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It didn’t stop him, of course. Nothing stopped him. Not being dragged to church, not the constant reminders that it was abnormal, that it would make him an abomination. Not the scars he bore from the farce of an exorcism his mother eventually ordered, years after his father left to start a new company in the States. The weeks-long exorcism, which had come at the end of several silver knives, burning sage leaving blisters up and down his arms, and the belief that the gayness was a demon.
He walked away sick, starved, half-mutilated under his clothing…
And hateful.
His sibling, on the other hand, clung to his mother for years. He’d figured Leo had just been afraid of going through what Oliver had, but he couldn’t be sure. Leo had been the prized, obedient son for so long, but when Leo was fifteen, Oliver walked in on him in a skirt, smearing read lipstick around his mouth. He’d known then that Leo was just as different as he was, and.
His sibling had started sobbing, begging Oliver to keep quiet about it, terrified of what their mother might do if she found out. So Oliver made it his mission in life to protect him because if he could, if he could save at least one of them from the horrific self-deprecation and gaping wounds of religious ideology and morality, he’d consider it a win.
His mother had wept, loud and publicly, when the siblings announced they were leaving. But they were of age, and she couldn’t stop them. They’d boarded the plane and lived off the trusts their father had set up and settled happily on the West Coast where neither of them had to watch over their shoulder.
Not that they were exempt from bigotry anywhere, but they were safe from their mother’s clutches. Leo discovered a word for how he felt about himself—genderqueer—and discovered a group of people who loved him regardless of how he viewed himself. Unfortunately, their childhood had done a number on his sibling, and in spite of putting an ocean between them and the woman who made it her life’s mission to torment them, Leo suffered. He sank into drugs, alcohol, and seemed bound and determined to destroy himself before he reached thirty.
Not that Oliver was much better on his own downward spiral, because he couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut every time one of his lovers touched his scars. He couldn’t get rid of the memories of where they’d come from, and he’d suffered it in silence. For his sibling’s sake, mostly.
Because really, only one of them needed to suffer.
“What the bloodyfuckare you staring at?” came a groggy voice from the burrito of blankets.
Oliver startled, then gave his sibling a half shrug. “Just making sure you’re not dead.”
“No. Still here. In fucking agony if you really want to know, so you can show yourself out.”
Oliver leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. “Seriously, are you alright?”
“Seriously, mate, I’m fucking hungover, and I just want to sleep. I can’t do that with you stood there all creepy and shit.Go. Away.” Leo picked up a pillow and half-heartedly threw it in the direction of his brother.
It fell several feet short of Oliver, who stared at it, then back at Leo who pulled the blankets mostly over his face. “Listen, I’ve got class today, but I’ll bring something home for tea.”
“Soup,” came the muffled demand.
Oliver’s smile returned, and he backed up. “Fine. Text me when you get up to let me know you haven’t decided to die just to spite me.”
“Iliveto spite you, you fucking wanker. Now go.”
Closing the door behind him, Oliver headed to his bedroom and grabbed his bag. He only had one lecture and it wasn’t until later, but if he stayed at the house, he’d worry about Leo all damn day. He had a few papers to get through, so he figured the café on campus was his best bet.
Strolling out the front door, he locked it and wandered off for his morning routine.
* * *
The University caféwasn’t crowded, to Oliver’s extreme relief. There were four baristas behind the counter looking more bored than anything, and only two of the tables were full. Oliver slid up to the counter, giving the woman at the register his most winning smile, and was rewarded with a faint blush across her cheeks.
“Morning, love.”
Taking a breath, she put on her Customer Service Expression. “What can I get you today?”
“I could really use a hot tea,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Extra on the hot.”
She punched a few buttons, then turned to the barista standing behind her, nudging him with her elbow. “Gabe? Hot tea.”
“Extra hot,” Oliver repeated as he gave the man a once-over. He was taller than Oliver—though most people were—with a mess of black curls hanging just over the tops of his ears. His brows were thick, sitting low over golden-brown eyes, and his nose wrinkled in annoyance with being interrupted, and the patronizing clarification from Oliver.
“Right. Extra hot. As opposed to medium hot,” he replied. His voice was higher than most, raspy like he spoke from the very back of his throat, and Oliver instantly liked it. He was cute, to say the least. Unconventional, but Oliver liked people who didn’t mirror the typical, Californian, over-polished, bleached blond.
The woman at the register made a frustrated noise at him and turned back to Oliver. “Sorry about him. We don’t usually put him up front because he’s terrible with people.”
“That’s okay, I’m only allowed out of the house on certain days of the week because I’m the same. I aim to misbehave at any given opportunity.” He winked, directing it to the one called Gabe who was giving Oliver a surreptitious glance. He grinned in vague triumph as he was passed over a large, steaming paper cup of hot water, and a bag of tea. He glanced at the brand and grinned. “Bloody hell, you’ve got Yorkshire here. I can’t find this anywhere.”
