Black Velvet (7) (Patreon)

(A/N:  Who hates secondhand embarrassment? Me.  Who still makes their readers feel it?  Also me.  PS.  Don't sue me, Koolaid.)

It's beautiful outside, which is odd for Jameson. The weather typically consists of grey skies and hot afternoons, the occasional downpour, and a quick shift into winter's snow and cold humidity towards September.

Well, now that I think about it, it's possibly hot right now — but I forgot that I'm still in my underwear and nightshirt. I grimace, peeking around the mailbox to make sure I'm alone in my endeavor.

Oh well, maybe they look like shorts.

I shrug to myself, humming as I unlock the mailbox — ready to sort through the massive stack of free Jameson magazines that await me. There's no separate key inside that indicates that Nic has gotten a package, and I silently scold him for sending me on a goose hunt when I could be tucked in my sheets — embarrassment free and asleep.

Bill, bill, parking ticket — Jameson's Drive-In Matinée coupon book.

I swirl the keys around my pointer finger, neglecting to acknowledge them — as if that would keep them from inevitably flying off the digit.

Fire Valley Gems, Happy Housekeeping —

The keys do, of course, fly off my finger — and I shuffle the papers into one arm. I hear footsteps approaching, but ignore them in my haste — my face narrowly avoiding the communion mailbox as I bend to grab the fallen keys.

Shockingly, they're already being held mid-air in front of me. The hand grasping them is small.

"You're just as clumsy as I am," I give a bashful laugh before I smile, eyes meeting Ms. Amadeus' tawny pair.

"I'm probably clumsier," I admit. "It's an inherited trait."  I pull myself up from the ground before reaching her outstretched hand. She smiles sweetly back at me.

She's wearing long-sleeves, even though the sun beats down above us. They're loose and lacy, and as I pick the keys from her palm — the bell cuff slides back from her wrist, revealing an assortment of small, but startlingly dark, bruises on her forearm.

"Are you —" My eyebrows twist, and she snatches her hand back, patting down the fabric on her arm as she smiles at me again.

"— and how are you, Oliver?" She asks before I can point out the damaged skin. Her voice is fragile and kind, and I forget to question her wellness. I shrug, shuffling my bare feet across the rock —

Something about her makes my energy die down a bit.

"I'm good, just checking the mail for Nic," I wave the stack of papers in front of me as if I needed some sort of proof.   "He was supposed to be getting in a game for him and Tobias to play." My eyes keep traveling from her tired ones and back to her arm, subconsciously.

She laughs to herself but laces her hands behind her back.

"They still act like teenagers."

"Well, there's no game in here, so I guess they'll have to stick to the real thing."  I still hum in agreement, forgetting that I'm a freshly new adult, and so are they. It's hard to remember that we've grown. "Hopefully, they won't suffocate in this heat."

"... Tobias is over there for only a few minutes, and they've already made you errand boy?" She quips, turning to dig her key into Mailbox 17. I watch the light reflect off of her honey-brown hair, wondering if her son had taken his dark features from his biological father.

If Toby is the thorns, his mother is as soft and delicate as the petals of a flower.

"No," I wrinkle my nose, "it was definitely just Nic." Out of all of Nic's friends who liked to tease along with him, Tobias couldn't be included on that list.

"That sounds about right. Your brother is a funny boy," She smiles fondly, "and from what I've heard, you're a sweet one."

"Thanks." I smile to myself at the praise, used to being the one who doesn't play sports, or the hyperactive one, the one who shaved Ms. Adkins cat. Or the dreaded, "spaz."

The brunette gathers her belongings and pats my shoulder gently, the skin near her eyes crinkling, "Tell your mother and father I said hi, I'm afraid I don't get out much, but I do miss seeing them at the baseball games."

"I will!" I promise, giddy with the praise and positive social interaction that wasn't familial.

I stand at the mailbox, envelopes half-sorted against my chest as I watch her make her way back to her house. Her stride is awkward like she might have the slightest hint of a limp.

I frown — but I walk home.

—

Tobias and Nic are lounging by the kitchen island when I return — my brother chattering on about the game that was on last Wednesday night. Tobias only needs to add in a; he's never been a good umpire during a pause before Nic is chattering his ear off again.

I give a tiny wave when my brother notices me by the door.

"You've got mail. Mostly bills."

I sort out Nic's pile, pushing it to him across the marble. It makes it about half-way and then slides onto the floor instead.

"Good pass, Oli," Nic jokes, and I blush, grimacing in a show of apology. "Never understood why you didn't get into sports."

"It's kind of hot today, isn't it?" Tobias asks, leaning his back against the countertop. He runs a hand across his forehead, mussing his hair. I stare. "...Wonder if it'll cool down before your next game, it's always miserable when it's like this."

My stomach tumbles with butterflies, watching as his heavily lashed eyes slide to me. I shake my head, crouching down to fumble across the kitchen floor and after the stray papers.

"It is so freaking hot.  Oliver made Coolaid last night; it's in the fridge." Nic points over to the refrigerator like Tobias hadn't spent most of his life at our house. "Help yourself to it."

"Your game didn't come in," I tell him with a frown, looking up at him from the floor. "Are you sure you didn't just send me out there for fun?"

"No, dude. I pre-ordered it like two months ago." He grumbles to himself.

"That's some shit," Tobias has hiked up his Henley, pulling it up and away from his skin like he's burning up, "don't you start your semester back up Thursday?"

"I don't want to talk about school." Nic whines and I laugh to myself. "Oh yeah, Toby!" He pipes up as if the next words out of his mouth are prophetical. "Was that your mom out there?" Nic points towards the screen door,

Tobias nods, pouring a glass of raspberry Coolaid with a careful hand.

"She cut her hair." Nic grins.

"Yeah, she always does in the summertime. Says it gets too hot." Tobias shrugs.

"Looks really nice," My brother waggles his eyebrows, and the other man shoulders him playfully, reaching over him for a cup.

"You're a fucking pervert." The taller man chuckles, and the sound rolls across my nerves like gravel.

I lift the keys to latch them onto the key collector above the dog food, "She's always so nice." I add onto the conversation, albeit a bit awkwardly. Tobias seems to smile a bit at that, and Nic moves to pour his glass, a bead of sweat traveling over his forehead. Apparently, I'm the only one unaffected by the heat. "The haircut suits her."

I think for a moment, back to her bruises and her barely-there limp. It's quiet as the men try to cool themselves.

"— Um, I didn't ask her, and I felt bad about it after; is she okay?" I ask, genuinely concerned.  "What happened?"

"What do you mean?" Tobias lifts his eyebrows over the glass in his hand, pausing to take a measured sip.

My brother freezes mid-step behind Tobias, panic-stricken. I twist my face in confusion, at both of them. Nic is mouthing to shut up.  I feel like I've missed something, and it's too late to back-track.

"Nothing.  She was -- just kind of limping," I wave to the side, sending Nic a bewildered look, what has gotten into him? "Is — she alright?"

When Tobias' glass hits the marble island cover much harder than I'm sure even he expected — my mouth snaps shut. I swallow, and Nic ducks his head from behind his friend, rubbing his palm over his forehead.

"She's fine." He clips, tone taking on a low bout of leveled anger.

"I was just wondering — I'm sorry.  She looked — ah," I try again, desperately — suddenly, and yet again, the nosy neighborhood boy. I don't know how to apologize. I don't understand why it's stuck in my throat. Tobias' hand around his glass tightens.  I'm panicking. "She looked— I'm sorry."

"Oliver, dude, just shut up," my brother hisses, "he said she was fine." My cheeks redden.

"— Why are you acting so weird?" I whisper, hands trembling with embarrassment. The question feels directed at Tobias. I don't mean it to be, but it's dangling there between us now. My palms are out splayed, and there's an uncharacteristic crack to my voice, because why do I keep fucking up with him. "I didn't mean —"

Tobias' shoulders straighten, and he lets himself lean back to his full height. His own hands are trembling; a weird, misplaced anxiety present only there.

Nic stumbles, a slew of word-vomit erupting from his mouth to change the subject and steps in front of the other man.  Tobias' eyes are still on mine as his friend rambles— humiliated— until finally, my brother sends me a look like,

why are you still here?

I push my way out of the kitchen, chest, and head buzzing with what felt like a hornet's nest. I shut my door behind me as I fall onto my bed, wishing now more than ever I had a lock. I suddenly felt like a live-wire, embarrassment licking at my spine.

I can't keep myself from curiosity, can't make myself anything other than the boy who watches. 

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