Opposites Attract ━━ Paul Lahote

// 𝖎. 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 𝔟𝔲𝔤 //

𝕋urning up the radio, Oliver grimaces. Fuck this weather.

     It's not rain, Oliver Muses, eyes peering at the molten dark sky above. It's more like hellfire sent from hell the way it's been relentlessly trying the strength of his front windscreen for the better part of an hour. Or an act of God, he guesses. Just like the small but rather constant warning lights flashing in his peripheral. And if he stops, which he'd rather not do, he knows he'll get soaked. For all it's lovely charm, his little bug does, unfortunately, lack in the heating department.      

       He'd not needed heating in LA. Not needed a coat in LA.

Forks, Washington, is definitely not LA.

      The cold weather is irritating his split lip, chapped skin straining the already tender cut on his bottom plump. His tongue runs over it out of habit, grimacing at the metallic tang that fills his mouth and the sting that follows.

A lump forms in his throat, a heaviness in his stomach, and then Oliver is fighting the urge to cry, sniffing angrily at the traitorous tears that threaten to leak. Because suddenly everything is a little much for a Thursday morning in mid-September, the rain and the cold and the split skin dusting his knuckles and the fact that once again his choice in relationships turn out to be shitty. Because fuck love and fuck boys in general. Or maybe he's just being dramatic.

      His gaze turns angry as he again flicks his eyes to his dash. Yep. Still flashing an alarming red, the only warmth radiating in the cool landscape of his dark car. Curse those black clouds.

Oliver's whole world is currently filling the space that is his (once upon a time) sky blue, turned dirty grey, 1972 Voltswagon Beetle. The thought is stifling, claustrophobic almost. And even music blaring doesn't stop the sudden empty feeling pooling in his stomach or the rush of panic that seems to fill his entire being. Because having your entire life inside of a tiny car is the opposite of stability. Not that his life has ever had much of that,

It takes three and a half miles for his bug to give out, truly a valiant effort if there ever was one. Oliver curses.

He's not Washington weather prepared, that fact quickly realised once he steps out the door of his beloved car. He decides he hates Forks almost as quickly as he is soaked to the bone. And that try as he may, staring at the innards of his beautiful beetle will do nothing to fix whatever clusterfuck has gone wrong.

The only thing deader than his car is his phone, and another skyward curse is thrown.

         "Fuck my luck." He breaths hotly, eyes closing in annoyance and head tilted in a silent prayer.

His feet, however, are dry as hell and cosy to boot, so really who is he to complain? He's not succumbed to the elements -yet. He's got rations if push comes to shove, although the sustenance of half a bottle of cola and some half-eaten stale doughnuts are dubious.

           "I could do with a coffee right now," He mutters, fingers uselessly prodding at the engine. 

Something doesn't look right as he leans over the engine, he's sure. Then he scoffs. The fucking thing could be perfect and he wouldn't know the difference. Although he doesn't have to be an engineer or a psychic to know he'll be walking the last few miles to his destination. He groans.

         Fuck the rain.

         "I'm sorry Veronica, you beautiful beautiful machine, but I'm leaving you-" He slams the bonnet and fishes for his rucksack. His suitcase will have to wait. He debates sitting out the downpour, then rethinks the decision quickly. He couldn't get wetter if he tried. "-I think we need a break but I'll be back don't you worry." With a final pat to her dented roof, Oliver locks the car saying farewell to his bug and by association, any feeling in his limbs.
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