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JUNE — 2016
It’s in the sweltering summer heat on June 1st, when the plants outside of his window are in full bloom and his excuse for locking himself inside his air-conditioned room is all the more valid that Oliver first works his mouth around saying the word “gay” aloud. Or more accurately, shrugging it on as a personal identity. He’s heard it barbed and carelessly flung to no avail at school, at others, at him, and he hadn’t felt the desire to reflect on how he felt about that word until recently.
Toying with the half-used nub of his pencil eraser, Oliver casts speculative eyes at the vision board he’d steadily assembled a short while ago. The innocent cutout of Ashton Kutcher, toned abs on display, taunts him. He looks further up to the blank space he’d left (intentionally or not, he isn’t sure) on the right, contemplating how easily he could slot Cooper Bradford into the white canvas. And then he reminds himself that Cooper won’t want to befriend a gay kid; Oliver isn’t exactly aware of his stance on the LGBTQ+ community but it can’t be great. Besides, Oliver had worked incredibly hard to shed himself of the Harry Potter-obsessed geek image this past year. The last thing he needs is to lose Cooper before he secures a friendship with the guy.
So, he closes his eyes and recites to a deaf choir that he likes girls and their appearance, how soft their curves are, and how black hair should be the prettiest hair color on earth to him, and he stands up and tucks his vision board into the closet. Out of sight and out of mind.
SEPTEMBER — 2016
“Hi,” says a languid voice from the front of him and Oliver takes a shaky breath in, reminding himself to be cool in front of Cooper Bradford.
“Hey dude,” replies Oliver, cringing internally at his voice cracking. Cooper is mute, sitting in his desk chair the wrong way, straddling the back of it. He leans in, closer than anticipated, and Oliver’s mind temporarily goes blank. He follows Cooper’s line of sight to the worksheet planted on his desk and hears the teacher’s monotonous droning about completing something in pairs, but it doesn’t mentally register. Cooper fucking Bradford is sitting near him and having a conversation with him.
“You must be pretty smart if you finished most of that already, mi amigo.”
Oliver clears his throat, pleased that someone else is granting his intelligence some well-deserved recognition. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure you did the same.”
“Oh, well, not me, but my tutors? They’re definitely gonna ace this assignment,” says Cooper with a smile, one of those innocent ones that are untouched by hardship and suffering and pain. As far as Oliver can tell anyway. They introduce themselves to each other; he tries not to feel too disappointed in the fact that Cooper hadn’t known his name—honestly, why would he? It’s hard to tell if Cooper is serious in his storytelling but it appears that he is, so he plays along for the remainder of the class period, encouraging Cooper’s lavish stories about his rich lifestyle. They’re so wrapped up in each other that Oliver follows Cooper to the door as they are dismissed, hanging onto his every word. Cooper begins to glance around though, his hand absentmindedly jostling his handbag, and Oliver bites his lip in desperation.
“Why don’t you give me your number? I’d love to get a tour of all those things you mentioned—that is if you’re comfortable with it,” says Oliver, sending himself on a one-way voyage to the sea, floundering and pondering why he’s pushing Cooper this far, but Cooper throws him a buoy.
He enters his number into a stunned Oliver’s contacts, and he doesn’t know it at the time, but it is the beginning of his end.
DECEMBER — 2017
The sight of Cooper’s Vespa is remarkably high on the list of Oliver’s favorite sights in the world, at least when it is parked in the Otto household’s garage as it should be. Today, it is parked approximately two houses and one street-parked car away for reasons unknown to him. He peers disapprovingly through their dining room window, hands secured as makeshift binoculars on his face, partly to deter the sunbeams from blinding him.
A small cough emits from behind him; he turns with his heart beating out of his chest, guilty of a crime he’s never committed. To his utter delight, Taylor stands with her arms crossed against her chest, jutting her hip out dramatically. “What are you looking at?” she asks slowly. His nerves ignite a wildfire, eyes widening as he searches his brain for any sort of acceptable reply.
“Um,” he says with a sharp inhale, breath catching as he stumbles to the left. “Just. Thought I saw someone.”
Taylor raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him, eerily reminiscent of Mom’s incredulous expressions, before she’s shoving him aside and pressing her entire face to the window. It fogs as she repeats her question.
She doesn’t realize Oliver has enacted his hasty retreat out the front door as he hears her ask once again, cementing the low level of respect he has for his sister for likely the fourth time today. He supposes that she is older and better at driving, he would give her that tiny victory.
His feet carry him unwittingly down to Cooper’s Vespa, craning his neck for a sign of the boy indoors. He nonchalantly walks past as slowly as he can manage to make his gait not come off too obvious, disappointingly reaching the property’s mailbox without so much as a single indication of movement within the house. Who are these people? Oliver couldn’t recall meeting any of them—at least, he doesn’t think he’d met them. Given the Ottos’ reputation around their cul-de-sac, it’s a simpler assumption to presume that they preemptively boarded their doors and windows shut when they spot an Otto. He hadn’t exactly been careful, meandering past their front yard.
Belatedly, he realizes he’s still standing on a curb, staring at nothing of interest. If the neighbors hadn’t caught on to his presence beforehand, they surely would have by now. Pivoting, Oliver strides back to his house as swiftly as his legs will carry him, electing not to throw a single glance back.
A two-part rapping on Oliver’s bedroom door echoes its creak, causing him to wince as Cooper bounds into the room, making an entrance as he always does. He kicks the door shut behind him and tosses his satchel at Oliver, who fumbles to catch it.
“So happy to be here, amigo! Don’t tell me you did anything fun without me,” he says, beaming at Oliver with owlishly wide eyes. The fact that Cooper genuinely thinks Oliver has the means to do anything he deems remotely fun with his life when the other boy isn’t around has to be a cosmic joke. Over the year that he’s gotten to know Cooper though, he knows when the other boy is serious, and it’s always much more often than Oliver assumes he is.
“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’ with his lips. He checks the time on his phone while absentmindedly scratching his thigh. “Cooper, can you pass me my laptop?”
Oliver props it on his stomach as he leans back on his bed frame after receiving it from Cooper. Soon, the opening chords of an electric guitar flood his room as he lazily scrolls through his playlist, wary of queueing anything that he deems too eccentric to play outside of the safety of his headphones.
“It’s not living if it’s not with you,” sings Cooper softly. Oliver looks up.
“You know this song?”
“Yeah. Hm-hm all began with his operation—but you need some imagination,” Cooper sings, entirely missing half of the lyrics but he has the voice of an angel regardless.
“And all I do is sit and think about you,” mumbles Oliver under his breath, expecting Cooper not to pick up on his half-hearted attempt at a duet.
“If I knew what you do!” Cooper shrieks, employing an exaggerated falsetto as he launches into a horrid imitation of Matty Healy’s accent. Any thoughts Oliver had of Cooper sounding like an angel are promptly scratched off the mental blackboard and disposed of with embers.
“It’s not living if it’s not with you.” Oliver’s wavering voice joins in. They lock eyes; Cooper grins as he obnoxiously belts out lyrics about beating monkeys and surprisingly, he’s getting more lyrics right this verse around. He means to muster up a tendril of irritation but the twin smile on his features surely gives his actual mood away. Cooper hums the remainder of the song, breaking eye contact as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.
And all I do is sit and think about you loops in his head long after the chorus fades to black, replaced by the slightly more soothing sound of a non-romantic song. He’s been doing so well, not dwelling on the impossible. He isn’t allowed to think about Cooper, not like that.
Cooper is in the same room as him and yet he is so many miles out of his orbit. And yet: the saddest phrase in the English vernacular. There is no avoiding the monumental status, social and otherwise of the Bradford name that comes with being born one; what is Icarus to the sun? Again, he isn’t allowed to think about Cooper.
With the unease of a caged animal, Oliver glances up to see Cooper tapping away at his phone, replying to something on Instagram, from what he can gather from his limited vantage point. “I saw your Vespa down the street.”
“Oh?” Cooper asks; he raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, Mrs. Smith was at a gala my family hosted last week and I wanted to get out of the estate, so I offered to drop off a gift basket to her.”
“Ah, okay.” Oliver allows himself a small grin, delighted that Cooper had chosen to visit him immediately after. He shuts his laptop, insulating his bedroom with quietude. “Wanna go to the mall, catch a movie maybe?”
“Sure,” Cooper says, another lopsided, bright smile on his face as he crosses the room, extending a hand to Oliver and tugging him to his feet. He breaks the contact after Oliver is standing—he swallows down the sudden lump in his throat, bumping shoulders with his best friend as he proclaims that it would be Cooper’s treat.
FEBRUARY — 2018
“Holy shit dude, really?” Oliver questions in sheer disbelief. He’d been moping this week about his lack of a girlfriend to celebrate Valentine’s Day with to which Cooper would commiserate with him to a certain extent. Though, Oliver thinks Cooper could have anyone in this school if he so much as spares a glance in their direction, so he thinks their angles on Valentine’s moping are significantly different.
They round the hallway toward the exit as Cooper nods at him excitedly. “Just open it, dude.”
“If Mom sees me wear this, she’s gonna make me return it. Or you return it.” He slips the Rolex out of its packaging anyway, reveling in the feel of real gold between his fingers. No one has ever bought him anything this nice, this expensive before. Spencer technically has but he never got to keep any of those gifts. Plus, Cooper bought a Rolex for him on Valentine’s Day of all days.
He feels like an idiot for not getting a gift for him as well. He certainly entertained the thought, tossing ideas back and forth in his head as music played softly from his laptop a couple of nights ago. What does one get for a person that already has everything? He decides to skate past the fact that he has nothing for Cooper, fastening the watch around his wrist as they step outside. The dial gleams in the sunlight; Oliver could very well emulate one of those Wall Street guys right now. Thanking Cooper again as they hop into Cooper’s limo, he gives him a small fist bump, wishing he had a better excuse to keep touching him. Then, he thinks that he needs to start searching for a girlfriend.
DECEMBER — 2019
Neither Katie nor Greg will budge on the subject of spending New Year’s Eve with Cooper’s family, much to his chagrin. It’s not as if he wishes to be present for their annual tradition of pretending Mom isn’t drunk off of too many mimosas from brunch and Anna-Kat’s inevitable meltdown over the loud crackling of fireworks. Taylor is permitted to have a guest over; to the surprise of no one, she phones her idiot boyfriend immediately after hearing the news.
Reluctantly, Oliver confesses his mild dilemma of how to successfully sneak out to attend the Bradfords’ party to Taylor, who severely misunderstands his plea and raises hell with Mom for not allowing him to at least have his boyfriend over.
His boyfriend. Oliver could kill her.
But Mom actually budges—the angry retorts on his tongue about Cooper just being a friend, the insinuations he’s fought hard to bat off from people outside of this household as well, and the jabs he’d been hoping to aim at Taylor, die in his throat. She looks him up and down while he grins, skin too tight, and something in her glassy eyes gives.
“You have to call at midnight, curfew is an hour after and I’m—“ She blathers on, nonsense that Oliver tunes out as more drunken babble. He glares at Taylor, reminding himself that he’d need to have a serious talk with her later, especially because Cooper has been spending more time at their house now. What the hell would he say if he knew Oliver’s own family is actively fueling the fire?
“Love you guys, happy preemptive New Year’s,” he drawls, slamming the door shut before he can garner a response. Deep breath in, out—he dials Cooper’s number, hands still shaking.
“Hello?” Cooper’s crackly voice answers, the excited sounds of partygoers in the background flooding his ear.
“Hi. It’s Oliver. Can you pick me up?”
“No way, you’re actually coming? One sec, I’ll have someone come get you, dude.”
The line abruptly dies before Oliver can bid him goodbye. He smiles to himself, pleased that he has the opportunity to spend New Year’s Eve at a mansion and with his best friend to boot. Maybe they could—
He stops that dangerous train of thought before it can derail, tapping on the Instagram app icon to avoid fantasizing about Cooper pulling him aside when the clock nears midnight, about the shadowy veil of nighttime that could reasonably hide them both in the depths of an obscenely large mansion, about—fuck. He needs to get a grip before he makes an utter idiot of himself.
The limousine ride is unbearably awkward; the stone-faced driver isn’t helping his shot nerves. The guy’s expression has remained motionless for five minutes now and it’s quite unnerving to be driven by such a tall, wide man. His head is an inch from the roof.
Oliver glances up from his phone, straightening his back. Perhaps he’d have a growth spurt in the later years of high school, or maybe he’s already jinxed and destined to inherit his height from Katie. Knowing how his life has turned out so far, it’s probably the latter option. Cooper’s house looms into view after another uncomfortable, dead-silent twenty minutes and he breathes a sigh of relief as he escapes the car as quickly as humanly possible. Loud chatter immediately pierces Oliver’s hearing range as he walks up the winding driveway, perpetually shocked at just how obscenely rich Cooper’s parents are.
“Name?” asks a gentleman in a tuxedo, disdain dripping off him in waves.
“Oliver Otto?” Oliver says, voice lilting nervously against his wishes.
“Welcome,” is all he replies, extending an arm out to take his coat, and Oliver is then left to take in the grandiose sight of flecks of gold decorating each potted plant, how each piece of furniture beyond the foyer is deliberately arranged into a pattern that he doesn’t think he’s of a high enough class to comprehend. Maybe his family is the odd one out for bothering to own a coffee table and daring to use it as intended—it would be far from the first or last time the Ottos stick out like a sore thumb amongst the effortless bourgeoisie population of Westport. He taps a short message out to Cooper alerting him of his arrival as he aimlessly wanders in circles, muffled sounds of the party washing over him. The windows glint with artificial silver every couple of seconds, offbeat to the classy piano sonata buzzing through the ginormous walls, and he picks at his collar, unbearably awkward despite the lack of human presence in the room with him.
Oliver is midway running a finger across a spotless windowpane, pondering how he’s going to claw and scrape himself out of the Ottos’ shadow in order to live like this when heavy footsteps echo through the antechamber, and his heart stutters in his sternum when he sees Cooper wearing one of those ridiculous New Years sunglasses, grinning in a manner that lights up the room. He’s across the room in three easy strides, plastering himself along Oliver’s side as he engulfs him in a rib-shattering hug.
“Sorry, my aunt wouldn’t stop talking to me, you know how she is,” says Cooper as they meander slowly toward the source of the commotion. Oliver leans into the lingering touch a little, nose wrinkling when something stale wafts by.
“The one with the weird scarves?”
“Yeah, her. It’s all,” he starts, pitching his voice ridiculously high to mimic his aunt, “Oh Cooper, you’re such a handsome young lad now, such a heartbreaker, when are you going to fly out to Palm Beach?”
“The hardships of being a strapping, devastatingly handsome young lad are numerous,” says Oliver solemnly, earning a sharp laugh as Cooper places a hand on the small of his back, wrenching the intricately carved patio doors open. His eyes seem to sparkle under the sheer amount of patio lights and brassy torchieres spread across the obscenely large yard, and Oliver swallows a thick glob of spit down, surveying the guests looking like they’ve emerged straight from those dusty portraits his dad likes to hang up in his study. He splays his fingers along the seam of his jeans, embarrassed about showing up looking like he’s just rooted through the Bradfords’ dumpster for suitable attire prior to joining them.
Cooper tilts up on his toes to address him, glasses and hair askew, and the staleness Oliver smelled moments ago hits him with a sudden jolt of clarity and fear. “Are you—drinking?” he asks, voice lowering to a decibel above a whisper despite the lack of anyone else nearby.
“Maybe,” replies Cooper after a beat. “You looking to partake, amigo of mine?”
“No, I’m good,” says Oliver. Mom has a sixth sense for these types of things—she’d probably sniff the faintest trace of liquor on his breath like a demented bloodhound before he even opens the front door. He checks the time; just under an hour until it’s midnight. “So, what are we doing?”
“We are going to get someone to top me up,” says Cooper, brazenly tossing an arm around his shoulders. “Then, the night is ours.”
In hindsight, Oliver should’ve limited Cooper to one refill only. He’s sipping his way through his fourth glass of champagne, swaying slightly against Oliver currently struggling to keep them both upright, and he briefly entertains taking a few sips himself when he spots a girl he faintly recalls seeing around at school heading their direction. Her glossy brown hair bounces with each step, and there’s something calculating in her steely, determined gaze that raises Oliver’s hackles. In her black stilettos, he can tell she towers over the two of them from a distance away.
“Hello,” she says with a gentle lilt, an unexpected dichotomy from how she dresses. “Lovely night for a party, isn’t it?”
She isn’t looking at Oliver in that practiced manner of avoidance that all rich people have unspoken perfection in. She somehow comes off as elegant while doing so—sometimes, Oliver thinks he’s learned everything he needs to learn about emulating the lifestyle he envies above all else, but he feels like he’s back at square one, too big for his skin, the same fantasy-obsessed geek he’d always been before Cooper Bradford crash-landed into his life. A pale imitation of what he hopes to embody.
“Mhm, it really is,” says Cooper, a polite little grin on his otherwise blank face that Oliver wants desperately to keep to himself, aimed toward him only. A woman in a white shawl that probably costs more than Oliver’s house drifts past them, her hairpiece glinting in the dim rays of moonlight.
“As lovely of a time I’m having out here, I couldn’t help my curiosity regarding the interior of your house. May I ask you for a tour?”
Oliver feels his stomach drop to his knees, almost collapsing under his and Cooper’s combined weight. He whips his head to the side, alarmed, but Cooper’s expression stays unnervingly neutral as he detaches himself from Oliver and waves toward the patio doors they’d exited not too long ago.
“I’ll show you around,” says Cooper, slurring his words just the slightest, and he gives Oliver a short nod before stumbling away with the girl in tow. The sky twinkles above, decorated with fiery red and white fireworks, and he sinks into an unoccupied lawn chair near the pool, watching them reflect on the neon surface below. It’s oddly hypnotizing watching the pool lights fade into different colors with festivities crackling above. He almost forgets that Cooper ditched him at a party that he invited him to, up until he’s kicking his feet up and staring at a constellation that vaguely appears as though it’s been traced from Cooper’s jawline. He wonders if Cooper would know the name of the constellation; then again, he doesn’t seem too interested in anything that doesn’t have monetary significance attached to it.
It occurs to Oliver two minutes or so later that he should be taking advantage of the fact that he’s snagged an invite to one of the most exclusive parties of the year (or new year, rather). He should submerge into the horde, shake hands with people leagues above his social strata, introduce himself to a few untouchable girls, but he doesn’t want to do any of that without Cooper beside him. The thought distresses him more than it should. Maybe because it’s getting harder by the day to strangle the looming thoughts of Cooper pursuing him like that predator from that cheesy horror movie that he and Taylor sat through a few weeks ago, It Follows, or something like that. It could be that he’s getting too used to Cooper constantly inviting himself into his personal space like it’s a foreign concept to exist more than four feet away from him, too used to leeching everything he’s allowed to get from Cooper because the boy keeps giving, and who can blame Oliver for taking?
This is where the path he’s been shamefully walking down leads him though: alone in a backyard he only sees in magazines, stranded in a sea of unfamiliar faces. It’s 11:45 PM and Oliver checks Life360 for Cooper’s location to see him still somewhere in his maze of a house. It’s 11:45 PM in a different world and Cooper is next to him, laughing at the stuffy attitude of their peers, the girl another face in an indifferent crowd.
He thinks his evening may have been better spent tuning out his mother’s drunk ramblings and Taylor and Trip’s sober but equally incoherent conversations. Spending New Year’s Eve with a glass of sparkling cider has to be marginally superior to spending New Year’s Eve blankly gazing at a phone and a pool.
Oliver unlocks his phone when Cooper flops onto his chair, materializing out of nowhere. He startles, fumbling to pocket the device as Cooper’s glassy eyes settle on his, and the fist around his heart squeezes.
“Hey, been looking for you,” drawls Cooper. Oliver blinks.
“You have?” He lays a hand on Cooper’s forehead. “Are you drunk?”
“Not so much,” says Cooper, serious for all of two seconds before his demeanor cracks. “All right, maybe a little.”
It dawns on Oliver that he has no water to offer so he instead settles back, pressing their shoulders together. “Where’d that girl go?”
“Who?” Cooper asks, turning to shove half of his face into the crook of Oliver’s neck. “Oh, um, Caroline?”
Pretty name for a pretty girl. Oliver swallows the sudden shards of glass down, throat achingly raw as he revels in the sensation of Cooper’s hair tickling his collarbone.
“She’s a cool girl, yeah, she’s pretty cool,” mumbles Cooper. The vibration of his voice against his skin has Oliver a little thankful that Cooper can’t see his face at the moment. “She kissed me in the kitchen, isn’t that awesome?”
“Oh,” says Oliver, wiping any traces of a grimace away. He pretends it doesn’t sting his entire soul to hear that. “That’s nice, man.”
“Think she wanted a—“ Cooper interrupts himself to scramble upright, nearly knocking Oliver off of the chair. “Shit, is it 12 yet?”
Oliver shrugs, rooting around his pocket for his phone. “11:57.”
“Muy bien, we didn’t miss it.”
The pool shifts to blue lighting, painting Cooper a shade of midnight that he is tempted to take a picture of. He sighs inaudibly instead, jumping at the boom of a firework, hair standing on end.
“I think my family’s gonna do a countdown if you want to…” Cooper jerks a thumb to a throng of people, none of whom Oliver recognizes.
“Not really. Unless you want to, dude,” says Oliver.
“Yeah, I don’t either.”
11:59 PM strikes, the last minute of 2019. He’s glad the world he made up in his head has merged with reality, and as he leans back, folding his arms under his head and redirecting his gaze to the smoky sky, he hopes 2020 will be better than this year. While it certainly hadn’t been the worst year to ever suffer the misfortune of living through, he could’ve done a lot more with his life. He could have Brie here or attended her New Year’s party if they hadn’t broken up ages ago. He could have kissed Cooper, just to see if the sensation is as satisfying as he envisions, scratch that ever-present itch that needles at him. He could have never interviewed at the call center, changed his résumé’s trajectory.
“Ten,” rings out a cacophony of voices somewhere down the lawn.
“Nine,” says Cooper. He elbows Oliver in an effort to get him to count with him, sporting a smile painted blindingly white by the effervescent yellow of lights surrounding them. He gives in because all he ever does is give in when he looks at him like that. Oliver wonders if Cooper smiled at that girl like he is now three seconds to midnight.
“One,” they say in unison and Oliver holds his breath among the scattered choruses and clapping of a new year ushered in. For a second, Cooper closes his eyes, long eyelashes a dark spider web of shadow on his face; Oliver glances down, where he’s never really let himself look before except for fleeting moments he’d do his best not to prolong, contemplating the merits of starting a new decade with a ruined friendship. Cooper’s eyelids flutter open as he lets out a lethargic yawn.
“Happy New Year,” says Cooper.
“Yeah,” replies Oliver, a little disjointed, a little resigned. “Happy New Year.”
MARCH — 2020
“I’m telling you right now, you can’t save this fucking pie,” Oliver all but screams at his idiot of a sister. Anna-Kat pretends to read her book though she hasn’t turned a page in the past ten minutes so he knows she must have witnessed Taylor dump a ton of salt into the dessert she’s supposed to be bringing to her friend’s parents’ barbecue instead of flour. Salt mistaken for sugar, he would understand, but flour?
He turns his back for hardly even a minute to let Cooper inside and she monumentally screws up her apple pie. He should be less surprised by now.
“I mean, they were really close together, like you don’t understand—“
“How do you look at salt and think, Yep, that’s flour for sure. They have insanely different containers. I don’t even bake.”
“What happened?” Cooper asks, leaning against the kitchen counter. He purses his lips as he scans the Ottos’ cluttered counters, littered with a healthy dusting of what could be flour if Oliver trusted Taylor to know what flour is.
“I guess I put salt instead of flour in my pie? But like, I don’t understand why I can’t just scoop it out.”
“Because it doesn’t work that way,” snaps Oliver. He’s this close to popping a vein; he swears to himself that first thing tomorrow he’s going to go out and purchase a countdown calendar to college. “You know what, I’m done, have Anna-Kat help you.”
“I don’t know how to bake,” she intones cheerfully from her perch on a kitchen stool. She finally flips a page.
“I can try and help?” Cooper suggests. “Do we have enough time to start over?”
“Uh, yeah, hold on.” She types something and sends it at the speed of light before she’s rocking on her heels, setting the ruins of her mixing bowl on the counter. “You know how to bake, Clifford?”
“Cooper,” he corrects with an amused smile lifting the corner of his lips. “I’ve watched the help do it sometimes, so like, it can’t be too different?”
“Oh, right. Gotta be better than what I’m doing,” says Taylor. She hands her stained recipe over to Cooper while Oliver hovers over his shoulder, a bit peeved that Taylor had effectively stolen his best friend and afternoon plans out from under his nose in one swift maneuver.
He watches as Cooper methodically forms a crust like he’s been doing it all his life, flitting about the kitchen like the spirit of Gordon Ramsay has possessed him, quite honestly in shock. Years have passed of knowing this guy and he’s only now finding out that Cooper is an apparent beast in the kitchen? He can’t let his mother hear a single word about this; she ropes Cooper (and subsequently Oliver) into labor-free housework often enough as it is.
Frankly, Oliver assumed the rest of Cooper’s skill set would be of the niche variety like opening bottles with a katana and so forth, but he must have way more to him than he lets on. Cooper looks painfully good with a streak of flour in his hair too. He keeps darting his tongue out to wet his lips, and Oliver realizes with dry eyes that he has barely blinked.
The second thing he realizes is that Anna-Kat is unabashedly peering at him, thinking the cover of her book is adequate to obscure her face. She mouths “Oliver and Cooper sitting in a tree…”; Oliver can’t believe he lives in an entire household of traitors. He glares at her and she hides her silent giggle behind her hand as she pretends to read more of that stupid book. He has half a mind to rip that thing away from her, but unfortunately for him and fortunately for her, he doesn’t intend to make a complete ass of himself in front of Cooper.
“You can get the rest from here, yeah? It’s just assembling and timing it,” says Cooper. Taylor jolts, nearly dropping her phone with a guilty expression.
“I really owe you one,” says Taylor. “Here, wait.” She rummages around her pockets, producing a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. “I know you’re rich and everything, but it can be like… date money?”
“Date money?” Cooper asks, raising his eyebrows. Oliver should probably intervene before she says something stupid—par for the course—but he can’t get his brain functioning at its highest power currently.
“Yeah? For you and my brother?” Taylor says with a head nod in Oliver’s direction like Cooper’s the dumb one in this exchange, and Oliver definitely should have intervened when he had the chance.
“Oh. I didn’t need money for that but thanks chica,” says Cooper as he palms the cash. He steps toward Oliver, nodding to the staircase while he tries to wrap his head around the fact that Cooper so seamlessly played along with his sister. Is it that easy for him to answer; is it easy to laugh off the thought of being in a relationship with him? God knows Oliver would have languished on the spot and fired up a shouting match under the same circumstances.
Of all the thoughts swirling around his overloaded brain, he settles on a simple, “Sorry.”
Cooper’s hand stills on Oliver’s doorknob, shooting him a confused glance. “What for?”
“Not correcting Taylor before. She thinks we’ve been dating for a while,” he confesses, cringing as he shoulders past Cooper and collapses onto his bed. He never realizes just how much he loves lying down until he’s spent the entire day glued to a desk or standing.
“I think we’re even, dude. It’s not like I corrected her.”
“Dude,” says Oliver with a tiny laugh.
“Dude,” agrees Cooper.
AUGUST — 2020
“Jesus Christ,” says Oliver, throwing his arms up in defense as Cooper cannonballs into the pool for the fourth time. “A man can’t ever swim in peace.”
“Not while I’m around,” says Cooper before he’s spluttering on water going down the wrong windpipe; he can’t help but laugh, grateful that he’s somehow wormed his way into spending his summers in an indoor pool. This is really it, Oliver is latching onto Cooper for life. It only makes sense that Cooper has everything Oliver could possibly give him. “You’re un culo,” Cooper informs him, sending a wave of water his way that Oliver turns around to deflect, a genuine smile on his face for the first time in what he feels has been a long time. “Go ahead, laugh it up at my funeral.”
“I’ll give you the most tragic eulogy, a real tearjerker,” says Oliver. Cooper paddles a little closer, bobbing in front of him.
“Would you? Because I’m pretty sure the last thing I heard before I died was you laughing at me,” teases Cooper. Oliver dunks him. He ducks under too, involuntarily because Cooper snags his ankle like one of Ursula’s creatures—he has to stop watching movies with Anna-Kat—and blinks. The world is so still. Cooper is a beautiful, blurry illusion, and Oliver resurfaces after a hasty few seconds to Cooper’s offended gasps of horror. He’s on him, trying to push Oliver back underwater, but all Oliver can really focus on is how nice it feels to have Cooper’s arms around him.
They order Doordash after impromptu pool wrestling and gossiping about Cooper’s staff has eaten up a good portion of the afternoon. Cooper orders for him, because somehow he has Oliver’s favorite orders stored in his brain alongside his memorization of brand names, and it’s nice to have that simple reminder sometimes that friendship is, in fact, a two-way street. Sometimes, he feels like he pays so much attention to Cooper that he forgets Cooper pays attention to him too.
In true Cooper fashion, he shatters the peaceful moment by announcing that he has a date tomorrow.
Oliver barely has time to wallow before Cooper is staring at him, a serious expression plastered on his pretty features. “It, um, I’m—it’s with a guy.”
“Oh,” says Oliver, heartbeat slowing. He can practically taste disappointment on his tongue. “That’s cool. Who, uh, who with?” Leave it to Cooper to unknowingly shatter him. He did this to himself, in all honesty. He can’t decide what hurts worse—Cooper going on a date with another dude or Cooper being into guys, just not him.
“Orion,” says Cooper. He picks at his fingernails, a nervous habit Oliver thought the other boy had been working on curbing.
Orion. Orion, the pretentious fuck. He has no face to put to the sudden bout of hatred pulsating in his veins but at least he has a name. A stupid sounding, elitist, fucking name. Wouldn’t most people go by Rion as a nickname?
“Right,” says Oliver flatly. He looks away before Cooper can see his face twist in anger or despair, he hasn’t made his mind up yet.
“Yeah. Glad you’re… chill with me, amigo. Right?”
Cooper’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, a touch Oliver hates himself for enjoying as much as he does, because Cooper’s not going out with him, he’s going out with Orion. Honestly, Oliver’s parents picked the wrong O name for him.
“I—yeah. We’re good, dude.”
Cooper wraps his arms around his back and Oliver clamps down hard on the insides of his cheeks, clenching his hands into fists to stave off the heated wave of frustrated tears pooling at his waterline. This is all he gets. This is what he deserves, really, because all that Oliver can offer him is just not enough. He was doomed from the start.
APRIL — 2021
“Pass, ese, come on.”
Oliver nearly lets the joint fall from his icy fingers, kicking his feet on the ground in a half-hearted motion to get his swing moving.
Cooper exhales a plume of thick smoke into the jet-black darkness surrounding them, the swingset creaking as they sway back and forth aimlessly. He can’t remember what they’re doing out here, or why they figured a public park to be a good smoking spot for their first time getting high. However, he does regret not grabbing a snack from their kitchenette before embarking on their short journey.
“Have you looked at any culinary schools yet?” Oliver asks, tongue feeling like a weight in his mouth. He struggles to keep his head on his shoulders but he can still swing so he settles on focusing the expenditure of his energy on that.
“Eh,” replies Cooper, waving his free hand around. He takes another hit of their slowly dwindling joint, stifling a series of coughs as he hands it off to Oliver with the lighter in hand. “I’m not worried about looking yet. There’s gotta be at least one by Harvard.”
“Mhm,” says Oliver. Cooper is making it nigh impossible to get over him. He thought after the whole Orion debacle, he’d get around to sorting himself out, but he’s still taking one step forward and three steps back. It’s hard not to love someone he spends every waking moment with, endures fights with, plans his future around, the entire nine yards.
“Wish we were already there sometimes. I like living in your house, not gonna lie, but it’d be cool to have our own place.”
Oliver always assumed they would live together but to hear Cooper confirm it is still a mild epiphany. “Me too. It’ll be nice, dude.”
“We’ll get one of those lofts, one with a wooden spiral staircase because those are awesome.”
“Everything I ever wanted.” Oliver inhales and gives the joint back.
Cooper pauses, squinting at Oliver as if he’s an equation to be solved for a beat. He raises the joint to his lips, tilting his head up to exhale. Oliver thinks about him, thinks about early mornings and frosty nights, and thinks some more. His brain has turned to mush.
“It’s everything I ever wanted too.”
“Mhm,” Oliver hums again, you’re all I ever wanted looping uselessly in the backdrop of static in his mind. He’ll probably forget about this conversation within the next ten minutes, but for now, he enjoys the calmness he so rarely feels enveloping his body, enjoys Cooper’s thoughtful little glances at him, enjoys the way they walk so close together on the way back home that they look like one zigzagging line from behind.
DECEMBER — 2021
“Oh god,” moans Cooper, starfished on the basement floor. “Champagne is no bueno.”
“I don’t know what you expected, man,” says Oliver from the couch, nursing a beer. Cooper never has been able to handle his wine. Something about the taste must send him straight back to his estate, drinking every free glass of wine handed to him out of nerves and desperation to keep himself entertained among the hordes of boring adults.
There’s another knock on their door for the fifth time; Dad’s on the other side asking respectfully, in his words, if they would join the family upstairs for New Year’s Eve. Oliver mentally tells him to fuck off. He must receive the message telepathically because the assault on their doorknob ceases and Cooper goes right back to bemoaning pounding down four glasses of wine at once.
“If you make it to the couch, I’ll get you some water.”
“Carry me,” says Cooper. Oliver sits up, retrieving the remote to turn the Times Square Ball Drop down.
“I’m sorry?”
“Have some pity, Oliver, mi amigo; I might perish down here.”
It’s pathetic that Cooper’s obvious jokes still manage to elevate Oliver’s heart rate. It’s even more pathetic that he obliges Cooper’s request and scoops him up, half dragging him back to the couch. Cooper laughs the whole way, digging his feet in more to hinder Oliver’s progress like the tipsy nuisance he is, but it’s worth it when Cooper collapses atop him once they finally arrive.
“Still have twenty minutes,” comments Cooper, leg draped over Oliver’s own. He thanks his lucky stars that Cooper is likely too inebriated to pick up on his heartbeat or the sweat beading at his hairline. His beer is now tragically out of reach because of Cooper though, which he notes with a moment of mild irritation. He’s barely gotten halfway through and it’s only his first can.
“We should go there someday. To celebrate,” says Oliver. Cooper nods against his chest, wiggling up to press his cheek into his collarbone.
“I’d take you to New York if you ask.”
“With what money?”
Oliver can’t see his face but he knows it sours judging by Cooper noticeably sagging. “I’d figure it out for you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, man,” says Cooper. He smacks his dry lips together, ghosting behind the shell of Oliver’s ear, and he shivers involuntarily. “I’d do anything for you,” he adds lowly like Oliver isn’t meant to hear him in the inch of space separating them. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
“You can’t just,” Oliver starts, the fight dissipating out of him at the drop of a hat. Cooper can’t just what? Say things a best friend might say? It’s not his fault that Oliver has been deluding himself into thinking he might ever have a chance with Cooper for literal years. He knows he doesn’t by now, he’s known for months that he will never be enough for Cooper.
“I can’t what?”
“Never mind.”
“Sounded important, Ollie.”
“It’s nothing you have to deal with,” says Oliver, wishing desperately he could drown himself in his beer right now. “Just—nothing.”
“Your problems are my problems,” says Cooper and Oliver doesn’t know what to say to that. Cooper doesn’t move, both of them silently watching the dense crowds of New York Times Square mesh with each other. He can hear his mother in the distance letting out a sharp peal of laughter, can hear Cooper breathing quietly near his other ear. It feels like all Oliver is is Cooper, Cooper, Cooper.
He has a vision board he made once upon a time, a photo of him and Cooper plastered a little off-center, shoved deep into the unrecoverable depths of his closet. He added the picture a couple of months after getting to know Cooper, determined to keep him in his life in one way or another. Oliver of the past would be proud to see Oliver of the present maintaining his friendship. Oliver of the past would probably also get into a fistfight with him if he knew how recklessly Oliver was going to get himself entangled with Cooper.
It takes him a few bleary seconds to realize that Cooper is talking to him, or babbling, he’s not entirely sure.
“—To be old enough, but from the outside, the place looks good. Modern. We’ll go to Wall Street—“
“Are you talking about New York?” Oliver queries; Cooper shakes his head in affirmation, finally heaving himself toward the opposite end of the couch.
“Yeah. Things we can do when we go, you know? I’ve visited the city a few times.”
“Of course you have,” says Oliver. He’s flown to New York once but he and Taylor were both in diapers so he’s pretty sure the vacation doesn’t count if he doesn’t remember any of it. Dad had gotten violently ill and cut the family trip short anyway, according to Mom, which at least reassures him that the trip actually happened because that’s such a painfully Greg thing to happen. “Are you gonna wine and dine me?”
Oliver takes a much-needed swig of beer, hoping against stacked odds that Cooper would forget about his dumb comment.
“You’ve figured out my ultimate plan,” says Cooper, and they both laugh, but it’s not funny to either of them. The seconds continue to tick down.
“Hey,” starts Cooper, scooting back to Oliver’s side. He brushes Oliver’s legs out of the way as he looks at the television, all soft light and sharp cheekbones and so close and so far away. Oliver begins chugging the last fourth. “It’s just us.”
“Astute observation,” replies Oliver. Two minutes to midnight. He flashes back to the last time he spent the New Year alone with Cooper, desperately wishing for more, always, always desperate for things he can’t have. There are no bright smears of fireworks, no pool lights to drown in, just the faint hum of the television and the heady smell of Cooper’s cologne.
“And I—you wanna do something stupid?”
Oliver feels much too sober for the arduous path they’re teetering on. “Like what?”
“Would you kiss me?” Cooper asks when the crowd on tv stirs themselves into a frenzy over the last thirty seconds of 2021. “Something like that?”
“Would I kiss you?” Oliver parrots. He must have gone into shock. Maybe his beer was spiked or from a bad batch, and he has to go to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. Maybe he’s hallucinating this entire scenario with how many times he’s envisioned it before.
“Would you?”
Oliver counts down in his head, cataloging the delicate flush on Cooper’s cheeks, the way his hair falls over his ears like it’s been tousled but a masterpiece all the same, the glint of fear in his eyes. He could be projecting. “Okay.”
On two, they kiss, but Oliver pretends that it’s one. He immediately thinks that he’s never going to be able to live without access to kissing Cooper whenever he wants to now that he’s getting a taste of him, and that does not bode well for him. He kisses the fruity champagne off of his lips, clutching onto Cooper’s sweater for dear life, even though Cooper isn’t going anywhere, even though he asked Oliver first.
“Can you believe I spent a whole year kissing you,” is the first thing Cooper says when they stop to take an actual breath. For a second, Oliver can’t believe him. Everything seems so… ridiculous. A storm he thought was coming morphs into a light breeze.
“That—I don’t know what to even say.”
“Oh,” says Cooper, frowning.
“No,” Oliver rushes to rectify. “That was good. Um, happy New Year?”
Cooper’s face scrunches. “What is happening, dude?”
“I—do you wanna stop talking? Do something else?”
It’s a good distraction to have Cooper slotted against him, a great situation all around, and he thinks (hopes) that Cooper will remember tomorrow.