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Oliver Bearman considers himself to be a unremarkably regular guy.
He lives a regular life. He goes to his lectures. He eats a balanced diet (now enforced by a terrifying dictator who banned his gummy bears because he thinks Ollie consumed way too much and is at risk of having diabetes). He plays sports, lifts weights, and sleeps eight hours a night.
University has been incredibly kind to him. He's found a major he is passionate about, has a solid group of mates in his cohort, and by some insane universal luck, he managed to secure the boy of his dreams.
He is happy. He is settled.
But sometimes, he is still not entirely used to... himself.
This feeling usually creeps up on him when he leaves the safety of his university bubble and goes back home to Essex.
He had taken the train down for the weekend. It was supposed to be a purely wholesome trip. He had spent Saturday cheering himself hoarse at Amelie’s show jumping competition, embarrassing his little sister in front of her friends. He had spent Sunday morning kicking a football around the garden with Thomas and a couple of their cousins.
It was perfect. Until Sunday night, when he agreed to meet up with his old secondary school mates at the local pub. He didn't have to come, really. He never really had close mate back in secondary school. The ones he'd consider close would be Luke and Dino, though they go to different universities and apparently adult friendship consists of arranging schedules two weeks prior to even grab a drink or two.
But here he is, sitting in the dimly lit sticky-floored booth, and feeling an uncomfortable disconnect. He likes to think that it was for the sake of... old time? But really, it was more of him feeling bad saying no to Mia because she had been somewhat kind to him back in the old days.
See, in secondary school, Ollie had not... look like the person he is today. For the vast majority of his teenage years, Ollie had been a lanky, pasty, awkward nerd with bad posture and a stutter when he got nervous. It didn't help that was the kind of kid whose uniform was always pristine, hair trimmed neatly, carrying water bottle and umbrella everywhere.
His puberty had been delayed, only hitting him like a freight train the summer before he left for university.
He was never bullied per se. Never actively shoved, tripped, or god forbid physically assaulted. It's always something passive. Being the butt of a joke, or plenty of jokes he could only laugh away. Because he was Ollie, he was quiet and he took everything in stride. Not cool enough to be on top, not a freak enough to be a target.
His university friends only know the current Ollie. But these people like Mia, Callum, Josh, and a few others currently nursing pints of beer knew the old Ollie.
"I'm just saying, mate, it’s mental," Callum laughs, leaning across the sticky table, pointing the wet bottom of his pint glass at Ollie. "You actually got fit. Like, you got properly hot."
Mia chirps, "You hot the hots for Ollie now, Callum? Not very straight of you, eh?"
"Shut up," Callum says, throwing a piece of wet tissue over to Mia's side of the table. They snickers, "Emma from our Year 11 chemistry class was asking about you the other day. Remember Emma? She wouldn't have looked twice at you back then."
Ollie forces a polite, tight smile, though a violent, full-body shiver works its way down his spine. Hearing the word 'hot' applied to himself by guys who used throw their arm over his shoulders and manhandle him makes his skin crawl. It feels wrong. It feels gross.
"Just... grew into my frame, I guess," Ollie mutters, taking a sip of his soda water. He isn't drinking. He has a morning train to catch and he hates the taste of cheap lager anyway.
They don't really have much in common anymore. Being here, surrounded by the loud, boisterous lads from his past, feels like stepping into a time machine he never wanted to board.
He passively listens as they trade stories. It is the exact same stories they told three years ago. Who got the most drunk at a festival. Who crashed whose car. Who is hooking up with whom.
Eventually, the interrogation spotlight turns back to Ollie.
"So, Uni life," Josh slurs slightly, elbowing Ollie in the ribs. "You must be pulling constantly looking like that. Tell us about the boyfriend, then. You've been with him a while, yeah?"
"Yeah," Ollie says, and despite his deep discomfort, he can't stop the genuine, blindingly fond smile that immediately breaks across his face. "Kimi. We've been together for over a year now. We live together in a flat near campus."
He goes to reach for his phone, entirely prepared to show them a picture of Kimi, specifically the one where Kimi is glaring at a pigeon on their balcony, which Ollie thinks is the cutest thing in the world, but Callum cuts him off.
"Living together? Already?" Callum whistles, exchanging a loaded look with Josh. "Jesus, Bearman. Moving fast. You're proper down bad, aren't you?"
"Well, yeah, I love him," Ollie says simply, because it is the easiest truth in his life.
The lads at the table groan collectively, a chorus of exaggerated, performative pity. Like they're allergic to the concept itself.
"Guys, shut it. I think it's adorable!" Mia coos, planting a comforting hand on Ollie's forearm. It's not sarcastic, Ollie would be able to tell.
"Mate, be careful," Josh says, groaning. "You're in your prime. You're a catch now. You don't want to get tied down with the ball and chain when you're twenty one."
"Yeah," Callum agrees, taking a heavy swig of his pint. "Like, fair play to the lad, I'm sure he's great, but you've gotta keep your options open, yeah? And you're bi, right? Bloody hell, mate, you've got double the playing field. You could literally have anyone you want."
Ollie sits there.
He is eighty something kilos. He is 188cm tall. He could physically pick Callum up and throw him over the pub's counter without breaking a sweat.
But mentally? Mentally, the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the pub drags him right back to being fifteen years old. He is suddenly the awkward, pasty kid cornered by the popular boys in the changing rooms. The psychological muscle memory of secondary school hierarchy paralyzes his vocal cords.
He is completely stumped. He wants to speak. He wants to defend his relationship. He wants to tell them to shut their mouths.
But his jaw is locked shut. He just stares at the condensation dripping down his glass of soda water.
Internally, however, his mind is going absolutely nuts.
Keep his options open? The concept is so deeply repulsive to Ollie that it actually makes his stomach turn. Why on earth would he want anyone else? Why would he want the shallow performance of hookups when he has Kimi?
These guys look at love like it’s a trap. Like it's a prison sentence you have to avoid for as long as possible while polishing a resume. They look at his appearance as currency to attract strangers who don't even know his middle name.
It is pathetic. It is so incredibly sad. They don't know what it's like to wake up on a Sunday morning and have someone aggressively examine your neck for signs of diabetes because they watched a YouTube video about "Diabetes: The Silent Killer of Gen-Z" and want you to live forever. They don't know the absolute joy of having a fiercely territorial boy steps on your shoe in a crowded space just to keep him in place. They don't know what it means to be deeply known by someone.
Ollie pities them. He pities them so much it physically aches.
"Right," Ollie finally forces out, his voice quiet but incredibly tight. He slides out of the sticky leather booth, standing up to his full height. He throws a ten-pound note onto the table to cover his soda water. "I actually have to go. Early train tomorrow."
"Ollie-" Mia tried.
"Oh, come on, mate, the night's young!" Josh protests.
"I'm heading back. See you around."
He doesn't wait for their goodbyes. He turns and walks out of the pub, pushing through the heavy wooden doors and stepping out into the biting air.
He feels so weird. He feels incredibly guilty, too, like he somehow betrayed Kimi by not defending their relationship loudly and aggressively.
Kimi would have. If someone had told Kimi to 'keep his options open', Kimi would have broken down their own insecurities, cursed their bloodline, flipped the table, and stormed out.
But Ollie isn't Kimi. Ollie is quiet. Ollie avoids conflict.
He hates that he froze. He hates that he let them talk about his relationship like that. He is a grown man and a good boyfriend, and yet the ghost of his teenage insecurities still have the power to mute him.
He takes a deep breath, walks down the dimly lit pavement towards his parents' house.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. It is 11:45 PM. Kimi is probably awake, watching obscure Youtube videos in the dark.
Ollie hits the speed dial.
The phone rings twice before the line clicks open.
"I was in the middle of a cyst removal video, a massive one, Ollie, like soybean curd," his boyfriend says, way too awake in this hours. It makes him smile.
Ollie stops walking. He stands under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, closing his eyes, letting the sound of Kimi’s voice wash over him.
"Dr. Pimple Popper?" Ollie asks.
"The one and only. God, she's the best in the game," Kimi sighs.
Ollie can hear him shuffling, to a more comfy position. He bet Kimi has the sheep fuzzy socks he bought last year at the Christmas market.
"How was the pub?" Kimi asks.
Ollie opens his eyes, staring at the cracked concrete of the pavement. The contrast hits him so hard it actually makes his chest ache. Less than ten minutes ago, he was sitting across from guys who treated love like a trap, who looked at Ollie's newfound physical confidence as a ticket to exploit as many people as possible. They had talked about 'playing the field' and 'keeping options open' like those were the ultimate goals of human existence.
And here is Kimi. Kimi, who pauses gross medical videos at midnight just to answer the phone on the second ring. Kimi, who possesses an ego the size of Jupiter but still wears fuzzy sheep socks to bed when Ollie isn't there to keep his feet warm.
Ollie’s throat tightens. The suffocating, regressive weight of his secondary school insecurities, the guilt of freezing up, the shame of not loudly defending his relationship to a bunch of idiots, suddenly feels incredibly trivial. It evaporates into the cold air, completely neutralized by the sheer, grounding reality of his boyfriend's voice.
He doesn't need to explain the pub. He doesn't need to tell Kimi what they said. He just needs to go home.
"Ollie?" Kimi asks, his voice softening, shifting into that gentle register he only uses when they are alone. "Are you okay? Anyone I should cyber-bully?"
Ollie lets out a breathless laugh, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye. "No. No, you don't need to bully anyone. I'm okay. I just..."
Ollie looks up at the dark sky. He thinks about Callum and Josh, constantly searching for the next best thing, terrified of being tied down.
"I just really love you," Ollie says. "I can't wait to come home tomorrow."
Kimi is quiet for a second. The faint rustling of sheets comes through the speaker.
"I love you too, you cheese wheel," Kimi murmurs, sounding incredibly fond. "Your side of the bed is cold. Come home safe tomorrow. Miss your stinky feet."
"They miss you too," Ollie smiles, a genuine, blinding smile that he doesn't have to force.
"Go back to your gross video," Ollie says, his voice thick but infinitely lighter than it was ten minutes ago. "I'll catch the 9 AM train. I'll pick up those almond croissants you like from the station bakery."
"The ones with the powdered sugar that gets everywhere?" Kimi asks, perking up immediately.
"The exact ones."
"Excellent. This is acceptable reparations for abandoning me to the wilds of the flat alone. Goodnight, Bear."
"Goodnight, love."
The line clicks dead. Ollie lowers the phone from his ear, the screen illuminating his face for a brief second before fading to black.
He slides the phone back into his jacket pocket and resumes his walk down the pavement. He doesn't feel like a cornered kid trying to appease the loud lads in the back of the cafeteria. As he reaches the end of the road and turns the corner toward his parents' house, his posture straightens. His shoulders pull back.
He is twenty one. He is in love. He is entirely, unapologetically tied down.
And for the first time all weekend, Oliver Bearman feels exactly like himself.