay? I can handle myself. I know you guys all think Oliver’s this, like, bad person. But, he’s not. And, like- even if he is, I can handle it. I got it. I don’t need to be told what to do or warned or treated like a child. I- Oliver’s…it’s, just…you guys don’t know, okay? We have…I know it seems, like shitty, to you, probably. But…it’s really good. We have fun and, and we like each other…and that’s all that matters. Your opinions don't matter.”

As I went on, Adam’s face contorted into one of confusion, shock. Like he wasn’t computing the information I was messily throwing his way. “Daz, I…are you guys not just hooking up? I thought- I thought you were just fucking?” He let out a breathy chuckle, one of slight uncomfortability.

“It’s…yeah, like…I can see why you might think that, but…we have feelings for each other. And we’re not together or anything, but…we’re…we’re working on it.” For insisting that I didn’t want to be lectured like a child, I sure was speaking like one, shrinking in on myself, fiddling with my fingers all shy.

“So, please,” I held my hands up all defensive, like he’d lurch forward and attack me or something.

But, Adam simply sighed. He pocketed his phone, crossed his arms, eyeing me like some art exhibit. I didn’t know what he was going to say and, based on the silence he gave me, I didn’t really want to. He was calculating his response. He was probably going to fucking lecture me.

“Daisy, I…” aaand, here we go. It was me and Max in the elevator, all over again. It was Sasha, across from me at the breakfast table.

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do. That’s just not my place, no matter how much you mean to all of us, how much I think of you like, fuck, like a little sister. You are an adult. You can make your own decisions, dude.”

I breathed out the air I was holding. It was a relief, a sentiment I needed to hear. I didn’t care if I was being stupid- I just wished people would listen to me for once and let me do what I wanted.

“But.”

I shut my eyes, a bit tighter, longer than a blink took, in an attempt to ground the anger that was growing in my fingertips. “But, what?” My words were short, scornful.

“But,” Adam sighed again, “I just want you to be happy. I’ve watched you, all summer, try to prove yourself. To Sasha, to Max, to me. To your brother, especially. And, worst of all, Oliver.”

“It makes me so disappointed to see somebody like you have such little self worth. To see you dilute yourself for others. You are…so kind. So beautiful. So pointed and smart and sure of yourself. But, you hate it. You hate that you’re like that. You want to turn yourself into some version of you that just doesn’t fit. Some girl who’s edgy, some girl who’s laid back and doesn’t care what happens. That’s just not you, Daisy. You are intense. And that’s good! You’re passionate, you know what you want. You just…you need to believe you’re worth those wants. Stop doubting your abilities to make it happen. Stop doubting that you deserve it. Just grab it.”

I hadn’t expected to be so humbled. His words were…truer than any cheesy line any therapist had sold to me for $200. It knocked the wind out of me, forcing me to take a step back, literally. I guarded myself from the rush of the tornado, an arm wrapped over my stomach, one nervously rubbing my neck.

What the fuck was I supposed to say to that?

“I’m…sorry,” I whispered in response. It was all I could think to say.

“Don’t say sorry to me,” Adam touched my shoulder, “say it to yourself. You deserve the entire world. And I hope you accept that soon. This shit with Oliver will suck the life out of you.”

All I could think to do next was toss my arms around his shoulders, clutching him to my body like a warm blanket. He hugged me back, just as tight.

After only a few moments, we pulled apart. Neither of us said anything else. Adam simply touched my head, lovingly offering me this brotherly smile, before continuing his way down the hall.

I finally made my way to the elevator, one singular thought on my mind: my own self worth.

Adam had been so shockingly correct. I…

I knew it, too. I’d known it this whole time, only making myself and thought smaller in order to make room for Oliver. I couldn’t keep doing that. I needed to prioritize my own worth while loving him.

Loving him.

I needed to…

We couldn’t keep going like this.

I loved him.

And, from the way he held me, kissed me…the lyrical remedies he spoke to me…he loved me.

He loves me.

I’d confront him about this intuitive feeling.

Tonight.

–

“And this one I got when we were in Australia last year. I had this idea of getting ink everytime we hit a new city. But it got kind of expensive. Plus, we’re always so busy now that it’s, like, do I wanna eat or get a tattoo?”

“Get a tattoo, obviously,” Sam scoffed from the couch, a hint of tease within his tone. He scrolled mindlessly on his phone, barely a part of the conversation, just a nuisance, really.

Ronnie met my eyes and rolled her gaze, “Anyways-“

I giggled at the interaction before returning my line of sight to her arm. She pointed upon another piece of art inked onto her skin, diving into the backstory for that specific moment in time. Though it looked, to any passerby, that she was simply splattered with random images, doodles, animals, symbols- there was meaning to each and every piece on her body.

Tonight’s show had been postponed until tomorrow due to the monstrous thunderstorm that knocked out the power on that side of the city. With half the town closed down and plenty of free time now on our hands, Ronnie, Sam, and I found ourselves in our hotel room. We had been laying around for the majority of the afternoon, random topics on our minds.

I was killing time until I could chase Oliver down in his room, make my big stupid love confession.

Having admired Ronnie’s tattoos for a while, I was glad to finally have some extra time to ask her about all of them. It was always nice to get to talk to her, especially this in-depth, about most anything. She was intelligent and, frankly, hilarious.

She finished telling me the story about the horseshoe around her elbow. Then, before she continued down her left arm, she paused, another thought having intruded her concentration, “Daz.”

I tilted my head in recognition of my name, encouraging her to go on. She gave a little grin, like she had some sort of coy idea floating around in her head, “You don’t have any tattoos? Right?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. I definitely want some. Honestly, I get a little nervous,” I sheepishly admitted to what was holding me back.

Ronnie’s expression positively grew. I understood, based on the context clues and the way she peered over at me, what she was getting at now.

“Half the city is out of power,” I raised my brows at her. I wasn’t opposed to the idea- I, myself, even had a little smile itching at my lips. I was just…a little scared, to be honest. I hated needles, like any average person did. Plus, the idea of something so permanent on my skin terrified me. What would I even get?

“I know a guy. He’d come to us.”

“I don’t know what I’d get! I can’t do last minute things like this. I’ll regret it forever,” I giggled, though what I was saying was true.

Ronnie sat up, grasping my hands in hers. She clutched on, begging from her knees on the bed beside me, “That’s the best way to get a tattoo. Get something stupid, something you don’t even know if you like, so you can regret it and hate it until you finally decide to love it! Plus, what a memory we’ll make, Daz! We’ve barely gotten to do anything together this summer, yet you’ve become like a sister to me. We have to do it!”

Sam came out of the bathroom, face half-covered in shaving cream, razor dangling between his fingertips. He met my gaze as I turned my head towards him, a relaxed, pleased look on his brows. “Daz…”

“Sam..” I returned his tone, awaiting his criticism, his claims of me being too good-two-shoes to follow through.

His brows rose more, “Daz! Come on! You have to!”

“Sam, really? I thought you of all people would hate this idea! You really think I should do it?” I was shocked, to say the least. Where was his chidness? His disapproval? The daunting argument always between us?

Nowhere to be found. It was like character development, magically morphing itself before my eyes.

“You have to! You said yourself, this summer is supposed to be about letting go, having fun, being dumb. So far, I haven’t seen you let go and be dumb at all. So, you have to check those off your list! What better way to do that than by getting an impulsive tattoo?” He pointed.

If only he knew just how dumb I’d been this entire time.

I think he’d have killed me if he found out even just a shred of the truth.

He was right, anyway. What I thought was letting go, not caring- it wasn’t. And I knew that now. It was exactly what Adam had been telling me.

Oh, well. Sam would soon know the truth, once Oliver and I talked through the relationship. I’d deal with that hill after the mountain.

Everything between me and Oliver was out of my control- yet, I was clutching to the situation with white knuckles.

The idea of a tattoo was a distraction, a shred of proof, to myself, that I could control something. That I could genuinely let go of fate for a moment or two.

Besides, I’d always hear that tattoo therapy was the best kind of way to get through shit.

“Fuck it.”

So, there I sat, still in my pajamas, fuzzy socks on my feet, on the edge of my hotel bed, arm propped up on Ronnie’s friend Frank’s stand he’d brought with him.

I didn’t know what I was getting. Ronnie convinced me to let her pick something out, but I only let her do so if Sam had approved it first. The giddy expression on his face and the squeeze around my shoulders that he gave me signaled that it was a good pick.

My knee was bouncing. Anxiety that I more than expected filtered through my system like a poison. I steadied my breathing, focused on the fidget ring I wore on my left hand. Frank was setting everything up on this collapsible tablet he’d unpacked from this wagon he stepped into the room with. Ronnie and Sam talked his ear off, laughing over old memories they all shared. I didn’t even know my brother knew this guy, but I guess he had this entire life I didn’t know about in the first place.

I kept to myself, fit with the quiet introduction I offered and the stress that bled off of my skin in droplets of sweat.

more pre tattoo shit

“You love it?” Ronnie stood behind me in the mirror,

cutest poolside

“What the fuck!” Max bounded through the door. He had a Sleep Token bucket hat on his hair and I nearly snorted at how goofy it looked on his head.

But, any tease I wanted to prod him with was curbed as he brought his complaints further into the hotel room. He spotted me after looking over the rest of the habitants. His offended expression didn’t lessen, though, like I thought it would once he fell into his usual routine of laughter and flirts. Instead, when he approached me, towering over my lounged sprawl across my bed, he noticed the black ink pooling beneath the dermal-wrap on my forearm. His brows shot up underneath the rim of the bucket hat that I was beginning to grow just a little jealous of.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t gotten into the boys’ music ever since the show. But I’d never admit that to any of them. Especially not my brother, who would’ve acted like the snarkiest prick because of his incessant need to be right, even though he was usually quite wrong.

“No fucking way!” Max climbed onto the bed beside me, crawling across the messy sheets by his knees. He stopped beside me and grasped my wrist in his hands.

The pull gently lurched me forward, forcing me to sit up. I dropped my phone to the bed beside me as Max dipped his head low, examining my new tattoo. I giggled at his wonderment.

“You got a tattoo! Without me! What the fuck! Daz, I’m hurt!” Max pouted, meeting my eyes with the puppy dog expression sinking in his brown ones.

Adam, Cyrus, and Oliver had shuffled into the room. The former two latched onto the tattooist’s conversation with my brother and Ronnie. They started bouncing ideas off of him as quick as one could blink. I wondered where they thought they could fit more ink on their already crowded skin.

Meanwhile, Oliver wasn’t being shy with how obvious he was, peering towards Max and I like we were a museum attraction. But, I was probably the only one to notice how his gaze first latched onto Max’s fingers, gripping my arm. Then, he moved his attention to my tattoo, trying to make out its shape from the distant angle at which he stood.

I felt it now, more than ever, since I’d confirmed the feelings in my gut and let them rise to the surface. Just looking at him, I knew it…I loved him so fucking much.

Though Oliver had averted his expression, his point of view, I knew what that first glance had been. I knew that burn in his gaze, the sickening claim in his pupils. Jealousy. So sickly sweet and insecure.

Suddenly self aware, if only because of that strange understanding I had of him, I slipped my hand from Max’s. I pulled my knees in front of my chest which expanded the distance between us. Though the movement was light, Max noticed it like noticed his own breaths.

His words stuttered for a moment, fading away as the proof settled in the room, “How’d you deci- decide….on…” He filtered his look from my face then over his shoulder, at Oliver. I had peered at the latter for a moment too long, a gaze which was easily noticed by my friend.

“On it,” Max’s tone fell off. Oliver didn’t meet his eye, his gaze latched onto my tattoo still. What had been an observational moment for Oliver turned into an avoidance of Max’s confrontation.

I was seeing through the smog now, the rose colored glasses just a bit dimmer than they had been before. And Oliver looked…he looked ashamed. Ashamed that Max was finding out, or ashamed that he had been with me? I would soon find out.

Max glanced back at me. I followed the curves on the sheets with a distanced glaze behind my lids, barren all the same. Then, Max looked to his friend again.

He waited for someone to say something. But neither of us would wave a white flag, nor would we confess to the guilty sin. My plan had been to tell Oliver how I felt, then tell everyone if I needed to.

And I didn’t really want to. Especially not Max. I felt like I’d betrayed his trust.

Max sighed, sitting up a bit straighter. He dropped a gaped, “Oh,” before pulling himself off of the bed, becoming a part of everyone else’s momentum.

My body paused, Oliver and I tangled in the poison ivy on the cream colored wallpaper behind me. He didn’t look at me, he didn’t breath, he didn’t do anything. He just stood there, anxiety bleeding off his healed scars like me.

I hadn’t expected him to jump onto the bed, proclaim his love for me, and tell the judgemental town folk that they just didn’t understand Romeo and Juliet. But, something other than his quiet treason would have been everything to my jittery frame.

I would have appreciated it if he had, at least, told Max to forget about it. If he would have shoveled some excuse off the tip of his tongue, defended me, us, the stupid love affair we thought was getting us somewhere.

But he didn’t.

He just fucking stood there, like he always did.

It made the confidence Id just built up waver a bit.

I was too anxious to really do anything, either. I couldn’t find the nerve to stand on my own two feet, let alone pull Max aside and try to excuse our indiscretions. The room was suffocating as the stress further settled in.

Max knew. Max knew.

He knew.

The cat would tear itself out of the bag any day now if I couldn’t get it under control today.

It was only a matter of a ticking time bomb. When would the seconds run out? When would the explosion shatter my skull?

I thought about running out of the room, tossing myself off the balcony.

But before I could find the strength to get my footing on the carpet of the hotel room floor, someone was saying my name. Someone was dragging me into a conversation, turning the room’s energy onto me and Oliver’s sad, pathetic, bubble of shame, anxiety, and ruthless obsession.

I snapped out of my fragile little frame like the chill girl that I was and answered the question Sam had asked;

“Do you remember mom’s joke? About the flowers?”

I rubbed my dried lips together until they morphed easily into a sweet smile. The anxiety was pushed back down, like it always was, as I played my old, now forgotten role, “Which one? She had that book behind the counter. She harassed customers with it. Said she’d been a comedian in an alternate timeline, but I don’t think so.”

Sam rolled his eyes gleefully. The room shared a laugh at the thought of some eclectic woman, chasing customers out of her flower shop with a thrifted joke book before her eyes. I remember one time she tripped over a pot and nearly fell onto the concrete floor, already sprinkled with petals and cut-off flower stems. She caught herself, but fell to her knees with laughter. Sam rolled his eyes from behind the counter, where he’d been doing homework.

But, I could see myself, 10, braided plaits in my hair, scurrying over from my seat at the window. I abandoned my book, something I never did, to bask in my mom’s joyous laughter, something I missed more than air these days.

I wonder what Oliver thought of this story, now knowing what he knew. I wanted to look for him, for a smile. But I kept staring straight, at my brother.

“I know, but it was, like- it was the one about the photos and the camera. Something, like…” he racked his brain, concentration on his blond brows. “Helping..plants?”

“Helping the plant photosynthesize!” I straightened up as the punchline lurched from the depths of my memories.

Sam and I laughed, louder than the others possibly could, as we shared a sacred vision, as blurry as my eyes, as fleeting as the smell of our mom’s perfume. She loved that joke.

I could do with a little bit of her humor, now more than ever.

The things she’d say, if she could see me now…

Regardless, I think she’d have liked Oliver.

“Well, don’t bother telling the joke,” Ronnie snickered, patting Sam’s shoulder.

I noticed the intensity of his bone, from just the longer of her fingers on his clothed-skin. But he easily hid that before it became obvious. I recognized that flinch…But my brain was too busy to really memorize the interaction, let alone evaluate it.

“You spoiled it!” Ronnie drew another laugh from the crowd.

The joking continued, though the topic moved away from our mom. My thoughts lingered on her, as Adam moved to the tattoo station, the artist having found a spare spot on his shoulder to put some symbol I couldn’t make out.

My attention turned to my arm, to the burning ink settling its way into the layers of my derma. Two thin flowers, stems rooted in nothing but my pink skin, no soil in sight, just the garden of my body. The petals shaped out the delicate curve of the pair of daisies, my mom’s initials written out to the left of the small bouquet.

I looked up when I felt someone’s gaze on my face. It was Sam, watching me admiring my tattoo with this awestruck way that only a brother who loved his sister could appear.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt the urge to break the distance between us. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and held him tightly against me. He didn’t hesitate to embrace me, even tighter. When he pulled apart, he pressed a kiss to my hairline.

“I love you, Sam ham.”

He punched my shoulder.

I was so scared to tell him about Oliver, though I was now realizing it would have to happen eventually. Adam’s advice- unsolicited, sure- had given me so much clarity. I was running, so much, so far, on broken ankles. Running from the truth, from myself.

I couldn’t anymore.

I went to say something else, but a phone started ringing in the room somewhere. It wouldn’t have been too halting if, when I passively looked over my shoulder, it hadn’t been Oliver’s cell.

He tugged it from his pocket, curiously reading the contact across the screen. As always, he denied the call and stuck it back in his pocket. He’d told me before that he thought it rude to answer it in front of others. Yet, as soon as he put it away, it began ringing again.

He went to deny it, again, when Cy called out a tease from his seat on the couch. “Dude, just go outside and answer it. Could be someone important.”

“It’s not,” Oliver muttered, denying it.

It was ringing. Again.

“Your mom?” Sam inquired, brows furrowed.

I knew Oliver’s mom didn’t call often, a small detail he’d told me once in a fleeting conversation about his family, a set of people he didn’t really identify himself with if only because of the distance between them all.

So, when she did call, he’d always take it. Couldn’t be her, but I couldn’t vocalize this knowledge.

Oliver shook his head, confirming my suspicion. Everyone else that I knew he spoke to was in this room.

Spam, probably.

Oliver denied the call. It was ringing before he could hide it away, shut it off, hell- throw it out the window.

Oliver huffed, loudly. Sam snickered, then, a knowing chuckle that told me he knew something I didn’t.

“Ooo,” Sam took a few steps towards his friend, who was still seated on the couch. He peered over Oliver’s shoulder, who quickly hid the phone. “That tells me all I need to know.”

“Shut up, dude,” Oliver’s eyes rolled over mine, shortly, quickly, ashamedly.

This was, really, where things did start to fall apart, if I had to pick a singular moment in time and stamp it.

This was it. The end of it all. My demise.

Our fate finally crawling from our throats.

Where I thought I had control, where I thought I knew exactly how to handle the situation, cure our disease…

There were cells multiplying beneath our pale skin.

Max, sat on the couch now, stood to his feet with a sense of urgency. He met my eyes as I glanced at him, right before things clicked in my head, right before Sam opened his mouth. It was like he could see the future, his intuition screeching like a siren. Once the bomb dropped, I noticed the panic in Max’s eyes and looked back to my brother, towards Oliver, who gazed at me again, as fleeting as that final look was.

“Ah, it’s your little girlfriend. Knew you two would get back together. How is Fiona these days? Still annoying as ever?” Sam seemed amused by the moment.

He was so unaware of the drama layered just underneath the careless air he easily existed in, so unaware of the panic in my body as I fled from the room. I made no attempt to make myself seem casual or fucking chill.

Max didn’t hesitate to follow me. He was on my heels, hot as the summer air just outside of the windows.

But, I ignored him as he called out my name.

The air in my lungs was burning, like I was going up in flames from the inside out. Maybe it was that pain, or maybe it was the choking tears flooding down my cheeks, but- my vision was blurring. I was dizzy. Short-lived muscle memory is the only thing that got me to the elevator doors. But, I couldn’t find the button. I slammed my fingers against the wall, only feeling the dry scratch of the decorative paper beneath my prints.

My lips wobbled like a child’s, blubbers that were supposed to be sobs flustering out from my tongue. “Where is it? Where the fuck is it?” I whispered to myself, pointer finger numb from how harshly I was jabbing the wall.

My harbors had gone up in flames. I was floating in deep, deathly waters with nowhere to anchor. Until- Max’s voice finally caught up with me. One gentle hand on the dip of my back, one carefully wrapping its fingers around my wrist.

I couldn’t resist, not that I really wanted to, as his towering, homely frame took me in, cradled me like the child I needed to be in this moment.

The elevator finally beeped, the doors opening like another set of warm, homely arms. Max guided us inside and peeled one of his hands away from me to press the button for the second floor.

I half-expected Oliver to chase us down, to lodge his body between the doors, grab me from Max’s arms. I wanted him to chase me out into the rain, flag down a taxi, meet me at the airport like some cheesy rom-com scene.

But, he didn’t.

In fact, he didn’t say anything to me for three whole fucking days.

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