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Oliver: See you at nine forty-five.
There was a weird emoji that appeared that Victor couldn’t make out. He debated about getting his readers from his bag, but in the end, he just tucked his phone away, counted how many minutes he’d need to properly get ready, then spend the rest of his morning trying not to quietly freak the fuck out about seeing Oliver again.
Especially because he didn’t trust his sorry, weak little heart around him.
* * *
He was outside at nine twenty-eight, metaphorically shitting his pants. He had his cane because his nerves had kept his legs from feeling in any way stable, and in all honesty, it was more than just a walking aid. It had always felt a bit like a shield growing up. He could hide behind the stereotype everyone had assigned him and didn’t have to perform or show how badly he wasn’t living up to his own standards.
Sometimes it was kind of nice getting applause for doing something basic like putting his shoes on in the morning or—if he was feeling particularly brave—asking a girl to the dance. They didn’t wonder about his internal struggle or the dark, black pit that lived inside him that whispered ugly words about how he’d never actually succeed at anything.
That voice hadn’t gone away either. It was just easier to ignore. And when it got loud, he could drown it out with scotch.
Being around Oliver that night, something had happened to his defenses. They’d dissolved like they were a tissue paper umbrella in a hurricane. Just one smile from Oliver—one look at the subtle dimple in his left cheek—and that was it for him.
But he had no regrets, as much as he told himself he should, and there was no second-guessing after he sent the text message.
There was just anticipation.
He eventually propped his backside up against his car, holding his cane between his legs as he watched the road, and it wasn’t long before he heard Oliver turn up the street. His car had a faint rattle that spoke of age and lack of funds, and he couldn’t help wondering how much Oliver actually made and how many clients he had.
And thinking of Oliver with others made him both hot around the collar and more jealous than he had any right to be.
Victor’s heart was beating a little faster when Oliver finally pulled up next to his car, and he straightened up as Oliver shut the engine off and got out with a small groan.
They made eye contact, and then Oliver pointed behind him. “What the hell is that?”
Victor frowned and looked over his shoulder. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the landscaping. “I think it’s an…ocotillo?” He struggled to remember the name of the spiny plant the rental owners had decorated the front rocks with.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Not the fucking cacti. That.” He jabbed his finger harder, and Victor realized he was pointing at his car. “You have that, and you want to putter around the city in this?”
Victor tried not to laugh in spite of himself and his nerves. “Actually, I’d rather take my car, but I did point out you’d likely crash it.”
Oliver bit his lip—his teeth very white like they’d gone through treatment but not straight, like he’d been denied orthodontic care as a youth. “You know, you could always drive, and I could navigate.”
Victor had considered it, but while he hadn’t had to deal with the worst parts of the neurological side of his CP in years, they were still there. And stress tended to make them worse. He hadn’t been plagued with his absent seizures in several decades, but with Oliver there and how topsy-turvy he felt, it was almost like playing with fire.
“I like your car,” he eventually said.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Oliver pointed out. “Like, seriously, I hope you meant it when you said you weren’t interested in politics.”
Victor laughed, rolling his eyes. “I’m not going into politics.” Oliver grinned back at him, and Victor took a moment to drink in the sight of the gorgeous man.
He was dressed casually—but a little nicer than he had been at the arena. His jeans were ripped, but they looked expensive, and he was wearing a light blue button-up that complemented his dark eyes in ways Victor couldn’t begin to voice. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but their agreement hadn’t covered that, so he sat with it like a weight of disappointment in his chest.
“Actually, you know, you were a pretty good liar last night when we were hanging out with Morales,” Oliver corrected when he was close enough that he could drop his voice a little. “You just seem to suck at it when you’re lying to me.”
“I guess I do,” Victor said, a little breathless.
“Hmm,” Oliver hummed. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Yes,” Victor answered because apparently there was no point in saying anything if it wasn’t the truth. “DoImakeyounervous?”
Oliver laughed, covering his face with one hand. “Yeah. Is it obvious?”
“No,” Victor told him. He reached up and curled his fingers around Oliver’s wrist. He wanted to see his eyes in the sun. They were rich and earthy, but near the pupils, there were flecks of green.
Oliver sucked in a breath, and Victor was profoundly aware this was the perfect moment for a kiss. But their story wasn’t a fairy tale, and he had never believed in those anyway.
