Chapter Text
He had almost forgotten the sweltering heat of these rooms, blessed with a summer devoid of such concerns. The constant access to any number of ways to cool himself off. Like stripping naked in a field. But here he is. Back to sweltering like a pig in his own room.
Air- wet and heavy in a way that makes breathing evenly nearly impossible. As if he were breathing syrup. Taking large and exaggerated inhales to try and get some relief. Sluggishly sweating into the floor. The crickets outside seem to be the only ones enjoying themselves.
Fucking wood paneling.
The windows are open as far as they can go, and his shitty revolving fan is running on its highest setting. Yet, over the whirring of the blades, he can hear them.
He can hear them in the courtyard talking. Laughing. Same as the first time. Felix at the center, loud and shining as ever. Same star, different people in orbit. Celestial body constantly hanging in space. Gravitational pull far too strong, he can't help but catch the straggling outliers in his draw. Comets. Asteroids. Meteoroids. Burning up in his atmosphere to land as only a tiny blemish.
Oliver would close the window if he could. If it meant a moment's peace away from him, but that would sacrifice his minimal airflow. Felix Catton isn’t going to take that away from him.
If he had the energy, he would watch them from his desk. Pick apart every movement Felix made. All the small ways that only Oliver had picked up on. Until it eventually filled him with both a yawning ache and roiling anger. But he is currently stuck to the floor, damp in his polo and shorts, content not to move until the sun sets at least.
He had left that night. The party. Well, technically, during it. Quietly. Drunkenly. Stumbling up the stairs after leaving Felix to whatever fate may have befallen him in the maze. Into ‘his’ room to pack what meager clothes he had brought. Folding and setting the ones that didn’t belong to him out on the bed.
The dinner jacket that must’ve cost an arm and a leg but was a spare to Felix. His costume for his own birthday. A few of Felix’s shirts that he had lent him after realizing that Oliver had only brought four.
He doesn’t take anything. He doesn’t tell anyone that he's leaving. The only one who saw him leave was Duncan. But Ducan saw everything, so that wasn’t new. It’s like the man was the house in his own chilling way.
Oliver strides out the front gates a bit more sober and out of Felix Catton’s life. On the train, he deletes Felix’s number. It was never a permanent solution, but it felt right. He ignored any and all calls for the next few days before moving back into his dorm.
He’s done with all of them. If Felix didn’t want him… There really was no point in staying. He was content to watch the Catton’s dissolve in his wake from afar, broken by whatever befell their Golden Boy. Above all, he was broken.
At first, he thought that maybe the wine had killed him. But in passing at the library, he overheard a pair of students talking about how the party Felix had apparently already thrown was incredible. Evidently, it was not the first time a Catton had to have their stomach pumped.
From there, he made strategic plans to never ever run into Felix in public.
They don’t take the same classes, thank whatever God there might be for that. So it’s easy to ignore him in his studies. The short routes to those classes were much too likely to see him, so Oliver has to plan down to the last minute when he has to leave each building and ride his bike the long way around.
It’s tedious but necessary. If not for Felix, then for him. He had gained and lost his entire world in half a year. It was too much to see him again so soon. Too bright. Too beautiful. Too much.
Studying doesn’t much feel the same. There’s no continuous noise from Felix chattering on about whatever conquest he had last night, India, Anabelle, or whoever else. All the inane things his family is getting up to. Sat in Felix’s chair, revising whatever essay he managed to bang out the hour before to ensure he didn’t fail the assignment. Oliver liked being useful to Felix; even if his use felt more like a second teacher than a friend.
Felix would get along fine either way. He was who he was, after all. It didn’t really matter how well you did in academics when you have a title and a massive fuck off castle. But he seemed to genuinely like Oliver’s help, the way his eyes would shine when Oliver would point out a mistake for him to correct in the future. Him shirtless on the floor, lazily smoking while Oliver furiously worked through whatever assignment was given that day.
He was never behind on work, always early. Always. It was a point of small pride that he would do everything immediately to clear time for whatever escapade Felix wanted. Whatever Felix needed help with. Whatever Felix needed. Felix.
He’s in the library searching for a quiet and secluded corner when he spots a familiar head of blond hair and glasses peeping at him from around a bookshelf. Forcing himself not to roll his eyes, he lugs his books over to the man.
“Hullo Michael.” It feels like a defeat. But it’s the least he can do now. The blond boy stares up at him, smug, with his arms crossed, smirking at him.
“I told you he’d get bored of you.” He leans closer to Oliver to hiss out in a whisper, “You didn’t listen.”
Oliver sits down, setting his books in front of him next to Michael’s maths. Smiling awkwardly, he slightly shakes his head before pushing his glasses up. “I’m sorry for that.”
“No, you’re not.” Immediately, Michael has him dead on. He isn’t really sorry. Not at all. “You’re sorry that he’s lost interest, and you had to come crawling back to me to be a Norman-No-Mates again.”
More than lost interest. Felix despised him. He sighs, taking the first book off the stack and flipping it open. There's no point in lying to Michael; there’s nothing to gain from the situation. He’s a nobody, just like him.
Michael isn’t Felix; he isn’t a sun god come to walk on the earth for a little while. He isn’t Oliver’s world. Seems Felix isn’t anymore, either.
“You’re right. I’m not sorry. Now, can we get on and pretend it never happened, please?” Oliver pleads behind his glasses. He squirms lightly in his seat, pulling at his collar. Since he had grown accustomed to all the casual clothes he had worn recently, his old academic ones now felt ill-fitting and uncomfortable.
“Oh sure, sure,” Michael continues to bore holes into his head, unblinking. Maths completely forgotten in front of him, “I won’t bring it up at all.”
A few minutes of excruciating silence go by before Michael leans in close to whisper again, “What was it like? I bet you got absolutely pissed. Do you even remember any of it? Did you-.”
“Michael,” Oliver says in a stern whisper, finally looking up from his text just to be met with a snicker from the blond. Winding him up to watch him pop. God, that sure reminds him of someone. He glances around to make sure no one is looking at them. But they are far enough out of the way to not be noticed.
Thankfully, Michael manages to stop talking about it until they get outside, and he watches Oliver hurriedly pack all his things up to get on his bike. “You’re avoiding him, aren’t you? Had some sorta fallin’ out, and now you’re gonna run away?”
“I’m not ‘running away,’ Michael,” Oliver says, strapping his helmet on. “I’m leaving him be.”
Michael laughs, unblinking, “So he’s just gonna win, isn’t he?”
“Win?” Oliver asks, brow furrowing, clearly confused.
“You’re gonna let him disappear you, forget you ever even happened. Poof goes Oliver Quick, in and out of our lives like dust. Happens pretty much every time the Great Felix Catton moves on to the next hottest toy. You get dropped in the mud while they live on carefree. Free from you and your normality. Fade into obscurity.” Michael wiggles his fingers as he circles Oliver’s bike like a shark with bloody good arithmetic.
“I think you need to be someone to disappear, Michael,” Oliver says deadpan, making Michael smile. Gone is the meek and quiet Oliver. There’s no one to perform for anymore. He knows Michael sees it, the flipped switch, the lost air of pity.
Michael slings his arm around Oliver’s shoulder, “If you weren’t a Norman-No-Mates before, you certainly are now. They focused the lens on you for a brief moment before it zoomed out to find some new shiny thing to keep their attention for a few months. You, my dear friend, need to pull that camera back onto you.”
Oliver frowns a little again. He’s not quite catching on, but then again, he doesn’t catch on to most of what Michael says anyway. But he does know that Michael is trying to get something. After something.
He isn’t all that different from those he despises so dearly. Not that he would ever admit it; he was too proud. Vain in his own way. Always better than everyone else.
“You can get under their skin,” Michael pokes at Oliver’s arm, making him squirm awkwardly in his bike seat to get away. “Force them to see you, remember you. Those vapid cunts deserve that much at least.”
“I think I make him uncomfortable enough with my existence.” Oliver retorts, eliciting that creepy smile from Michael. Deciding not to tell Michael about his attempted murder of the man he so clearly wants him to get back at. “He doesn’t need to see me for that.”
“And I told you I didn’t want to talk about it,” Oliver starts to push off on his bike. Michael grabs into the handlebars, preventing him from leaving. Wants Oliver to do his bidding in riling up the Catton revolving friend group.
“Drop it.” He’s hardly ever demanding from the people he performs for. He plays the part of the meek and the bumbling to near perfection. But he’s not acting for Michael. And Michael isn’t just being friendly in his thinly veiled way of trying to convince him to stand up for himself in a way he doesn't feel the need to.
“I’m not going to make a fool of myself again,” Oliver finishes. So what if he wants Felix to forget him? That would be a kindness. Let them all forget him; it will be kinder that way. “For me or you. I just want to graduate. Without Saltburn hanging over my head. Alright?”
Michael lets go of the handlebars and holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Was only a suggestion. You seemed bent out of shape about it, thought it might bring your spirits back up.”
He isn't as good a liar as he thinks he is. Not to Oliver. He’s too perceptive for that.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Michael.” He pushes off and pedals faster than he usually would have since he’s now five minutes late on his schedule.