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The James Royce-Royces were famous for throwing the biggest, wildest Halloween party in the neighborhood. This year was no exception, and while Luc usually loved it, his heart wasn’t in it this time. He’d worn a terrible costume (a low-budget take on a slutty Dr. Ellie Sattler) and downed several cups of punch (likely more vodka than juice, going by taste) in an attempt to push thoughts of Oliver out of his head. He had been largely unsuccessful, and was now standing outside at 2:30 AM trying to convince himself to leave. His buzz had long since faded, but not before he had drunkenly texted Oliver the one thing he didn’t know how to take back:
I love yoou
He hadn’t meant to say it, he really hadn’t. He wasn’t even that drunk, or so he’d thought. But Bridget had been poking and prodding all night into what was going on between them and she was so convinced that Oliver must have real feelings for him, too, and Luc had felt like his head was going to explode from the pressure cooker that his mind had become, replaying their conversations and dissecting every text until nothing made sense at all anymore. So somehow, at some point, his phone had found its way to his hand, and he’d typed the words out. Just to see how it would feel to really say it. But the longer he’d stared at it, the less he felt like he could keep locking his feelings away. So he’d pressed send when Bridget had gotten up to get them some water, feeling too self-conscious to do it while she was still sitting there. It would feel more real if she knew he’d done it, somehow.
But now here he was, two hours later, considerably more sober and with car keys in hand, knowing that the only thing he’d do if he went home was go to bed and stare at the ceiling all night. Because Oliver hadn’t even read the goddamn text yet. It was bad enough to regret sending a text. It was worse to regret a text that had been read and received no reply. But regretting a text and stewing over whether or not to try to do damage control before it had even been read? What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
He checked his phone again, but the only notifications were home safe! messages in the group chat (BringBackPAN-gea). He opened his text thread with Oliver, the I love yoou text now looking even more out of the blue and unhinged, the typo proudly announcing his drunkenness. Drunk texting your fake boyfriend that you love him at midnight on Halloween already sounds like something out of a fucking sitcom, but a typo? Really? He might as well have just texted Oliver, hey my life is a fucking joke to the universe apparently so i totally understand if you never want to speak to me ever again, even though i’m totally in love with you. cheers!
This was going to be a disaster if he didn’t do anything. What if Oliver freaked out and called off their fake relationship? He’d have no date to the Beetle Drive. He’d lose his job. What if it was so bad that Bridget had to choose between them and she chose Oliver? He had to try to salvage this somehow. He scraped together what courage he could, abandoned what little dignity he had left, and pressed Call.
“Hello?” Oliver’s voice sounded tentative, as if he didn’t know who would be on the other line.
“Oh.” It was suddenly too cold out, and Luc became aware of exactly how ridiculous his costume looked and how stupid he felt even calling. He hadn’t really expected Oliver to answer, but Oliver sounded surprisingly awake for someone who usually kept a strict 10 PM bedtime. “Um…Oliver?
“Lucien? Are you all right?” Oliver sounded concerned, but the worry seemed distant somehow, as if muffled by the tension in his voice.
“What the fuck are we doing, anyway?” Oh, fuck. Luc hadn’t known what he was going to say until the words were leaving his mouth.
“I don’t understand what you mean. Why are you calling me?”
“I mean, you got my text, didn’t you?”
There was a too-long pause before Oliver responded.
“I…yes, I did.”
“I feel like I’m losing my mind, Oliver. We talk on the phone, like, every night. For what? Verstidimilude?” So, maybe he was still a little drunk.
“Verisimilitude.”
“Whatever the fuck it’s called. Who are we even doing that for? It’s not like anybody hears those conversations. You want me to believe that it’s just platonic? That it’s fake?”
“Lucien, I –”
“You know, Bridge tells me, like, all the time that there’s something between us. Are you really going to tell me that it’s nothing?”
Silence settled thick in the air and Luc realized he didn’t know what he expected from this phone call. He’d meant to try to fix things, somehow, but it seemed to be getting worse. Well, if he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened, the only thing left was to try to get out.
“I’m so sorry, I’m drunk, I shouldn’t have called.” He felt every cup of punch he’d had that night threatening to make another appearance. “It was…I was just joking, really. I’ll leave you alone, I’m sorry.” He should hang up. Why wasn’t he hanging up?
“Don’t lie to me, Lucien.” Oliver’s voice was hard.
Luc’s stomach dropped. He had been wrong. Bridget had been wrong. Of course Oliver hadn’t texted him back: Oliver didn’t love Luc, he hated him, and now everything would be ruined. He was trying to ghost Luc because it was the kindest possible way out of this for everyone. Luc wanted nothing more in that moment than for a hole to appear in the ground and swallow him whole. Hell, he’d settle for a cartoon anvil falling from the sky and putting him out of his misery.
“I’m not - I didn’t lie, I really have been drinking. I’m sorry, I won’t call you again.” Or text, or show up at his door. It really was done. He felt shame spreading hot in his chest.
“Christ, Lucien.”
“Look, I get it, I fucked up and I’m sorry, okay? I said I wouldn’t fucking call you again. I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“What, then?”
“Fucking hell,” Oliver muttered.
“Why are you angry with me? I said I was sorry, I don’t know what you want!”
“I just didn’t want it to happen like this!” Oliver exploded. “Not like this.”
“Not like…what?”
“Nothing. Not like anything. It doesn’t matter.”
“Oliver, you realize how fucking ominous that sounds, right? You can’t just say shit like that. Tell me what you mean.”
“Lucien, do you really think that I haven’t spent every day for the past few months thinking about kissing you? That I’m not about to say I love you every time I hang up the phone? That it didn’t take every bit of self control I had not to hold your hand when you were right there next to me in my bed? As if I haven’t been completely gone for you since we first met. And here you are, telling me that you love me when you’re fucking drunk and I don’t know if you even mean it, or whether this is all just a joke to you. If I’m just a joke to you.”
“I meant it, of course I meant it.” Luc could barely process all that Oliver had just said. “This has never been a joke to me. Even if it wasn’t…real, it was never a joke.”
Distant music from the party drifted down to where Luc stood at the curb. He wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t all a dream he was having while passed out on the James Royce-Royces' sofa.
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m still at the party. Well, kind of. I was leaving, I guess, or trying to.”
“I’ll call you a taxi to take you home. Do you want to…come over for breakfast tomorrow? And talk about this?”
Luc prayed to every god he’d ever heard of that his hangover in the morning would be minimal.
“I would like that. I’ll see you in the morning. And…I love you.”
“I love you too.”