Best Fiends ✔

3 ♢ No Good

Oliver woke with a jolt as something brushed his knee. He shot upright, heart racing, and looked around before remembering where he was. Charlie's place. They must have fallen asleep during the third movie. Charlie's eyes were still closed, his breathing slow and even, so his hand must have slipped onto Oliver's knee by accident.

Oliver reached for his phone and groaned quietly. Four in the morning.

  He still had work to finish. His father would not let that slide. With a reluctant sigh, Oliver shifted out of the warm, comfortable position he had been in and stood. As he passed Charlie to sit somewhere else, he stopped.

Charlie was completely out, mouth slightly open, hair falling into his face. Oliver didn't realise what he was doing until his hand was already reaching out. His fingers brushed Charlie's cheek, warm and soft, and the moment the contact registered, Oliver froze.

What are you doing?

He pulled his hand back quickly, but his eyes stayed on Charlie. Eventually he forced himself to look away, embarrassed by his own thoughts. Still, even as he opened another email and cracked open an energy drink, Charlie lingered in his mind.

The boy felt impossible to forget.

♢ ♢ ♢

"Oliver? Oliver, wake up."

His eyes flew open. Charlie stood in front of him, holding a mug of coffee, brows knit together.

"Why are you asleep at the kitchen table?"

Oliver straightened, swearing softly when it all came back to him. He had fallen asleep working.

"Shit. What time is it?"

"Uh... ten?"

Oliver jumped to his feet. "I'm late for work. Shit!"

He grabbed the mug from Charlie's hands and downed the rest of the coffee in one go.

"Hey!"

Oliver winced. "I'm exhausted. My head feels like it's going to split open. Charlie, give me an upper."

"A what?"

"Just something small. A pill, a bag. Something to get me through the day."

Charlie stared at him, then shook his head. "No."

"What?" Oliver snapped.

"Obviously not. I already told you I'm not comfortable selling to you. And you overdosed yesterday, so why would I give you more drugs?"

"Because you're a dealer?"

Charlie's expression hardened. "So that's why you're here? Not as a friend, but as a customer?"

"I never said that," Oliver shot back, rolling his eyes.

Charlie scoffed and walked out of the room.

"You're being dramatic!" Oliver yelled after him.

He dropped back into his chair with a groan. Everyone around him was so dramatic. Why did people always get mad at him?

It wasn't his fault they were sensitive. Sometimes he wished he was surrounded by people more like himself. Thick-skinned. Calm. Smart.

♢ ♢ ♢

Oliver's eyes flicked nervously toward his office door. He had found pills in his desk drawer and swallowed them without hesitation. When he looked up, he noticed an intern staring at him.

What was she looking at?

It was unbearably hot. Sweat soaked through his shirt, the new one he had bought that morning because he couldn't bring himself to go home. Was the air conditioning broken?

His heart slammed against his ribs. His stomach churned violently, threatening to bring up last night's pizza. The words on his computer screen blurred and twisted, refusing to make sense.

"Oliver? Are you okay?"

He looked up to see his father standing there, studying him. When had he come in?

"Yeah," Oliver said quickly. "Just... bad pizza last night."

Ed Scott closed the door and stepped closer, his sharp gaze scanning his son. "I wasn't born yesterday. I know what this is."

"And what is it?" Oliver challenged.

Ed sighed. "Go home. I can't have you here embarrassing us. People are talking about your erratic behaviour."

"There's nothing erratic about it," Oliver snapped. "I'm being thorough. That's a good thing."

Ed shook his head. "Go home. Take today and tomorrow off. Get everything out of your system. But Thursday we have the shareholder meeting, so come in early. And sober."

"I can never impress you, can I?" Oliver sneered.

"What?"

Oliver slammed his hand down on the desk. "I work constantly and the second I have one bad day, suddenly it's drugs? You don't trust me at all!"

"Lower your voice," Ed hissed. "I never even said anything about drugs," Ed added quietly.

Oliver swore and collapsed back into his chair. "I..."

Ed gathered the files from Oliver's desk. "I'll finish these. I'll see you Thursday."

"That's not fair," Oliver protested. "I can handle it."

Ed didn't turn back.

♢ ♢ ♢

Oliver stormed into his apartment, anger carrying him forward. The whole office had watched him leave. The humiliation burned.

"Fuck," He muttered, punching the wall. He barely registered the pain as blood bloomed across his knuckles.

He stalked into his office, adrenaline still surging. It looked exactly as it had when he left with Nora. White powder dusted the floor. A broken picture frame lay nearby.

Why was everyone so sensitive? Why had Nora left him? He had been perfect for her. Leaving made no sense. Nora was careful. Calculated.

So why?

Why did everyone leave? Why did no one love him?

"Fuck!" he shouted, dragging his hands down his face.

His gaze landed on the bookshelf. Every frame held a smiling picture of Nora. How dare she say he never made her happy? The proof was right there.

He swept the frames off the shelf in one violent motion. Glass shattered. He grabbed the case, shaking it until it tore free from its hinges, then shoved it until it crashed to the floor.

A metal vase caught his eye, something they had paid an obscene amount for. He lifted it and slammed it against the desk again and again, yelling with each blow.

He tried. He really did.

Her presence was everywhere. Oliver stumbled through the apartment, heart racing uncontrollably. None of this was his fault. People leaving was not his fault.

He seized a pretentious armchair and hurled it into the glass table in the middle of the living room. The table shattered on impact.

His fists were still bleeding. Somewhere along the way, a shard of glass had sliced his arm. He felt nothing as blood mixed with tears. Nothing as he yelled, sobbed, and cursed into the wreckage of his home.

Nothing except the hollow realisation that he was completely alone.

♢ ♢ ♢