The Dead Boy's Guide To Second Chances

24. the perfect tragedy

FIVE MONTHS AND TWENTY-FOUR DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Almost six months after Oliver's death, Finn grimaces as he studies himself in his mirror. "Don't you think this is too casual?"

From his position on the floor, Oliver shakes his head. "It's just dinner."

His pointing out the obvious doesn't seem to do anything to reassure Finn. Eyes fixed on his reflection like he's trying to win a staring contest, he tugs at the collar of his jumper. It's one of Oliver's favourites—a dark green one that contrasts with Finn's hair and brings out his freckles. From experience, Oliver knows that it's one of the softest items in Finn's closet.

When Finn continues to frown unhappily at himself, Oliver heaves himself to his feet. Putting his hands on Finn's shoulders, he turns him around so they're facing each other. "Finn. They already know you. It's no big deal."

"Yeah, it is," Finn argues. He seems to struggle briefly with the next words. "They... they know we were together, right?"

Oliver's cheeks warm at the memory. "Yeah."

Finn nods, like that proves his point. "Then obviously it's important."

"Trying to establish a dead man's good taste?" Oliver asks wryly.

The look that Finn cuts him is entirely unamused. "I wish you'd stop joking about that. It's not funny."

"No," Oliver sighs. "It's not." He studies Finn a moment longer before reaching out to tousle his hair. It's so much longer than it used to be, soft strands almost getting caught in his rings. Carefully withdrawing his fingers, he tells him: "You look nice."

For a second, Oliver is afraid that he's overstepped the lines, blurred as they are after the other night. But then, Finn ducks his head, a tiny smile on his lips, and nods.

He heads for the door, clearly expecting Oliver to follow.

Only Oliver can't move. He feels suddenly breathless, like there's a vice around his lungs, cast iron keeping him from drawing oxygen.

One hand on the doorknob, Finn glances over his shoulder. "Coming?"

"I—" He tries to draw another breath. Can't. "I'm not sure I should be there."

Even though he wishes he weren't, Oliver is aware of the irony here. Months ago, he was fighting tooth and nail to keep Finn away from his foster parents—now he's asking him to go there alone, like he hasn't ached to be back in his old bedroom every minute he's spent at Dover.

But when Finn returns to stand in front of him again, he isn't looking at Oliver like he thinks Oliver is being ridiculous. He's looking at him like he understands.

"Ollie," he says, voice soft. "Just give them a few minutes. You deserve to see it."

"See what?"

He meets Finn's eyes just long enough to catch the flicker of something almost unbearably warm in them. Like it's the simplest thing in the world, he says: "How loved you are."

***

Staggering up to the Walkers' house makes Oliver feels like he's stumbled into a film still. It all looks exactly as it did the last time he saw it over four months ago, a movie paused for him to jump back into. The same coarse brick. The same windows, blinking sleepily down at him as the sun sets behind the roof. The same bright flower pots on the front steps, filled with plants that Daniel will try to keep alive this summer before admitting defeat with the first cold snap.

Oliver has never felt the strange brand of pain that courses through him at the sight. That's probably because he's never gotten a second glance at any of his former layovers. It was always the same old game of It's not you, it's us (it was almost always him), a quick goodbye, a taxi ride without a single glance in the rear view.