Oliver Loves Carson | ✔️

chapter ten

Oliver wasn't driving.

Which was a good thing, too, because Oliver was feeling more anxious than ever. Everybody was squished into a car that was way too small to fit them in, and Oliver had practically begged his dad to sit in the back seat while he sat up front with his mom. She was still pissed at him, glaring at his father when he relented to his son's request. Oliver was a little surprised that his dad had done it instead of ignoring him or something, but he figured that he had sensed that there was something--or someone--Oliver was trying to hide from. He couldn't be any more right. He was stuck inside of a tiny area, mere centimeters from Carson. Just the thought of it caused Oliver's throat to close up, as if he were having an allergic reaction to physical closeness.

Carson eagerly kept trying to catch Oliver's eye in the rearview mirror, but he shifted his gaze every time. The truth was plain and simple. Loving Carson had made him weak. He had never even dreamed of having a chance with him, but foolishly, he had done something; he had kissed him. Even if Carson didn't actually hate Oliver like he'd thought, Carson was straight. And even if Oliver had miraculously turned him gay--which was a long stretch because after all, Oliver was Oliver--then it wasn't like Oliver could just be in a relationship with him.

He'd never been in a relationship before. He repelled people--not like he'd minded--but most boys and girls usually just stood out of his way. It made sense. He wasn't friendly and most people dodged away from his grumpiness. They were completely different, Carson and him. How long could that last? They weren't positive and negative charges, they were people. Besides, even in some alternate universe where Oliver wasn't an asshole, and he was the perfect picture of manners and grace; how would Oliver even go about a relationship? What did you do in a relationship? Whatever you did, Oliver was sure that he'd do it wrong.

He always did something wrong.

Oliver snapped out of his reverie. His mind was wandering too far. Those were too many what ifs to even fathom--too many possibilities, and Oliver hated possibilities like he hated colds. They made him nervous and fidgety; they required too much thought and too much reality and it was just too much.

Oliver wondered what he would do with all the newly acquired time he had, now that he was planning on avoiding Carson like the plague. Perhaps he could study for his SATs, which were fast approaching. Oliver hadn't even begun to study, but he was always better at studying under pressure, though all of his teachers would scold him for it until he reached the depths of hell.

Hell. It seemed like a great place for someone like him. Not because he was gay, just because he was an asshole.

Oliver's eyes quickly flashed to the rearview mirror, just to see if Carson was still looking. He was.

Oliver looked away.

***

Oliver was ignoring him, and it was driving Carson crazy.

He never liked people being mad at him. He was a secret--or a not-so-secret--softie, and when people hated him, it was like something was tearing at him from the inside, scratching at skin and bone and organ until it made its way out and tore him in half.

Carson caught himself admiring Oliver's side profile more than once, and it was then that he realized that it wasn't the first time he had done this before. He had done it on multiple occasions, when the peaceful silence blanketed them and there was nothing else to do but look and feel. He had always done it mindlessly, but now, things were anything but mindless.

Oliver was quite handsome.

His skin was smooth and rich and dark all at the same time. His hair was like ink and spilled over his face in springy, tight curls. Carson sometimes felt the itch to push it back out of his face and see if it was as soft as it looked; to wrap a curl around his finger and watch it retract. His fingers were long and thin--musician's hands, though Carson didn't know if he played any instruments--and the calluses on his palms looked rough and hardened. And his eyes. If Oliver looked like night, then his eyes were stars. They were a dark blue, a pure cobalt. It was a cheesy thought, and Carson chastised himself slightly.