Black Velvet (50) (Patreon)

A few days pass, but my nerves never settle.

That — and thanks to the world's shittiest timing, Ms. Martin decides that the incorrigible Tobias is allowed near my impressionable self in his coming shift.

It's probably due to his very visible bruises as of late.

But, even still. 

I feel incurably tense, pacing from one workbench to the other, fumbling through ingredients and forgetting silly things, like eggs in a cheesecake, sugar in muffins. 

My head is a mess; therefore, so is everything else.

—

Tobias' reentry into our life isn't anything grand.

On the Thursday before our shift together, I come home from work, and on that Thursday — he's just there.  Nothing happened; that's the message his presence sends. I realize, with that, if I hadn't felt as much for him as I have for the last few months...

If it weren't for Jameson's gossip...

I would've never known anything.

I've never known anything.  Like my brother, my family, we wouldn't have.

"I'm not kidding about feeding my fish while I'm gone," Nic glares but agrees to my proposal reluctantly, spread out on the lawn like a starfish. "You're gonna come too, right, Toby?"

I've decided that I'm a pretty great wingman, all things considered. It's a whole lot of work to get Nic to agree to the second fall festival before he leaves, and I'm feeling pretty emotionally compromised at the moment.

Charlie-Anne wants to go.  She's threatened me with loss of limbs if I blow her off a second time, and where Nic goes, Joseph follows.

I suck it up for Charlie-Anne.

Nic peeks one eye open, smirking in that smarmy sort of way up at Tobias — who is perched on the stairs with some kind of manual in hand. It's hard to look at him, the discoloration of his cheek, the galaxies on his knuckles.

He just popped right back up this way, like his disappearance was all too normal — like nothing has happened at all. He sits on our stairs, my brother and I full of the uncomfortable knowledge that he's drowning.

A dull ache is hot in my bones and my heart.

How long has he been such a great actor?

"Come on. It'll be super lame if you don't.  You owe me." My brother pushes, and I notice something that I never saw before; desperation.  Has my brother always been this way?

Hopelessly roping Tobias into the feeling of inclusion?

"... You'll live." Our dark-eyed neighbor barely peeks up from his book, stretching his legs out against the concrete. He's not someone I can picture attending, let alone enjoying, a fair. That doesn't stop Nic from his endless amount of pestering, hand coming up to wrap around Tobias' boot,

"Come on, dude, I won't have any fun. Oliver is scared of the rides," My brother sighs, delivering a few quick tugs to the man's shoe. When that doesn't work, he pushes his palms into his cheeks and bats his eyelashes. It's all very gross, "It'll be the last time you see me!"

For some reason, the statement feels like more, and I feel sick.

"I played ball with you this morning," Tobias quirks his brows, turns the page of his softcover, "and you'll be back for Thanksgiving." He says, shaking Nic from his boot.

I shrug off Tobias' dismissal — and give Nic a forced, conniving sort of smile myself,

"Charlie-Anne and Joseph want to tag along."

I can almost see the very weird gears in Nic's head working as he stares at me, slack-jawed — his insistence that Tobias joins us, gone.

"Ohh... What? Does Charlie want Joseph to go?" He smirks, sitting up long enough to pick grass from his hair,  "Okay, interesting. Count me in."

"No — Nic."

"She wants to hang with Joseph, right? You mean, like — not just the general vicinity of you?"

"No, she wants to hang with all of us."  I sigh.  "Not Joseph."

"But she'll be in the car with Joseph, right?"

"Sure.  Same vehicle, same breathing space," I roll my eyes, jabbing a thumb over at my car that I'd only stopped calling the satan-mobile just yesterday, "The whole shebang. They might even share dead skin cells."

"Sexy.  My idea of a budding romance."

Tobias snaps his book shut and sighs, bringing himself up onto his feet like the conversation is physically painful for him. He crosses over into his lawn and perches himself on his own set of stairs.

"What's with him," I hiss, "despite the obvious?" I wave towards my face.

"... We played ball earlier, and I smacked him upside the head," Nic shrugs but doesn't look remotely bothered by his actions, "by accident. Or not. I may be mad at him, a little — a lot."

"... When did he decide to show up at home?" I whisper, and Nic gives me a severe sort of look. "Did he say anything?"

"Nope. He just rolled in this morning after his parents left. Conveniently. Don't get too excited," he glances towards the car, "— bags."

"What?"  I lean closer to him, following his eyes to Tobias' car, "Bags?"

"Bags for him. Like he's packed up —" Nic grimaces, and my discomforted feeling is back ten-fold, "like, he's leaving.  Those kinds of bags.  Look, I don't feel comfortable gossiping — but maybe we should talk."

Tobias glances up, and my jaw snaps shut. I try for indifference,

"Uh.  Anyway.  So, Charlie-Anne, dead skin cells, plan a go?"  I chirp, pushing up on my tiptoes. Nic hums to that, none too pleased that we were interrupted. I push on, "I think it'll be fun. We can talk after."

"Yeah, fantastic." Nic shrugs before he's doused with a sour frown, "Ew, Oli.  Dead skin cells again?  Anyway, anyway," Nic points at me, eyebrows narrowed, "You're not fooling anyone. She's hot for Joseph."

"She most definitely isn't.  And he isn't either."

"Fine.  Well, let's third-wheel them into love," Nic flings out his hands like us dying old maids is the only significantly realistic conclusion anyone has ever come to, "Tomorrow, then? I'll call Joseph."

—

I don't know what in the world has blessed me with enough confidence to cross into my neighbor's lawn this time, especially with the way his brows are furrowed like he actually does have some sort of baseball-induced headache.

I glance towards his car as I cross into his lawn, a lump in my throat at the sight of his haphazardly packed bags.

I buck up, determined to make him miss us, tipping back on my heels with a,

"Hey."

I'm not too surprised when Tobias ignores my existence, sigh heavy from where he sits on his porch stairs. We're back to square one, and I feel a strange sense of déjà vu — but I sway from foot to foot anyway, effectively blocking and unblocking the sunshine until he breaks under the annoyance that is me.

"Is this some sort of interpretive dance?" Tobias finally asks, closing his book with a snap. He sets it on the stairs next to him and crosses his arms, somehow still intimidating from below.

I nod before realizing what he's said and shake my head vigorously instead. He narrows his eyes, standing — looking frightening with the aid of several bruises and minor scrapes. I try not to let my gaze linger.

"What is it, Oliver?" Tobias spits, like he's sure I'm to question where they came from. I don't. I already know. I don't want to hear it again. "You have a question?"

"Oh, um." I don't know why I'm nervous now, but my stomach is flopping like I'm about to jump off a high building — Grand Canyon even.

This is the first time I've talked to him... Since our first kiss.

The dark-haired man doesn't seem to care much about my internal struggle, though, turns at the lack of response and starts to climb the tri-stairs to his home. How did I go from being something to nothing so quickly?

"Wait! Are you going to come?"

I blurt it out without thinking, somehow feeling like I'm under a non-existent pressure. I gather myself,

"I mean, are you going to come with us — to the fall festival? Like last year?"

"No." Tobias looks mildly hesitant to decline my offer. It's enough to make him pause, hand on the railing as he stares down at me. It's enough to give me hope. "I'm not."

"Uh," I roll my hands in the bottom of my sweater, tugging it to the side awkwardly, "I have Advil. For your headache. So will you please come with us?"

He lets his dark eyes slide from his porch and back to me, pausing to roam over the expanse of my face, down to where the collar of my shirt is pulled away from my neck, "I have things to do." He says, slowly — too tight. It's a lie, I know it's a lie, and the way he still stands there says that his resistance is breaking.

"Will you please come with us?"

Now it sounds more sincere, more like I want him to come, and it isn't just a thing amongst friends — like I'm asking him with the sole purpose of wanting him there myself. I flush, and his eyes track the flood of color to my face.  It's the absolutely worst time to put myself out there — like this, nerves rattling.

"Please?" I repeat, hopefully, more solid than the first time around, but it carries too much weight and longing — too much sincerity. It feels like I'm begging for something entirely different — for him to stay, for him to care that it'll hurt when he won't.

For him to care about me.

With that, Tobias looks frustrated, fingers curling over the edge of the railing. But he gives a curt shake of his head, his eyes watering as he snatches his hands away to shove them in his pockets.

"I can't," he repeats quietly.  For someone so substantial, he looks remarkably fragile under the shadow of his home's eve.  I inhale, chest tight with worry,

"Okay," I watch him, a discomfort in my abdomen.  Then, without thought, I reach for his wrist.  I pull there, at his arm, until he drags his hand back from his pocket.  I swallow, gaze downcast, and touch his palm lightly.  "That's okay."

"Tobias."  I take another breath, take hold of his fingers, and squeeze lightly. When I look up, Tobias' gaze meets mine with uncertainty, with the sheen of tears still threatening to spill.

But he stops moving, turns to me — and listens,

"I care about you,"  I say.  "Can you talk to me?"

--

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