The Kids Aren't Alright [Slash] [BoyxBoy]

Chapter Eight: [Olive]

Tw: Self harm, implied

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Sunlight spills into my open window like a watercolour painting. A thick breeze trails through and lingers, sending shivers down my skin. I run a hand down my face, yawning and sitting up.

Soft knocking sounds at my door. My mom steps in a second later, walking over and sitting at the edge of the bed. "Are you awake?"

I rub my eyes. "Sorta."

She laughs gently and pulls my hands from my face. "Why don't you come to the living room? We need to talk to you."

I furrow my eyebrows but nod. "Okay."

She leaves my room and shuts the door for me to get dressed. I pull on light blue jeans and a pastel purple shirt. When I sit down in the living room, my parents eye the outfit in distaste, but I easily ignore it.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Everything's fine," my dad promises.

"Olive, why don't you tell us about your drawings?" Mom suggests.

I fidget with the hem of my shirt. They've never taken interest in my art before. "Um... Which one?"

"How many do you have?" Dad asks in confusion.

I quirk an eyebrow. "I've been drawing since I was seven." They look at me blankly, so I hold back a sigh and say, "I have a lot."

My mom takes my dad's hand and purses her lips. "What do you like to draw?"

"I don't know, a lot of things." I pause, before saying, "Flowers, mainly."

My dad looks away as a frown appears on my mom's face. "You draw... Flowers?" She asks.

I start to get up. "Yeah, I can show you if you-"

"No, you don't need to do that," Dad rushes. He relaxes as I sink back into the couch. "Olive, why do you want to draw so badly?"

Caught off guard, I stumble over my words. "Because- Because I just do." I look down. "It makes me happy."

The frown only seems to grow on my mother's face. "But can't you do something more reliable?" Dad nods along as she speaks. "You could go into architecture, like your dad. That's kind of like drawing, right?"

A weight pushes down in my stomach. "Like drawing buildings. And I'm not good at math."

"But you can get better," she insists with a smile.

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. "That's not the point."

My dad leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Listen, Olive. We know you want to get a degree for- for some art thing. And if you want to do that, you can. But we can't pay for it."

Silence spills out into the room. The weight in my stomach screws farther in, like a power drill, making me sick.

My mom continues. "We'd just be bad parents if we let you go after something so unrealistic."

"Now, if you want to pursue something more reliable, we'll gladly pay for it."

"And if you want to draw on the side, that'd be fine."

They keep talking, but I stop listening. I shake my head and rub my eyes, a sudden exhaustion washing over me.

"You have to say something, Olive," my dad says gently.

I lift my gaze. "Like what?"

"Are you okay with this?"

I almost want to laugh, but I'm afraid of the vibrations it'll send through my body. "Why even bother asking?" I keep my voice soft, quiet, hoping not to topple over the little stack of composure I've built for myself. "Is my answer going to change anything?"