Black Velvet - 28 (Patreon)

(warning: nsfw language, sexual undertones.)

(a/n: this scene was edited to show more of what I intended to come across in the original between Tobias’ and Oliver’s growing understanding of one another and the depth of their awareness and feelings.  They are both very confused young adults.  Please keep in mind that they were raised and are currently living in a very conservative and toxic community, so it adds another layer of otherness to them both. I wanted this scene to carry more heart and romance along with their nosedive into sexual realization.)

"Work?" Tobias asks. He doesn't turn his head.  The word is full of sarcasm, and he's unquestionably still miffed at my lie from the previous day.  His hands quiet as he waits for a reaction.

I don't take the bait, calmer today, probably from having woken only an hour before.

"Very funny,"  I bite my lip, slipping my other arm under the project and descending the tri-stair layout.  "Almost as funny as you making me look like an undercover serial killer in front of my brother yesterday."

Tobias chuckles dryly, "You'd be an awful serial killer."

"Does anyone, who isn't an edgy preteen, actually want to be told they'd make a good serial killer — like?  Really?"  I wrinkle my nose, steadying my feet against the grass, so I don't fall and rocket-launch my project into the next city over,  "I made something for the science fair, like every year."

I'm surprised when Tobias turns towards me out of genuine interest, like he might be the slightest bit curious about what I've made. His eyes travel from my face to my hands, brows quirking in dissatisfaction.

"What's that?"  The other man's gaze settles on the different sorts of flowers that have budded and the leaves of those that have barely sprouted.

"A project on conditioned plant growth,"  I unexpectedly feel defensive, even though I'm not proud of it myself.  "Soils, oxygen levels —"

"I know what it is, but why?"  Tobias wraps up the last of the potholders, tucking them into a wooden box — labeled Amadeus.  His eyes shift from the project and back to my face, "Since when do you like plants?"

I fold into myself, tilting the project away as he encroaches.

I don't.

"I thought I'd do something different, or at least, different than —"

"Space?" Tobias lifts the box into Richard's truck bed, his upper arms flexing under his shirt.  When he draws them back, now empty, he crosses them against his chest.  He looks severe as he speaks, like my dad does when he's disappointed,  "Different than what?  What you're passionate about?"

The way he speaks is off-kilter — like he knows who I am and expects more from me.  It bothers me, and I understand a little more.

"I worked hard on this,"  I'm tilting the diagram away from him, shielding it, trying to explain myself.  "It might not be —"

I'm not proud of it because it's not what I care about.  But I didn't want to think of the stars.  I didn't want to think about the project you rebuilt for me years ago.

The memory is more significant to me — than it is to you.

"You worked hard on that?"  Tobias scoffs, finger out towards the flowers as he weaves through the rose hedges separating us,  "are you laying low so your little girlfriend can win this time?"

"Charlie-Anne could win without me laying low."  I frown,  "She's done it before."

"Sure thing, mini-Casanova."  He says spitefully,  "You're too fucking smart to have me believe that you worked hard on growing three flowers —"

"Would you stop fucking criticizing everything I do, Tobias?"  The words seem to signify more than I meant them too, sharp and sensitive as I square my shoulders.  "You have a lot of fucking nerve."

"I'm not criticizing you."  He's closer, striding up to me and where I stand by the passenger door.  The light bounces off his jaw bone, strong and sure, "Space,"  his tone is low, brows narrowed.  "You like space.  It shows when you focus on something you enjoy less. That's all I'm saying."

"It's just something different."

"Yeah? Why now?  ... I've seen Charlie-Anne's projects; she's all about environmental awareness," I realize then — that Tobias seems anxious.  "... Are you trying to impress her?"

But why?

I turn my back to him in the small space that he allows.

"It's just something different, okay?"  I shove back against Tobias, hoping to press him out of the way, but instead, we're pushed flush together.  I feel my face heat in mortification,

"Oliver,"  my name is bitter, or a quiet plea.  It's hard to separate the two.  Maybe Tobias has always said things with a certain resentment.  Tobias' breath is too close to the back of my neck, too warm, and I shudder.  It smells like mint leaves.

"What?"

"...You said, that night we walked back here, that if you don't take the time to do what you love, it bums you out.  You've been out of it for the past few weeks— so why did you do a project on plants when you could give two shits less about anything that isn't happening above you?"

I laugh, feel the way it startles the other man from where his chest presses against my shoulders,

"Do you really think that's why I've been acting this way?"  I swing around, too close to Tobias' to bring myself to look him in the eye,  "you asked me to leave you alone, and I have.  Charlie-Anne isn't my girlfriend — so you can leave her out of it."

"I only asked you that because you were prying,"  Tobias tilts his head, watches me from the corner of his eye, like some sort of fearful creature.  I focus on a beauty mark next to his neck, watch the way his Adam's Apple moves as he speaks, "like you always do.  I shouldn't have — but I apologized."

"Apologized?  Well, I did too — by not prying, not now,"  I lift my eyes to meet his, as he removes himself from my space, "you can hate yourself as much as it pleases you.  So what do you want, Tobias?  Why can't you seem to leave me alone when I'm ready to leave you alone?"

"Maybe I was worried,"   He waves his hand in the direction of the potted plants,   "maybe I thought you forgot who you are — because of what I said.  Because of how shitty it was — that I said it."

"Who am I?"  I snort, "who am I to you — Tobias?  Am I anything other than what you said?"

His jaw clenches.

"I..."  He sighs.  "You came out with this science project, and you're always ready to chat my ear off about whatever the fuck you've done because you're so fucking proud, and this time you walked out like you were ashamed."

"What if I am ashamed?"  My voice cracks.  I don't mean for it to.  "Ashamed that you got to me after years of — years of church and school and parties and everything... Where I don't fit.  Now I can't stop thinking — that maybe I won't ever fit."

I don't know why I tell him that.  I don't know why — I tell Tobias a lot of things.

I feel like I'll rattle out of my skin.  Tobias' chest heaves with an inhale.

"I shouldn't have — "

"I know who I am,"  I adjust the project under my arm,  "and I like who I am.  The only person to make me doubt that is you — so don't act like you know anything about me, don't act like you're different from everyone else in this town."

"I think I know plenty about you,"  there's desperation mixing with anger,  "I think I know you and how you feel — best."  I take a step back, the small of my back smacking against the car's exterior. He reaches out, hand sliding up the soft expanse of the back of my neck.  "I fucking know that I know you better than Ms. Petchey and her pretty little flowers."

"You don't,"  my voice is quieter than I wish it were, but he's touching me, and my nerves are on overdrive.  His eyes are dark pools, reflecting grey with the street lamp.  I tremble.   "She's soft and pretty.  She's sweet, and she listens."

"Oh, pretty and soft?  Like her little flower crowns, she leaves on the lawn?  ... And what does she know about how we feel?"

"She knows me.  You know me about as well as I know you."  I can feel the heat in my cheeks, in the tips of my ears,  "so... this doesn't make sense —"

Tobias laughs, a tight smile spreading across his face. It's handsome; everything about him is beautiful.

"I thought you said you knew me,"  he glances down at me, bumping my chin upwards, "and you still cared, anyway?  Did you think wrong?"  Heat swells in my stomach, contact a reminder of my attraction to him.  "Is softness better?  Did you find something more interesting in that?"

"I think it's a waste of time."  I pull my chin away from him, but it bumps our faces closer together,  "you see it like it's some sort of challenge... Keeping yourself closed off from everyone."

"I see it as smart. And you?"  Tobias' shrugs a bit, pulling his hand back to himself.   "What does it mean to you to care?  If it's a waste of time?"

My stomach sinks.

Oh.

"I..."  I turn to unlock my car, fingers bouncing like the exterior is hot, but my nerves won't settle,  "I never meant to push you.  I never meant to be nosy."

"And you believed that you had some sort of noble intention, sticking your nose into my business?  Calling me a drunk the second I showed you something ugly?"  The tone isn't harsh; it's just airy and disbelieving like he's ready to write off whatever I say as some sort of joke.  "Sounds like Jameson logic.  Do you see where we're at?"

I see how stupid we are.

How dishonest.

"You're right.  I wasn't feeling noble, I guess."  It's almost a confession, and I glance back at him over my shoulder, then down at the ground.  "I just wanted you to trust me...  I still do."

The admission quells my anger from before.

"...Trust isn't always good," Tobias says quietly.  My heart aches, "the intention of gaining it isn't always good."

I can't see him, don't know what he's thinking from behind me — but I can feel his body heat, can feel his closeness.

"No.  Maybe not. But I just want you to have someone you can talk to — because it seems like you're carrying someone else's weight..."  I stumble over my words, quieting as I realize what I've said,  "but you're right.  It isn't noble.  And I reacted... Maybe we're both wrong."

"Yeah?  We are?"

"Because.  I've realized.  I'm selfish.  I want it to be me that you trust.  I want to be that person.  It makes me angry that I can't be.  Maybe — maybe that's really why I'm upset."

There's a pause, long enough to make me wonder if my heartbeat has flooded my ears completely.  But then, Tobias' palms settle onto either side of me, on the car's cold surface, caging me.  My heart stutters from where his chest presses against my shoulders, makes me want to lean back against him.

"I keep thinking it could make you happier,"  I try — swallowing the lump in my throat,  "it's so frustrating.  I want to make you happier.  You deserve to be happier."

Tobias' breath hits my ear, and that's what does it, makes me falter long enough to let my grip slip on my science project.   It's not a long drop, shouldn't be enough to ruin it — but somehow, all the pieces come apart against the sidewalk.

"Oh,"  I breathe, dropping to the ground to grab it, chest tight with the realization of what I've just said.  "Dammit."

Tobias backs up, away from me, away from the mess at my feet.  I can see him rolling his hands together, staring at his boots — I nick my hand on the edge of a clay pot and rub the blood off on my pajama bottoms.  I pull myself up, have a hard time meeting his eyes.

"You can't say those kinds of things,"  he bites out, looks a bit on edge — confused,  "you can't say things like that."

"Why,"  I can feel anger pooling in my gut, past the embarrassment.   "Why can't I?  Why does it seem like you don't know what you want?"

Tobias turns as if he might leave, but then he's swinging back to face me, marching forward,

"I know what I want, Oliver.  You can't give it to me.  You won't be able to," The dark-haired man is tilting his head, slate eyes showing the slivers of grey as he lifts his chin.  I watch his hand as he rolls the palm of it over his forehead, tense, "I can't...  I don't have to explain myself. I don't want you to care about me.  That's that."

"That's that.  It's too late, I do."  I shrug my shoulders upwards, splaying my palms out, "enough to put up with your mood whiplash.  I care about you. What can I do about —"

"I shouldn't have bothered you. I'm sorry.  I'm going inside," I stalk towards him, and Tobias slams his hand on the seated lawn mower, trying to push past it when I crowd into his space.  "Oliver, don't fuck with me."

I shove at his chest that stands nearly a foot above mine; he averts his eyes, my irritation building,

"What is your problem?"

My voice is too loud, I think, someone's going to hear me.  Tobias quirks his brows like it's something he could ask me, grabbing my hand that's still pressing under his collarbone.

"You started this, Tobias!  Why do I bother you so much — why are you so —!"

My sentence disappears in my own confusion.

"People are shit,"  Tobias says, bending himself forward to make sure we're at eye level; his hand is larger than mine — nearly encompassing it completely.  I don't know what he means to convey.  "If you understood that, you'd leave me alone, wouldn't think everyone needs help — wouldn't think everyone deserves it."

"Everyone deserves help." I try to wrestle my hand free and fail, shoving my shoulder into him instead. My eyes flicker to his porch light and back to Tobias' and his pained expression, "even when they're taught that they don't.  Not everyone is shit.  Not everyone is like Richard."

Fuck.

I can see it in his face, can see the way the hardness falls into something small and tired.  Someone who watches what a family can do to each other under the guise of love and trust.  Then it's there again — Tobias, cold and angry, the tragic sort of handsome that keeps people at arm's length away.

"Don't talk about my family."  He grabs me by my shoulders, pulls, shoves me to the ground under us.  I gasp out a breath, startled by his bitterness,  "you don't know anything about us."

I can hear him grunt when I grab the dip above his hipbone, when I hook my fingers in his belt loops and tug him over my feet and into the grass.  He's bending onto his knees so he can hold me down, so he can wrestle the fists out of his shirt,

"Richard or no fucking Richard, I don't need anyone,"  hate tinges his tone, "I don't trust anyone.  You say you care — but did anyone ever care?  I don't fucking trust you."

"Why?"  I yell, hands tangled in the unbuttoned neck of his henley.  "You can trust me, my brother, my mom,"  I swallow, letting my heart settle before I continue,  "why can't you?"

"Why would I do that?"  Tobias' spits, but he's unfocused, eyes darting down to rest at where his hips are pressed in between mine, where my shirt has ridden up above my belly button,  "Why do you think it's so smart, huh?"

"I trust you, okay,"  I breathe, a timid hand reaching to settle on his broad chest, something strangely significant about the notion, "I trust you.  I always have.  I'm sorry I didn't know — that we didn't know."  I take another breath,  "I'm so sorry."

"I can't."

"I trust you." I try to touch the side of his face, but he turns from it,  "I trust you. Are you going to tell me that I shouldn't?"

Tobias's chest is heaving slightly; his hand curled around my wrist.  He presses it to the dirt, jaw working,

"I don't know. And you don't know,"

"Tobias, it's okay.  You don't scare me. You really don't scare me."

Tobias isn't paying much attention, eyes flickering down the expanse of my neck, up to my adrenaline flushed cheeks.  Something at that moment changes.

Suddenly, we cross another line.

"...Do you wanna know why I should?"  He asks, handsome features constricted with something unknown. My heart hammers, stomach somersaulting under his gaze,  "wanna know why you shouldn't trust me?"

I can feel the slow drag of his thumb against my pulse, the way his hand tightens experimentally, like touching me is something foreign to him.  I can feel my cheeks heating, embarrassed that it's not quite dark enough to cover the change — but more undone by the feeling of him against me, of his fingers on my frantic heartbeat.

"Why?"  My voice is barely a breath, stilted and confused,  "there's not a good reason you could give me."

Tobias laughs, light and airy, slate eyes lit with something sultry, something that makes my thoughts wander — my eyes wander down the broad slope of his shoulders, the slight dip of his waist, the veins that leave tree tracks down his forearms — henley pushed right above his elbows.

"I think about you like this,"  he whispers, palm pressing against the bare skin of my collarbone, my sweater dragged down, exposing my shoulder in the fall.   Tobias' eyes are dark and narrowed, and I think of wet black sand as his hand trails and slips through the sensitive curls behind my ear,  "all the time," his voice is different; I haven't heard a tone like this — it's lower, honest.

"You — this isn't going to work,"  I fumble, words broken with bewilderment.  I try to push myself up from the ground with my elbow, but my misplaced sweater tugs me to the side awkwardly, my bare shoulder jutting forward.  I fall back, the hand in his shirt pulling him forward over me.  Tobias inhales, "You can't stand me, and this — this is your defensive mechanism."  I try, but his finger pads over the corner of my lip.  "You're trying to scare me again... but it doesn't work. I'm not; I wasn't last time.  I'm not scared of that or this.  Whatever hate you're looking for, you won't find it."

Tobias shakes his head.

"I'm not trying to scare you,"  it doesn't sound like a lie,  "I'm not trying to make you hate me — but you will."

"I won't.  Tell me what you're thinking," my heart is hammering, I feel nauseous and light, humming with desire and confusion,  "honestly, Tobias.  Be honest with me."

Tobias' eyes close, and then they lift, and finally —

Meet mine.

"...I like how you look right now," he whispers, and it's gravel to me, low husk and grain.  My mind is foggy, my freehand locking onto his forearm for support.  "I like to rile you up,"  Tobias' hand is heavy on my thigh, almost like he's pushing it closer to where he sits between my legs like he wants to cage himself in place — I sigh heavily with the contact. He nearly arches,  "I like the way you look when you're flustered." he leans forward, elbow on the grass next to my ear.  He's so close that I can feel his breath, can feel his lips tickle my neck.  "Do you want me to go on, or are you sick from it?"

I take a startled breath, and then, a hidden part of me finally asks, in some sort of unholy admittance,

"Go on."

Tobias' jaw clenches.

"I want to know what you look like when you're being fucked."  There's a chill in my body, and my grasp on his arm tightens, slides up to his strong shoulders to hold myself steady.  His eyes are half-lidded,  "... I want to be the one to fuck you — to touch you."

"...Nothing I'm saying is untrue."  Tobias' lets out a shaky breath, and I feel my hand fall and bunch in the neck of his shirt, eyes on the stars above us — breathless and stricken with something different than them,  "Now, does that sound like someone you should trust?"

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