Oliver is a manga artist, but he was once an angry little boy with a sunny best friend: Ian Miller. Then, one day, they weren't friends anymore. Oliver doesn't know when was it exactly that Ian disappeared from his life, and refuses to remember why...
Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby by Cigarettes After Sex.
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I don't know what to do.
I picked him up, obviously, but he's been quiet since then— I'm not used to it. All I can hear is the street noise, my humming motor, and the wind.
"Did you have lunch yet?" How do I help?
He nods and I nod. I know far too well what it's like to want everyone to leave you the fuck alone, so I don't say anything else until we get home, and neither does he. All he does is rest his cheek on his hand and stare through the window the entire ride.
And it is strange, yes. But you'd think it'd also get uncomfortable at some point— it doesn't.
"Do you... want something to drink?" I ask this time, closing the door behind me. Wait— do we still have anything other than water or is it Chloe's turn to go to the grocery store?
"No, thank you," he mumbles. Okay, problem solved there.
We make it into my room and he still hesitates a little before I cock my head over to my desk chair, where I know he likes it best. He goes through my new drawings every time he comes here, but still asks: "Can I?" when he finds the new notebook.
"Sure," I let him. There are so many things in there that are unfinished and half of them suck. But I let him see that, too.
He carefully opens it, slowly goes page by page, and at least seems slightly less miserable when doing that.
"Oh, I didn't know you also painted," his voice comes after a little while.
"Yeah, I was experimenting with color," I say, running a hand through my hair and wondering why I'm not doing it on his, instead. "I still like black and white best, though."
He nods slowly yet again and keeps on turning the pages. I didn't want to say that, though— I didn't want to say anything. I wanted to hug him, I want to hug him. But I'm not, and add that to the list of things I can't figure out why.
"Can you paint my nails?" I hear his random request this time.
"Oh, sure."
He puts the notebook down and moves to sit on the bed with me. The mattress sinks just a little as I reach forward and into my nightstand, grabbing the black nail polish.
"Are you doing it just because she'll hate it?" I ask, not that I'd mind.
But he shakes his head. "No. I've always wanted to try, but... she was so happy I wasn't that kind of boy."Ugh. "Not flaunting it and all that..." He frowns to himself now. "I really... thought she was right."
I unscroll the cap, looking at him. "She's not?"
"I don't know," he murmurs, shrugging. "But I want to find out."
