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Oliver didn't go to dances. They were loud, uncontrollable, with flashing lights and way too many bodies grinding against each other. Nearly six hundred students packed into the cafetorium, because of course their small town high school had one of those. Fold-up tables shoved against the wall to make room for sweaty, gyrating teenagers.
It was gross. Unsanitary. Oliver was pretty sure he had seen a pair of kids share gum.
Unbelievable.
Earlier, Victoria had came up to him, two drinks in hand and tank-top on the verge of surrender. She had passed one cup to Oliver, winked and said something about some kid named Joel having a flask before sauntering off.
He had only needed to take one, small sip before determining it was not just iced tea. What kind of person mixed that with vodka? It wasn't horrible, but… ugh.
He hadn't drank from the cup since. Tossed it out, actually.
Now, he leans against the wall, regretting a lot. Regretting showing up, mainly. Also regretting dressing so… formally. He was fairly certain most of his peers assumed he was a teacher, because truly, what kind of a teenager would show up to a party in slacks? His fault, he supposes, but appearances were everything to him. Mature for his age, he'd been told before.
He had to chuckle at that. Sure, most of the time.
Minutes went by, more 2000s-esque songs played. Britney Spears. Avril Lavigne. At least one song by the Barenaked Ladies. It could be worse.
Oliver pulls out his phone. 7:30. Just an hour and thirty minutes to go.
Eventually, Oliver swings open the doors to the hallway. The less crowded one, with an exit nearly ten feet away. He needed fresh air before he threw up.
He swings the door open, hinges squeaking in compliant. Outside is cold, welcoming, refreshing compared to the humidity of the cafetorium. The first snowfall of November is starting, hesitant, as if it's unsure about the timing.
That's not what catches Oliver's eye, though. No, it's the boy sitting on the singular step, facing out towards the parking lot. Broad build, flannel plaid top, jeans damp at the frayed ends. About as dressed up as any country kid around here got.
Oliver stays rooted to the ground. He recognizes the boy, but only by his first name. Owen. Kind. Too kind, if you asked Oliver. No one survives on shy looks and polite words, not here. Seemingly, Owen must have gotten that hint tonight. His shoulders shake with held back sobs, audible in the quiet evening.
Comforting wasn't his thing. Feelings were fickle and messy and had no discernible pattern, none that he noticed, at least. Numbers? Equations? Even the rules of the English language, Oliver understood it all. Formulas made sense. He didn't skip Grade 9 math for fun.
But you couldn't hold a human heart in your hand and tell it there were rules to follow. You also couldn't leave it palpitating, bleeding out in the cold, no matter how sticky the blood was or if it got everywhere.
Oliver takes a step forward. Then another, cautious. A thin layer of snow crunches under his Converse. Owen tenses up, glancing over his now rigid shoulders. He stares at Oliver briefly before tucking his chin back against his chest.
With a sigh that only half hides his annoyance, Oliver sits down next to Owen, legs tucked close together. Oliver cranes his neck to get a good look at Owen.
Owen's gaze is locked onto the ground in front of him, face flushed a deep red from the cold or crying or both. His bangs are messy, cut by one of the girls in the grade above from hairstyling class, if you believed the word around the school.
After several agonizing moments of silence, Oliver finally speaks up. "What are you doing out here?" He's more curious then concerned, truth be told.
Oliver doesn't get a reply. Owen only rubs at his tear-stained face, free hand resting against his knee.
So, he presses. He's always liked knowing, and this was no different. "Got too rowdy and some teacher kicked you out? Or were you just unlucky and got caught vaping as if the majority of this school doesn't do it?"
Owen inhales sharply, both hands digging into the worn fabric of his jeans now, fistfuls of denim. He doesn't even look at Oliver, eyes screwed shut.
Tilting his head, Oliver continues. "One of those redneck girls promise she was going to show up and then didn't? They're all stuck-up bitches if you ask me. Especially Caydence, but I'm sure you already know her from showing cattle," Oliver nearly cringes at himself. This was going horribly. "You show cattle, don't you?"
Finally, with white knuckles and a shaky voice, Owen speaks. "Why do you care?"
"… Excuse me?" Oliver looks blankly at Owen. Owen turns his head, opening his eyes to stare back, tears ready to spill over.
"I said, why do you care." Owen drags out the words as if Oliver's slow.
Oliver scoffs. "Am I not allowed to ask questions?"
Owen makes a mildly pained sound, ducking his head down, hands moving from his knees to his hair to grip onto the blond strands.
Neither of them talk for at least five minutes. Oliver rests his chin in his palm, huffing. This was pointless.
Just as he begins to get up, Owen says something, although it's spoken too softly to be heard. Oliver pauses mid-motion, kneeling on the cold ground.
"Pardon?"
Owen sniffles and lets his arms drop, half-crossed over his chest, resting on his legs. "You ask too many questions."
Oliver bites his tongue before he says something impolite. "… And how is that— oh, forget it." If he asked one more thing, Owen might've throttled him.
"I didn't get kicked out," Owen continues, staring off into the parking lot. Snow melts in his hair. "I don't vape. No girl… bailed on me, or whatever. Yes, I know Caydence, and yes, I show cattle."
Oliver groans, sitting back down on the pavement. If you could even call it that. "So, what are you— sorry."
"You can ask me stuff. Just not, like… seven things at once." Owen runs his nails over his jeans repetitively.
"Okay." Oliver breathes in once, exhaling the next words. "What are you doing out here?"
Owen shrugs. "You won't tell anyone, yeah?"
"… Is it drugs?"
"Wh— No, it's not drugs! Do… do people usually cry when taking drugs?"
Oliver puts his hands up. "I wouldn't know!"
Owen chuckles, then pauses and runs his hands through his hair, inhaling deeply. His brows furrow slightly. "Uhm. I was stood up. How ever you say it."
"But you just said you weren't?"
"Not by a girl."
"Oh… " Oliver catches himself staring and forces himself to stop. "you're… okay."
With a hum, Owen begins playing with a button on his top. "You didn't know?"
Oliver makes a noise of indifference. He wasn't going to say to Owen's face, 'Sorry, I don't tend to notice you except for that one time you got the Agriculture Award last year.'
"People like you aren't usually… queer." He says instead.
"Rural folks?" Owen responds. Oliver nods. "Well, you're rural, aren't you?"
"… What are you trying to say?"
Owen adverts his gaze for a second, hand pausing on the button. "That you're gay."
Oliver stares. So far, 75% of what Owen has said during this entire conversation has been nothing but astoundingly bewildering. "What?"
"You're kind of obvious."
"I am not—"
"Yeah, you are." Owen smiles softly, amused. His cheeks are still painted a pale red, presumedly from his earlier tears. "I've noticed things."
Oliver braces himself, internally. "Things? Plural?"
"Yes," Owen nods, "I have a list. Mentally."
Oliver laughs once, incredulously. "A list. Is— Is it categorized too?"
"Well, there's things you do on a daily basis, supposedly, and there's things I've seen you do only a handful of times." Owen wrings his hands, glancing away again.
"… I think I should be worried that you're stalking me." Oliver says, jokingly concerned.
Owen shakes his head, bangs shifting. "No, you're just hard not to notice. Do you not notice yourself?" He asks, and when Oliver only gawks at him, mouth agape, he continues. "You're louder than you think. Maybe not talking wise, but your presence is."
Then Owen points at Oliver's eyes. "Also, you use eyeliner. Sometimes eyeshadow, but I suspect that's Victoria's idea."
Oliver swallows, eyebrows narrowing. He bites at his lip before speaking. "Does it look good?"
"Sorry?"
"The eyeshadow. Does it suit me?"
Owen's smiling awkwardly now. "… Please explain."
Oliver puts his head in his heads for a few seconds, then translates. "Aesthetically. Appearance-wise. Does it match my…" He gestures at his face, "Complexion. My vibe."
"Oh, well…" Owen begins to pick at a loose thread sticking out of his sleeve cuff. "I'm not well-versed in terms of… makeup. At all. But I think it looks nice."
"Really?" Oliver breathes a laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "I thought it was trashy."
"No, it goes well with your… uh, everything." Owen murmurs, yanking the thread out and letting it drop.
Oliver studies Owen for a moment. Mostly his face. The freckles spanning his cheeks, the pale blue eyes avoiding Oliver's own. "… Who bailed on you?"
"I… don't think you'd know him. Some cowboy wannabe jackass."
"Well, that makes two queer rednecks." Oliver nudges Owen with his shoulder in an attempt to be playful. Owen smiles, laughing quietly. "Also, most country kids tend to be jackasses, so you're gonna have to tell me a name."
Owen traces the seam running up the side of his jeans with his fingertips, visibly chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Do you know Tyler?"
Oliver cringes. "That Tyler? The Tyler that got into a physical fight with a teacher?"
With an embarrassed sigh, Owen nods his head. "Yeah…"
"The Tyler that set something on fire in the auto shop class?"
"Mhm." Owen's teeth sink into his lip. "That's… that's him. Unfortunately."
Oliver leans closer to Owen, trying not to grin an obnoxious amount. This was news to him. Massive news. "Okay. Two things. One, he's gay?"
"Uh, yea, he is..." Owen's expression turns mildly distressed, eyes slightly squinting above full cheeks. "Oliver, you can't tell anyone. Please."
Ignoring him, Oliver reaches up with both hands to cup Owen's face. Owen gasps, faint and accidental. "Two, you deserve way better. That man looks like he crawled out of a demolition derby, and I don't think there's anyway that can be said in a good way."
"I… don't like how accurate that is."
Oliver shrugs before getting up, hiding a smug grin. "What can I say? People are easy to read. Especially guys like him."
Owen leans back on his palms, gaze following Oliver's figure. "… Where you goin'?"
"Uh, no, where are we going, which is inside." Oliver gestures to the school doors with his head, curls brushing his neck. "Please tell me you know how to dance."
"I… know how to two step?" Owen grins, head tilting down shyly.
Of course. Oliver closes his eyes, counting seconds before reaching a hand out to Oliver. "You know what? Sure, that works."
Owen stares at Oliver's hand before taking it, heaving himself up with a groan, Blundstone boots planted on the ground. "Sorry, sorry— my hands are all sweaty…"
"They're not sweaty. Just… clammy." Owen smiles at that, letting Oliver lead the way back inside.
A week later, Owen leaned over a Caesar salad, dressing-drenched chunk of lettuce speared on a fork as he whispered in a low tone to Oliver about the recent incident involving Tyler's truck and three slashed tires.
Oliver only shrugged, hiding his smile behind a slice of orange.