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Oliver had always wanted to be in love someday, ever since he was a pint-sized preschooler, watching his parents and grandparents choose each other every day. He used to listen to them recount their love stories for hours, how his mother had met his father at church as teens, how they just knew they were made for each other.
Oliver wanted that, Oliver couldn't wait for the day he just knew he found the right girl. His mother thought his obsession was cute, pushing him subtly towards girls she thought would be good for him, for as far back as he can remember. Lord, he tried with so many of them, he really did, but nothing felt right, nothing felt like the puzzle piece fitting they described day after day, but he was a Mama's boy first and foremost, so he just kept going, praying for the moment it all happened.
He'd met Chris 3days after his 16th birthday, the brunette teenager staying with Reid, Oliver’s close friend’s family. They're related, apparently, but Oliver's never seen Chris at any of his family events before. This boy is pretty, in the way male models are, the ones he peeks at on the cover of his mother's magazines, the ones he feels shame for staring at, always following with a prayer. Should he be praying now? He runs through a quick one just in case, mouthing the words as he begs for forgiveness from the one constant presence in his life.
Chris meets his eyes across the Hancock's dining table, looking intently at the elder. Oliver’s only over so Reid can give his cousin a tour of downtown Los Angeles, and Oliver can keep them out of trouble, and he's glad for it. He's never been to Boston, never even left California, so he's dying for a brand new view of the world. It's the best damn night of his life, the happiest he's been in a long time.
He feels at ease as Reid's car races down the highways, pointing out their usual haunts, where they've been smart and stupid all in one night, and Chris hangs onto every word like it's a story he never wants to forget. He’s funny, cracking jokes with Oliver and Reid like the three grew up together, and he feels safe. He’s still riding that high when they stop for slurpees, Chris looking back at him kindly, eyes shining, and his heart jumps in his chest.
He feels like he’s 12 again, sneaking in adult romance movies with his childhood best friend Macey, but this time, he’s not the watcher, he’s the liver, the girl in the movie who can’t help but smile when the man looks at her, and Chris’s the man. He’s never felt like this, and while he wants to relish in it, to move close like the girl always does, but the stones in his stomach force distance.
He thinks of his parents; they can help him, he knows they can. His parents help everyone, the lonely, the lost, the sick, and he is as sick as they come. He needs his mother more than anything right now, needs her to hold him till everything is alright, till the way Chris looked at him is forgotten.
Reid drops him off at home on his way through, and he’s in tears by the time he comes through the door. His mother is brewing tea in the kitchen, and when she notices her boy in tears, she’s already sheltering him in her loving arms.
“There’s something wrong with me.” He murmurs through his tears, and his mother’s already trying to wipe them all away, trying to shield her baby from his hurt.
“Are you sick? I can get you to Doctor Thornton in the morning, it'll be okay.” She assures in that calm tone he’s so used to, the one that comforted him through nightmares, through the breaking of his hand last year, the one he’s so dependent on sometimes.
“I think so, I think there's something wrong with my head. I keep- I-” He tries, as his mother feels for a fever, but he’s not feverish. It’s all inside his brain. Why? Why is his brain so wrong?
“What is it, baby? Headache, dizziness?” She smooths her hands over his hair kindly, gently, like it’s just another scary dream, and not his life.
“It feels like love, but it’s wrong, and I can't take it.’ He whispers, gripping her wrist for extra comfort.
“Love? Oh baby-” She mutters happily, like he’s told her something good, not that he’s strayed from The Lord’s hand.
“Mommy, you should’ve seen the way he looked at me.” The words slip out, before he can catch himself, all heavy and edged in upset, and his mother looks like she’ll be sick.
“He?” His mother hisses.
“That’s the wrong part, please, I need-” he begs, fruitlessly.
She’s already calling for his father, keeping a vice grip on his arm. He needs help. Why isn’t she helping him? She’s supposed to save him from being wrong, not reassure the idea. He can barely hear them yelling over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, his brain and him coming to an agreement for once, they need to go, quickly.
His father yanking his shirt’s collar snaps him to reality, and he can barely even process flesh meeting flesh, as he’s hit by his dad, the man who promised he’d protect Oliver forever.
“No son of mine will sin, not in this house.” Pain blooms across the right side of his face, and he covers it instinctively. He can see his father’s hand rearing back to strike him again, and he makes good on his plan; he runs. He runs as fast as his legs will carry him, all of the way back to the Hancocks’. When he sees the familiar home, he feels more at ease. He’d not noticed Chris was outside till he moved towards the steps up to the back of the house, his eye’s already shut from the swelling.
The younger is in front of him, cradling his face like he's treasure, and not a mistake. His hands are soft, softer than his mother’s ever were, and the sound of her horror plays on a sick loop in his head. He doesn't deserve this; there is something wrong with him. Why is he being held so kindly when he knows he is wrong?
“Oh fuck, what- what happened to you? Hey, it’s okay, oh my- you’re bleeding. Hey, I’m gonna go get the first aid kit, okay? I’ll get the first aid kit, and my aunt, it’s okay, yeah? Come inside.” The younger coos, as he guides Oliver through the house he knows all too well, holding both his hands. His heart does the jump again, and struggles to choke back his dinner.
He’s settled on their couch, and as Chris leaves, it's what Oliver deserves; he needs to be alone after how terrible he's been. He didn't want to turn away from the holy light his mother preaches about; he doesn't want to be a sinner; he wants to go to Heaven when he dies.
When Chris comes back, he’s even more gentle. He shouldn’t be; Oliver doesn’t deserve it. Mrs. Hancock takes pictures of Oliver’s wounds with her phone before stepping back, letting Chris take center stage.
“Can you tell us what happened? Did you fall?” Chris murmurs, wiping at the elder’s temple with a wet cloth. There are red streaks on the cloth, and Chris’s face tenses at the sight, but he keeps wiping.
Oliver won't say- can't say. If Chris knows he's wrong, that he's turned away from The Lord's, then he'll leave, and all the good feelings will stop.
“It's okay. We won't judge. Just let it out,” he promises. His mother used to say the same, and look where that got him. He can't stop the words from escaping, though, clawing their way out of his mouth from a bitter tongue, and he has to stop himself from being sick, right there, on Mrs. Hancock’s heirloom coffee table.
Chris breathes before looking back at his aunt. “Would you feel better if it were just us here?”
Yes. A million times yes. He loves Mrs. Hancock, sure, but her in the room, any adult in the room, makes him afraid. He doesn’t want to be hurt again.
“It's just us now,” Chris murmurs as he guides Oliver’s hand to the prime position to ice his eye. “Take your time.”
He dry swallows, and Chris steps back to get a water bottle for the elder, returning quickly. He holds the mouth of the bottle to his lips, pouring till the bottle is half-empty.
“I- there's something wrong with me.” He sobs, tears spilling from his one good eye. “I- you- make me feel wrong.”
“Wrong how?” Chris asks.
“Wrong, like loving boys is wrong,” Oliver explains.
“It's okay to be gay, you know, it's not a crime, or- or a sin, it's just who you are, and I like who you are already.
Oliver chokes, coughs, and Chris rubs his back. How can Chris like him? Doesn't he know Oliver is bad?
“But-” Then Chris is kissing him. Click. The puzzle piece is in place, but Oliver pulls away. This isn't right. He grasps the small cross necklace from around his neck, tugging it out from under his t-shirt, fully intending to pray forgiveness, pray he will not fall down into hell after he’s died, and Chris exhales.
“Who told you it was bad? Your pastor?” Chris is curious.
“My dad, how did you know I believe?” Oliver responds.
“Your necklace mainly, but I saw you mouthing Psalm 37:3 at dinner. Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness.” Chris’s voice purrs out the prayer itself, and Oliver feels seen in a way he never has before. He’s heard kids his age murmur prayers before at his church’s youth group, but it was never like this. He didn’t feel anything with them, but he does now, and it’s starting to scare him.
“It’s not a sin. I promise. I know it’s okay. You don’t have to beg forgiveness; you haven’t done anything wrong.” Chris’s touch is still gentle, still caring, as he tugs Oliver’s hand free of the tight press he’d trapped them in. He studies the appendage for a second before pressing kiss after kiss to it.
“I’ve spent my entire life in church, and I still turned out gay. It’s not a flaw, I promise.”
He is kissing Oliver’s hand before the taller can process, and the puzzle piece clicks. It cannot click, not now, not with a boy. It is supposed to click with Constance, the pastor’s daughter; that's what his mother had said. That’s how it worked for her, and that’s how it’s supposed to work for him.
“I promise-” another kiss, then another. “I promise you haven’t done anything wrong. It’s okay. You're a good person.”
It's still hard for him to believe, but Chris is damn good at convincing. He leans into the younger, and Chris is gentle, caring, holding him like he’s a treasure.
They're sat in silence for a while before Oliver's able to speak again. “I should go home.”
“No. You can’t go back there. It’s not safe, your folks are assholes. You’re spending tonight here.” He’d not even heard Reid step into the living room, let alone settle down next to Oliver. “Promise you’ll stay, I’ll lend you pajamas.”
Oliver can only nod as Chris speaks. “He can stay with me.”
“You sure?” Reid asks.
“Hundred percent.” Chris doesn’t even hesitate, already helping Oliver to his feet and up to bed in his room. Reid delivers the promised pajamas as Chris helps Oliver change and get under the covers. He moves to settle on the loveseat instead, sleeping there, but Oliver tenses.
“Don’t. Uh- you can stay here, w-with me. I can’t kick you out of your own bed.” He murmurs, and Chris obliges, climbing in the other side.
You let me know if you want me out, okay? “Chris responds, already falling asleep. “No questions asked.”
“I will. Night.” Oliver speaks, letting himself get comfy. It takes a while for him to actually fall asleep, but when he does, he- he feels somehow safe.