Chapter 4
Oliva Collard is a busy woman.
Fashionista and thrift store employee by day and avid socialite and clubber by night, she’s quite used to having busy days and even busier nights. Working at a secondhand shop is less than glamourous, but the place is homey, and she likes the opportunity to people watch. Just now, she’s observing a nervous, tragically tall 20-something-year old wring his hands over a rack of bland looking sweaters, curly blond hair braided back from his skinny face. He’s been standing in the same spot for the past five minutes, brow creased in a worried swirl, shoulders tight under his ugly green jacket. After a few more moments of watching this pitiful display, she finally sets aside the jewelry she’s polishing and comes around the front of the register, slipping up behind him.
“Can I help you?”
The man startles, turning his grey-blue gaze onto her face, his eyes sending a jolt down her spine for no discernable reason. “I’m sorry?”
Olivia gives him a half smile, tucking her hair behind her ears. “You look lost. Are the sweaters giving you trouble?”
He huffs out a soft, nervous laugh. “Oh, oh no, they’re just fine, I just…can’t decide what I want.”
“Any particular event, or just some casual browsing?”
“The first, I’m afraid. I’ve been invited to a party of sorts, and I have no clue what to wear.”
“A party? That sounds fun.”
“Yes, I’m sure they are, but I’ve never really been to an event like this. I’m meeting a…friends friends, and I want to make a good impression, see?”
Oh, now that’s interesting. Olivia notices his hesitancy around the word friend, feeling mischief curling it’s clever fingers around her head.
“A friend?”
“Yes.” He’s blushing.
Oh yes indeed.
“I’m Liv,” she says charmingly, extending a ink stained hand to him.
“Michael,” he says, shaking it, hand cold, fingers long and knobby and absolutely wonderful. His voice is thin and wistful, and Olivia finds herself increasingly drawn to this peculiar creature.
“Well, Michael, I myself happen to be a master at parties and attire, would you like some assistance?”
Michael smiles, looking relieved. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
“’course, I’ll help you find something suitable, cross my heart.”
Mike’s smile widens slightly, and Olivia grins back, turning on her heel and sashaying to the back of the store.
-
Michael can’t do this, he really can’t. He’s redone his hair four times already, bun, braid, ponytail, then a braid again, and nothing looks right. He eyes his beard trimmer wistfully as it sits on the edge of the sink, half wishing it was an actual hair trimmer so he could cut all this off.
I bet Gerry never has trouble with his hair, he thinks enviously, remembering the way it falls over his shoulders in an elegant dark wave, unlike Michael’s unmanageable cloud. Giving up, he undoes the braid and lets his hair fall down to his shoulder blades, mouth twisting at his appearance. Personally, he thinks Liv The Thrift Store Girl overshot in her clothing choices, but she’s the one with a degree in fashion and he’s the one mooching off a kind strangers good graces. A clean blue shirt drapes over his too thin frame, slightly wrinkled from a quick trip to the laundromat, tucked into a pair of loose legged jeans that hug his waist admittedly very nicely. He even got a new coat for the occasion, something thick and warm, inky blue and soft, made of good quality fabric he definitely wouldn’t have been able to afford if it hadn’t been second-hand. Admittedly, they’re better fitting than anything Michael’s worn in months, he’s looking better too, the blue bringing out more color in his pale eyes. Liv also gave him an old perfume from the case, some half full bottle that smells like honey and rain and something fresh and clear like the air after snow. It’s addicting and he’s probably drenched himself three times over by now, praying that the double layers of deodorant will be enough to mask his nervous sweating at dinner. Gerry had texted earlier to see if he had any food allergies, and Michael found himself breathing a heavy sigh of relief over the fact that no, he does not, glad to not be a hindrance in this.
Brushing his teeth over again, he checks his phone and nearly lets out a yelp of dismay as he sees the time, 5:42 pm, and yet another text from Gerry.
here if u r ready :) will be waiting outside!
“Shit,” he mutters, fingers flying over the keyboard, head bent and hair falling into his eyes. Let yourself in, the door is locked though, so youll need to use the key
After a moment, the sound of a lock clicking sounds from up the hall, the door scraping across the wooden floor in a well worn tune he’s come to know so well, followed by Gerry’s cheerful “Hello!” from the living room.
“Be there in a moment,” Michael calls, giving himself one more once-over and a shot of mouthwash for luck, spitting in the sink before marching down the hall and into the main area. Gerry stands by the stack of canvasses, hands on his hips and a lovely long skirt brushing his ankles, black lace at the hem giving him a bit of pretty, fairie-esq look. Turning, Gerry smiles at him, eyes flicking over his form, eyebrows jumping for a split second.
“You look nice,” he says, eyes sparking, and Michael could throttle him, because if he’s nice, Gerry is ethereal. He looks like something from the storybooks his mother read him as a child, a vision in wine red and black, silver bangles in his ears and an artfully arranged wreathe of necklaces hanging from his neck. Just as Michael had suspected, his hair is perfect, pulled half up, the bottom half artfully tousled over his shoulders.
Good god, Shelley, how pathetic are you?
He clears his throat, returning the smile tentatively. “Thank you, as are you, you are-yes, you look nice as well.”
Mentally slapping himself and ignoring Gerry’s curious and fondly amused gaze, he shuffles forwards, looking at the canvases as though he has any idea what they’re looking for. God, he’s fond, it’s sickeningly addictive to see.
“So, what do we need to take with us?”
Gerry steps forwards, snagging a few and passing them to him, rings flashing in the warmly lit apartment. “You can take these, I’ll get the rest.
Accepting them obediently, Michael steps back to snag his new coat, buttoning it up and pretending not to preen under Gerry’s gaze as he looks approvingly over the new item.
“That looks nice, good quality.”
“I got it on sale,” he says, trying not to sound so proud, and Gerry laughs softly, grabbing his share of the canvases.
“Shall we?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
-
After dropping their load off at Gerry’s place, (Michael stays on the porch as Gerry takes them the rest of the way inside, Gertrude is home and there’s no way he’s willing to see her, not tonight, not when he’s making an effort to establish himself something here in this new world.) they’re off to Gerry’s friend Olivia’s home for the so called ‘dinner party’. The taxi ride is comfortably quiet, at least for Gerry, but internally Michael is bouncing off the walls. Thankfully, the deodorant seems to be doing it’s goddamn job for now, so he’s alright in that department, but if he has to sit in such close proximity to Gerry with his shining eyes and whiskey smooth cologne for another five minutes, he thinks he might scream. Four and a half minutes later, he’s prepping his vocal chords to really tear the world a few one, but luckily for everyone involved and their ear drums, they park in front of an apartment complex and Gerry leans forwards to pay their driver. Moments later, they stand in the elevator, Michael’s hands fidgeting in his pockets as he stares at the screen indicating each passing floor. Gerry eyes him, posture relaxed and easy, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “Nervous?”
“No,” he says quickly, and Gerry chuckles.
“Bullshit.”
“Screw you,” Michael huffs, and immediately regrets it, opening his mouth to apologize, but Gerry is full on laughing now, and well. “That came out rude, I just mean—”
“I know, Michael, it’s alright,” he says, amusement tinting his words deliciously. Michael finds himself shivering before he can help it, flushing and coughing to cover it.
“I just…I’m trying not to think about it too much, I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of your friends.”
“Trust me, they’re much less glamorous than you think, you’ll see,” he promises as the elevator dings, and they step off onto the top floor. They stop in front of a plain-looking door, the room number decal twirling in Michael’s vision as Gerry knocks, Michael standing behind him a bit, not wanting to take the brunt of whoever answers attention just yet. The door swings open, the person behind it chattering already without even seeing who’s there.
“It’s a mess in here, Reece brought their infused brownies instead of the non-Mary-Jane-ed ones, so avoid those unless you want to be losing your head for the night, oh, Gerry, lovely, you’re here!” Much to Michael’s shock, Liv The Thrift Store Girl steps into the hall, throwing her arms around his neck, grinning with dark purple painted lips, practically glowing in the beige-and-crème-colored halls in a velvet lavender tracksuit.
“Hey greenie,” he picks her up for a moment, and she kicks her sock feet around like some toddler before he plops her back down onto the soulless carpet, turning to Michael. “Olivia, I want you to meet—”
“Michael?”
She says it so loudly Michael glances around to make sure none of the neighbors were disturbed, before turning back to her and meeting her gapped tooth grin, matching Gerry’s in a way that feels delightful and uncanny and dear lord, they could be half siblings if one looked too close.
“Liv, hi,” he says awkwardly, feeling like a bug under a microscope, Liv’s gaze the sunbeam burning through his wings.
“You two know each other?” Gerry says incredulously. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“We just met this afternoon,” says Olivia, absolutely delighted by this. “Goddamn, you cleaned up well, Mike.”
“Thank you,” Michael says, grinning at Gerry’s expression. “You have a good eye for clothes.”
“Of course I do. C’mon in, you two are the last ones we were waiting for, the foods all ready by now. Again, avoid the brownies.”
-
Michael hasn’t been in a room with this many people since he was 15 years old, at his first and last high school party he’d snuck into with a boy from his catholic school in an attempt to look cool in front of him. Safe to say that this one is much more enjoyable so far, if a bit overwhelming. Smooth jazz drifts from speakers on the kitchen counter and on the living room coffee table, the smell of rich spices and earthy aromas wafting out of various pots and pans on the stove. There are a lot more guests here than Michael knows what to do with, standing by the island and white knuckling a beer as Gerry drifted off awhile ago to socialize with a group of friends he seems to be incredibly chummy with.
(Not that Michael is jealous, of course he’s not, it’s just that in this world and the last, he never once made Gerry laugh like he’s laughing now, grinning widely at a tall, admittedly very gorgeous man, who’s giving him the most gut wrenchingly charming smile he’s ever seen in his miserable life.)
((Gerry is radiant, hazel eyes flashing behind his glasses, hands moving animatedly, and he’s so very alive it makes Michael tremble inside just to look upon him, he could die just now, just from this.))
“Having a good time?”
Michael doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing as Olivia pops up by his elbow, practically beaming. “Yes, you have a very nice home.”
She waves a dismissive hand, snatching a pita chip from a nearby bowl and dunking it into some hummus. “My dad pays for it, he thinks it’ll make up for leaving my mom for his secretary.”
“…Oh.”
Olivia laughs, a truly undignified sound that brings a smile to Michael’s own face. “Yeah, oh, but she’s happier without him, and I’m happy to not have to pay rent.”
“That’s nice, I suppose.”
“Sure it is.” She nudges him with her hip, pointing her chin towards Gerry. “How do you know my Gerry-boy?”
Christ, where to even start with this? “Long story.”
“I’ve got time, the rolls don’t come out of the oven for awhile.”
Michael sighs, taking another drink before answering. “I was in a bad situation, Gerry’s been helping me out, letting me rent out the Castle.”
Olivia looks half envious, munching on another chip. “He doesn’t even let me sleep over in the Castle. Lucky, have you seen any of his work yet?”
“Well, it’s a bit of a…complicated situation for me. I’m just trying to get my feet under me before finding my own place. And no, I haven’t, but he said he’d show me some soon.”
“You could just look him up, he’s got an account on Instagram, and he’s got a piece up in a local gallery, it’s really incredible.”
“I don’t know, he-well, it seemed special to him that he shows me it all himself, I’ll just be patient.” He looks across the room to where Gerry is chatting up the infuriatingly attractive individual, feels a jolt go down his spine as he meets his gaze, Gerry already watching him with that goddamn sweet smile. Gerry waves. He waves back. Olivia smirks, and he feels his face flush as Gerry turns away again.
“So,” she says, entirely too smug for their third conversation ever. “That’s the friend, huh?”
“Yes,” he says, stiff and under the microscope of Olivia’s knowing eyes. “He’s my friend.”
“He’s the friend,” she insists, smugger by the moment, as if she knows anything.
“Gerry invited me to your little party, to make some new friends, end of it, Olivia.”
“I’m sure. How long have you two known each other again?”
“Two months, nearly three.” Barely any time for a human, he’s still adjusting to how fast everything is in the real world, within his old halls, three months were practically an eternity, a never-ending lifetime of cracked, yellow bone and neon pink marrow and the delighted screams of It Is Not What It Is. The world is to fast for Michael Shelley; maybe it always was.
Olivia hums, opening her mouth to undoubtedly make yet another quip about the way he’s been watching Gerry, but a timer goes off on the stove and she rushes away to tend to one of the pots, leaving Michael to his beer and his voyeurism, to wallow in peace and work up the courage to talk to someone who isn’t one of the only two people he knows the names of here. Charming Man has an arm around Gerry’s shoulders now, entirely too close for Michael’s confused sense of jealously to be strictly comfortable with, cheek pressed to his hair as they listen to a story being illustrated by a girl with amber eyes and fiery red hair.
“He’s not yours, Michael. He’ll never be anybody’s, but especially not yours.”
The memory threatens to drown him for a moment, Emma Harvey’s hissing voice in his ear clear as the day it happened, anger and resignation tainting Michael’s throat.
Michael finishes his beer in one swallow and turns away from Gerry to find himself another one.