Black Velvet (53) (Patreon)

"I need to talk to you. Before you go."

It's the first time I speak to him, but it's Tobias' last day. He stands next to his wooden workbench, rolls out a sheet of dough from the freezer — there's no snide remarks, no oozing sexuality. He's just quiet, unsure of how much he can be his mask or that he can be himself without more happening between the two of us, so —

We just coexist.

It's calm and strange.   I take in a breath.

"That night, you didn't call me back. Or Nic. It was a shit thing to do." I reign back in my less pleasant emotions, "I was worried about you — and so was he.  But — we're still here.  If you need something.  Or to talk."

I don't know the look on his face.

I know what he looks like when he's angry, when he's sad, when he feels too much for something. I know what he looks like under the stars at night with blood caked on his face, mid-dawn when he's worried for his mother.

I know his silhouette under the plastic glow of stars glued to the ceiling of my bedroom. I know what he looks like in a police station, in the wet grass of my lawn, when he's drunk or blissfully bare under a buzz. I know what he looks like when he wants more than everything above.

I know a lot. I don't know enough.

"Nic leaves tomorrow," I tell him, cut off a section of dough to weigh. My arm brushes his, and he rolls the next sheet pan out with more force than necessary. "We're going to take him to the train station if you want to go.  Or you can just see him in a couple of weeks for Thanksgiving. The fall festival is still going."

Tobias licks his lips, pauses for long enough to throw down some flour. I can tell he isn't trying to ignore me; eyes narrowed like he's weighing the options between responding and playing dead.

For some reason, it irritates me, so for some reason — I push.

"Or you know, you could ignore me," I shrug, ball up a piece of dough to punch out for proofing, "That's always good too. You're good at that."

"I'm not ignoring you." Tobias grunts, turns to grab a towel to wipe his hands off. I roll my eyes, cutting off another piece of dough.

That's not an answer either.

"Oh, sure.  You haven't spoken to me at all.  Where have you been?"

"I was up front."

"You weren't yesterday. Or the day before — and your car is never at your house."

"I'm busy."  Tobias shrugs, "I have friends besides your brother."

"Oh, bullshit.  Will you stop trying to push me out?"  Tobias snorts abruptly at the curse word, and I turn to face him, angry. "Don't laugh. Could you act like you give a shit about us?  Is that too hard?  We give a shit about you."

"I'm not trying to do anything," Tobias says and presses down a segment of dough. "I'm not trying to act like anything."

"Is this fair? Did I do something? It's quieter now than when I worked alone," It's true. One can only handle the sound of the oven humming for so long.

When the radio died, I'd grabbed my dad's huge, grey stereo and plugged it right up above our workbench — and somehow quiet Tobias is even more unsettling with the backdrop of the morning Jameson talk show,

"I don't even know how that's possible, but it is.  I thought we — I thought we were..." I swallow the words.

Eight ounces on the dot. I drop the piece of dough to the side and wait, and wait for any kind of response. Tobias pulls his apron upwards, jerkily, rolls it across his forearms to remove the leftover flour.

"We kissed," I say.

Tobias eyes me hard, and I can feel his stare on my back. I glance back at him and then back to my hands, waiting for him to break whatever awkwardness has settled in our workspace.

Of course, I'm greeted with more silence, silence, and staring, and I really don't feel comfortable with both nonverbal communications.

"Okay. Is that what you do?" I turn around, cupping a plastic container of salt to still my fidgeting hands. I have a hard time meeting his eyes as I struggle to think of how to calm myself. "I don't get you. Like, you — tell me, what you told me. We did what we did. Then I don't exist? That's fucking princely of you.  Why don't you be upfront if you don't want me?"

Tobias looks even more unsettled, like he doesn't know where to put his arms, can't say something snide, and run off because we're both on the clock, and he needs the job. I can see him look back at the oven timer, check the one on the proof box — glance towards the clock, the door.

"I can't tell you what you want to hear, Oliver," he says quietly, eyes downcast.  A moment passes, and I stay silent, waiting for him to continue.  "I want — but..."

"But what?"

"Everyone hates me here. Everyone is scared of me."  His teeth grit.  "I hate them too, I think."

My eyes water.

"...You just haven't seen us in a while; you haven't seen Nic — or been to our house."  I flush with a crushing feeling,  "if you came over once in a while, you wouldn't feel that way.  We all care about you and,"

"I found a place further out,"  Tobias admits.  I wonder if this is how I've never noticed his secrets.  They're half-truths.  He's honest, but at the same time, he isn't.  "I don't — I don't have time right now. I don't think I'll have time anymore."

"You're leaving,"  I bite out,  "I saw your bags. Just say you're leaving, and you don't want to be bothered with us."

I can't say me.

"Don't think that it was you." It sounds like goodbye. It's solid enough that I can turn to face him, and he's shaking his head, lets his eyes fall to the floor, and then back to mine,  "It wasn't... it wasn't what happened. I should've  — but I just think it's better if,"

He slips his hand into his back pocket, chews his cheek. The dark-haired man looks irritated with himself, with how he can't piece together the words he's looking for, "I forget about that — and we just work. Until we don't, and then, that's it."

"You can't call?" I feel my nose wrinkle, eyebrows narrowed in annoyance, "Text me? I would drive to meet you, wherever you go, so what changed?"

"Nothing changed." Tobias cuts in, hasn't moved from where he stands but looks more out of place, and I can see a slight bit of a sneer, "I was stupid — because you want this. You want Jameson, and I can't be here. I knew that.  I have to go." He exhales heavily at that, palms his eyes like he's exhausted.  "I have to."

"That doesn't mean you can't see me." I'm so forward, but I'll regret it if I'm not. I flex my fingers a bit, subconsciously, can feel the cool plastic of the salt container,  "you're trying to tell me that you're leaving — and I'm — I get it.  But you won't see me?"

I can feel my stomach roll, can feel that white-hot sensation that he means in general, that he wants me to leave him alone.

"I decided to get out before anything even happened between us. Before — any of this." Tobias waves his other hand in the expanse between us like I could somehow figure out what in the hell that means.

"This.  What does that even mean to you?"

Just tell me the truth.

"You don't need to know." Tobias' voice is gruff; he flicks on the sink's water — possibly to have something to distract his own hands. "It doesn't matter."

"You're telling me, that you,"  I still have the stupid container of salt in my hand when I walk up to him, "You don't know what this is? And. Somehow, all of a sudden — I don't deserve an explanation?"

"Oh, come on," Tobias laughs.  It's crisp and dry like I'm making the world's worst joke; he turns around with his fists still clenching the rim of the double compartment sink,  "you think that being tied to me is good, Oliver?"

"Tied to you?"

"Yeah.  Tied.  You think — you'll fit in? Not just as my friend — but you think we can hold hands at the movie theater?  That if someone thinks you're fuckin' me that you can hang out here working at the bakery forever like you want? Watching Jameson stars like you want? If I'm here?"

I open my mouth.  Nothing comes, and I shut it again.

"If this is — like before. I don't need that." I swallow. "Everything — I just want it with you.  I don't want anything else."

"And I don't want everything!"  Tobias cuts me off, so solid and sure that my body feels smaller. "I don't."

"You told me," I say, voice shaking, "you told me that you did. You told me I felt safe,"

"No." He shakes his head. "Let's not do this."

"You said that you—"

"Jesus, Oliver," Tobias spits, hands curling, "I'm a fucking asshole, okay? I shouldn't have kissed you. I can't stay here or be half-here, fucking up any chance you have!  Because whatever I do to you will be my fault."

"Tobias — please, I think that if,"

"It's too late!" Tobias' voice raises in an instant, and I curl back from it.  He's yelling, and it resonates too loudly in the bakery.  I glance uncomfortably towards the front,  "I'm already like this. You think you're so fucking tough — tough enough for someone like me — for Jameson to turn its back on you.  But oh, you bet I'll fuck you up — look at what I've already done."

"You haven't done anything!"

"You don't deserve it."

"You — you don't deserve it." I press on, shoulders quivering,  "It isn't your fault. None of this is!"

"Stop it."

"No.  Not if you're not honest with me."

"Honest? I fucking hate this town,"  Tobias seethes, eyes covered in some sad sheen — despite the venom in his voice.  His words are cracking with desperation, with something small and child-like,  "I don't want to fit in here. I don't want to look at my fuck up of a mom anymore. I want Nic — and you to leave me the hell alone and do better. I want to leave without missing anything."

"Tobias,"

"Just fucking let me leave!"

Ms. Martin is turning the corner as he finishes his sentence, and I'm clutching the container to my chest — eyes wide with tears. I know she hasn't heard his words and only registered his tone.  I know she only sees him as an angry young man, yelling, with his body built for fighting, and his skin saying that he does,

"Get out of my bakery," Ms. Martin commands, shaking with a wave of nervous anger, "right now, Mr. Amadeus. Get out."  She lifts one manicured nail to the door, her body placed in front of mine, and I think,

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Tobias laughs, mean and low, tugging too roughly at his apron strings. He rips it over his head and flings it to the ground, his angry smile one of absolution,

"See?"  He says to me, "Do you see?"

But I drop the salt, and I don't know if it's noiseless when it falls — because I can't hear it.  I only think of Tobias and push past Ms. Martin's barricade, leaving her bewildered —

And chasing him out the back bakery door.

It slams behind us in the wind.

"Tobias," when my hand encircles his wrist, he feels warm as ever.  When he looks back at me, startled, I see that he's crying.  "Tobias.  Talk to me."

So I pull myself to him, as hard as I'm able, and press myself against his chest, listening to his unsteady heartbeat.

"I see.  So,"  I say, and it's muffled against the fabric and the ache in my throat.  "Please.  Talk to me."

—

(Saved the author’s note for the end to let you know that the next chapter is HAPPY. Sorry for the drama, it’s necessary. Also, I’m not trying to write this relationship as toxic or one-sided, romantic relationship or feelings aside Tobias is REALLY spiraling and Oliver is just offering Tobias an outlet to talk. I’m not into the ‘sacrifice your happiness to save an irredeemable toxic boy’ narrative, but am a fan of the unwavering support for a victim of abuse narrative)

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