Chapter Text
“It wasn’t an easy decision, Oppie. We can lie all we want to ourselves but we both know this isn't going to work long term.”
It was the truth that this wasn’t the easiest conclusion for Lawrence to come to. Ever since that evening they last spent together when Lawrence returned from back East, he had what his future legacy would be in print on his mind. He could see the footnotes by his name in books highlighting his inability to marry, or worse, as a disgraced homosexual. And as much as he loved Oppie–both mind and body–the more romantic gestures and activities he enjoyed early in their relationship were disregarded in their limited aligned availability for each other for carnal needs, and the imbalance made Lawrence question if Oppie ever cared about those other things at all. He didn’t want to call Oppie selfish for putting his needs first as Lawrence knew it was his own fault for not communicating these concerns earlier, but whether it was cowardice in not wanting to know if Oppie really only needed him to send him to subspace to quell his mind or just knowing this double life would eventually eat away at him, he decided to end it how Oppie started it.
“You chose seventeen yellow ones.”
“Because I still wish to remain friends, Oppie. And I am still grateful for our time together and the memories we had as more than, all the way from the picnics by the Bay to New Mexico. But if that is something you cannot do then I understand.”
“I guess you won’t be wanting this then.” Oppie held up his single burgundy rose he brought as usual, not expecting to find the bunch of yellow in return.
Lawrence was annoyed that Oppie didn’t even seem to hear what he just said, once again turning it into his own needs. Selfish. He should just say it. Tell him that part of the problem is that all he ever receives from him now is just a damn burgundy rose with none of the diverse creativity Oppie had in their early months together. Hell, finding the flowers to break up with Oppie was the first time Lawrence had to crack open his floriography dictionary in nearly two years. “It’s best that I don’t accept it, no.”
“So we can’t even just once more-”
“No.”
There was the kicked dog look from Oppie again, and Lawrence was trying his damndest to resist giving in and letting Oppie have his way. “As much as I’m now tempted to run my fingers through your locks, even that will not help me learn to get over you. Like I said, this was not an easy decision, and I am not like you where I could just falsely wed as a front–to a lesbian or not–and not feel unease about it. Do what pleases you, but I cannot continue to live like this.”
“And what makes you think you could live a satisfied life with a woman you could never truly love as a front for how you want others to perceive you?”
“I’ll manage. At least there will be less questions from my patrons.”
Lawrence wanted more fight from Oppie, even going so far as to desiring it just to feel validated that he really was Oppie’s whole world beyond just the sex. It hurt more that instead of a dramatic scene, Oppie just accepted it, taking Lawrence’s flowers with a nod that they can remain friends and they could have lunch tomorrow. Lawrence agreed, watching him go and just hoping everything would be alright between them as time progressed.
The next day at lunch, Oppie came in with his curls haphazardly cut off, clearly a self-done job. Lawrence didn’t ask or even acknowledge it as he could clearly hear the vindictive ’so you aren’t tempted by them’ response without ever needing to hear it from Oppie’s lips.