Through Hell [AOB/LGBT+/mpreg]

12

Oliver manages to pay everything on time.  He has heat for the upcoming winter and the electricity is back on too.  He can see the exasperation on his landlord's face when he hands in the money and then some.  He apologizes profusely, knowing that the man's dislike has probably only grown more toward him.

"Just... don't let it happen again Morales," the man sighs all long-suffering, "next time there will be no notice and I'll put out all your shit on the curb."

It's as good as he's going to get from the man and he promises he won't fall behind on rent again.  The man waves him off and Oliver leaves the office a little lighter and relieved.

Finally he say with certainty that home is starting to feel like home.  He doesn't change his nest no matter the underlaying urge to throw everything out still prickling under his skin.  But he finally feels safe within the confines of it and that is enough for him.

And for once he has money that can go toward expenses like essentials and most importantly food.  He's grocery shopping when his thoughts wander to the alpha.  It's been a week and the man has yet to reach out, he wonders if the alpha forgot, but he highly doubts it.  No, his alpha keeps his promises.

Oliver hums as he throws in some Lindt chocolate into the basket hanging from the bend of his elbow, (the red kind only though) along with some spicy chips.  Just so he doesn't feel guilty now, he throws in some fruits and veggies he knows will spoil later.  He'll deal with that guilt when it hits then.

He pays at the register before heading back home, wondering if he should buy a new winter coat when he shivers at the pick up of the  wind which rustles his overgrown hair.  He really needs a haircut, there's a struggle inside that causes a war at the thought.

On one hand he'd love to enjoy long hair again, do those cool Viking braids and buns on his unruly waves.  But the dysphoric part of himself whispers in his mind that he'll be seen as less than a man for having long hair which is stupid and he knows.  It doesn't make him feel any better though.

It's with this turmoil inside that he finds himself thoroughly distracted that he almost misses the splatter underneath his feet once he reaches his apartment building.  He only notices because he slips on a little pool of red and he barely catches himself with a bag-laden hand extended against the wall.

His eyes widen as he looks down the hall, heart jumping to his throat when the dark specks continue and grow.

He continues, almost entranced, following the splatters that lead to his apartment of all places.

He feels nauseated when he sees red covering the door knob, a hand print painted onto the wood of the door where someone pushed inside.

The bags nearly slip from his hold and he looks down the hall back and forth.  He places several bags hanging from his left arm down, trying to avoid the mess of red at his feet, hoping that he did.

He uses his thigh to lower the sleeve over his left hand before using it to cover the bloodied doorknob and twist.

Unsurprisingly, the door is unlocked.

He's cautious when he steps inside, everything is dark except for the light seeping out from under his bedroom door.  He chucks off his jacket and takes off his shoes at the entrance in hopes that his socks will muffle his steps.

As quiet as possible he places the rest of his grocery bags on the table, digging around to find a glass jar of raspberry jam before approaching  his room.  The shift of the weight causes one of the floorboards to creak and he pauses mid stride with bated breath, jar firmly in hand poised as a weapon.