[PRP] You've got mail (Oliver & Elliot)

[saedusk]

There he was, the Elliot Labelle, man of one million words, left utterly speechless. Sure, he tried to say something, but the more Oliver spoke, the more those attempts shriveled until he nearly resigned himself to giving up entirely. It was easy to throw up a mask or talk pretty words when his heart wasn't in it. Hell, his parents had him practiced enough that he could tamp down what feelings he did have, ignoring them to save him suffering. Since meeting Oliver, he'd gotten rusty at it. The cracks were beginning to show.

What came from his throat next was a strangled sort of noise, a croak, no delicate swan song. The hurt was sincere, but so was the sudden flicker of determination—or maybe it was desperation—that clung to the edges of his voice like a leeches to skin.

"Wait-" he said, breathless as if he'd run a marathon, "Please... not like this. Stay, Oliver, please." Elliot never really believed there was a reason for everything, but in this moment he grasped that idea and refused to let go. "My reasons for leaving California... it was important to me, it was a new life," he paused, "We were close." The words finally, finally began to tumble out, a leak from a faucet turned uncontrollable.

"He's important to me, but can you... can you really expect me to look at you now and say anything different?" Was that selfish? It probably was, but it didn't really matter. "If he were here he'd... he'd tell me to say everything I wanted to say. He hated how I hid things." Elliot had tried so hard for him, that Oliver. He'd tried harder for him than anyone else.

"If I've truly lost him, I..." Were those tears? They were faint, only a wavering reflection in his eye, but they meant something because Elliot never, ever cried. "I don't want to lose you, too. These past few months... they haven't meant nothing to me."

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

That was only a partial lie. Elliot had cried and Oliver had been there, but only late into the night when his roommate would come wobbling back home, shitfaced and upset because something didn't go his way and now he'd gone and blown it out of proportion. Just like that, it'd be completely gone the next day, like no breakdown ever occurred, like no catastrophe ever happened. Except Oliver could still see the cracks in Elliot's person, the way he talked, the way he acted; it was all just a facade, and Ollie knew this, and Elliot knew that Ollie knew this, but it was all part of the game. He'd bring it up on occasion. He'd get shot down every time. Eventually he just stopped and let Elliot do whatever the hell he wanted. He'd crash and he'd drag Oliver down with him and he had been resigned to it.

But that was that Elliot, and not this one. These weren't drunken tears, these were something raw and genuine and pained. Again came the familiar sensation of the outsider; Oliver felt like a visitor here with a key that shouldn't have matched the lock on the door. He'd intruded on something private and intimate and—a selfish part of him would think—wonderful, because despite the ache and the stress he never thought he'd see Elliot like this. He was seeing the cracks in this one, but in an entirely different light.

They weren't the same Eli, and that maybe was... fine.

"It's true, I always hated how you hid things." Oliver had stopped walking towards the door at least, his gaze was big and blue and sad. "Every part of you was built up and constructed out of things you weren't. Every action you made was ulterior and planned three steps out in advance. You never let anyone in." He was searching Elliot's eyes for any emotion, for any chip in the surface, for any cue. "You never did. We came back here because Shiloh was—there was something wrong with him, and I told you I was leaving, and you didn't want me to." He swallowed and his throat felt suddenly raw and dried and cracked, "You didn't want me too because I validated you, I knew I did from day one, but it was all I could get. We fed into each other." We had knives at each others throats and coughed down our sleeves when nobody was watching, he wanted to say, but he didn't.

"I really started to hate you. That version of you." He choked, "But I just wanted to be friends, I just wanted you to be open, and then I came here and you were like this, but—" He took a deep breath and blinked, vaguely aware of his own tears welling up against his delicate eyelashes. "But it felt wrong. I don't know you, not the way I should. I look through my texts and they're not mine. I look through my sketchbooks and they're meaningless because I can't tell what I was thinking. They aren't my memories."

He looked to the floor, and then silently—much more refined that his brother—there was the heavy plop of water hitting the floor as gravity worked its magic.

"I feel like such a ******** up Eli." He huffed, "We ******** it all up for everyone. I know I should've told you, okay? But I couldn't just—I couldn't, I couldn't. I'm selfish and it hurt."

saedusk

 

[saedusk]

The pain in Elliot's chest was an awful amalgamation of so many things. It hurt him to see Oliver cry, to see him doubt. It hurt him to realize he may have truly lost something far beyond his reach. It hurt him to hear what was said about him—or the him he wasn't—because anything that could coax someone to say I really started to hate you had to be genuinely awful. It sounded like a life he could've easily lived if they hadn't met when they did.

Part of him felt truly sorry for both this Oliver and that Elliot. There was nothing in this world, absolutely no possession, that he wouldn't have given up for the life he had. Another part of him felt guilt. Where was the line between different lives? Could he truly say he had no fault in any of it if he could've taken that same path given another circumstance? He couldn't deny it.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry I hurt you," he muttered. Comforting someone in an outrageous situation like this felt nearly impossible. You couldn't simply say, 'oh, it doesn't matter these memories aren't yours, it doesn't matter you feel like a stranger in your own home.'

And yet, where the mind hesitated, the body reacted. He reached out and pulled Ollie close, hugged him like he meant it, cried with him. "You're not a ******** up," he choked, "I'm selfish, too."

That selfish part of him didn't want to let go. If it meant living through a whole new friendship, starting over, he didn't care.

"I don't want to let magic ruin this. I don't want it to be an excuse." What he was saying without saying it was this: can we try to be friends?

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

There was a quiet woosh sound as the letter Ollie was holding fluttered to the ground, two separate clinks as the paper and envelope landed at different times. His head had snapped up when he saw Elliot's feet moving, and now he found himself with his face pressed into his shoulder. They were hugging of all things. It made his graceful-but-somber cry well up into something more ugly, vision blurring with thick wavering lines as he felt the tears run down his face rather than drip onto the entryway floor.

"B-But you didn't do anything." He sounded incredulous, "You never did—just because I knew another you didn't mean it was you." It was like his confrontation with Ezra, the man insisting he was the one at fault for the Court, Shiloh's suffering, the creation of something awful. That might have been a Oliver, but it wasn't this one. It would be ridiculous to let Eli follow that same line of thinking. "You've never been anything but kind." Ollie sounded choked up, but he was still doing his damnedest to swallow his sobs.

That was an unfortunate trait of the Beaumont twins; crying was weakness and you did everything in your power to hide the symptoms of it. You broke down in the privacy of your own shame. You cleaned up the pieces by yourself. You promised yourself to be a little less empathetic in the future. When something made you cry, it took something deep and dark and personal from you. You swore to never let them take you apart like that again.

"That's why it's awful," He mumbled against Eli's sleeve, "Now you got hurt too. I just wanted to go home, I didn't want to invade a place that was already created." A fluttery sigh left his lips as he finally—finally—wrapped his arms around Elliot in turn, hands and fingers grasping at whatever fabric they could find traction in.

"I'm sorry too..." And then it happened. There was a wretched, painful sound when he finally let himself sob, "I'm sorry. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to leave." He curled in further to the hug, "A-A-And now you're magic, it's such a mess. The Otherworld has you and it's such a mess."

saedusk

 

[saedusk]

Eli breathed and it sounded somewhere between relief and weak, wobbly laughter. Knowing Ollie didn't blame him was damn near half the weight off his shoulders, and though the guilt didn't fade completely and probably wouldn't for some time, it gave him hope that they'd find a way to work through all of this. They could salvage something of their lives. They didn't have to deal with it alone.

"It's not your fault, either..." he assured, squeezing tighter, bolstered by the arms around him in return. The reaction made it more than obvious this was no lie. Oliver was legitimately torn up about what had happened. It was understandable, but Eli would never blame him.

"You don't have to leave. I... I don't want you to," it was like a plea, muffled by Oliver's soft hair. His eyes were squeezed shut as he pressed his face against it. Hands dragged up and down his back, catching occasionally in the folds of his clothes, but never stopping. It was all the comfort he could offer as his chest tightened and his heart broke. Hearing Ollie cry like this was significant in the saddest of ways.

"I'll figure something out." What the answer to all of this magic bullshit was, he had no idea, but right now it didn't matter. "Don't... don't worry, okay?"

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

"But what if you become a raccoon?!" He suddenly exclaimed, "Or a opossum. What if you became a opossum Elliot? Or a shrew? Or a mouse." He sniffled pathetically, "You'd have the cutest ears but it'd suck. Being a moonwalker sucks."

He let go of the hug enough to wipe his eyes with the backsides his hands, but he was still definitely in Elliot's arms, not going anywhere anytime soon. His eyes looked even more red against the dark black rings that looped around his face.

"It's just. It's dumb." He said rather eloquently, "It's stupid. And I feel bad because I like this you better than the old one." He sounded so guilty to admit it, but it was the truth. "But I was worried you were going to hate me or—I mean, you know that right? We're different people? Me and the other Oliver?" He looked up at Eli with red-rimmed eyes. "I don't have the same experiences he did with you? I don't... I don't have his memories, I don't act the way he did..." He sniffled again, "Or maybe I do, I dunno..."

His head promptly bonked back against Elliot's chest.

"I don't know if there's a way to get him back, b-but I can try if that's what you want." There was a flash of weakness there, "To see if... if we can swap him back in here, or something."

saedusk

 

[saedusk]

This was it. This was one of the most endearing things about Oliver Beaumont. What they were talking about was still serious, that hadn't changed, but it never failed to make Elliot smile when he went off on tangents like this. They were silly and downright unrealistic, like feeding a bunch of raccoons at three in the goddamn morning, but it always felt right anyway. It always felt good.

"I know you're different people," he said, rubbing his back in slow, even circles. It did make his chest tight wondering what the hell could've happened to the other Ollie, but he pushed through it. "And... maybe it's strange to say it, but I... I'm still fond of you. You," he emphasized. Maybe it was residual his-Ollie-attachment, but right now he didn't care. Feelings were feelings.

"I don't want to replace you." Just like he'd obviously never wanted to replace the other Oliver or anyone for that matter. "If... an opportunity like that ever arises, let's cross that bridge when we get to it. Okay?" He swallowed hard.

"If I'm being honest, I... don't want to risk anything happening to you..."

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

Fond? He latched onto the word, sunk his nails into it, didn't let it go. He'd been told a myriad of different things by the other Elliot—the alpha Elliot, he supposed—but it had never been genuine or under the emotional waterfall of tears. But if I got him back, you could be happy again; he chewed on his lip, the thoughts never quite breaching his throat. If I can't be the best, then what am I?

"I suppose..." That was a famous Oliver statement for 'I don't know what else to say, but thank you'. A slightly harsher tone was more indicative of 'sure whatever' but this one was thankfully the former.

He let the moment lapse into silence, obviously struggling with something internally. Finally, he spoke, "He never did these things with me." Oliver had leaned back against the warmth of Elliot's shoulder, his eyes shut, but this time he looked pleasant and peaceful. "I like it, though. I'm not... super used to it—actually, this is rather awkward to ask, listen to me I sound like I'm a freshman in high school." He laughed weakly. "You'll... we can hug and stuff like this sometimes, right...?"

In the back of his mind, he knew the other Oliver probably wasn't this timid. Hell, he wasn't timid, not normally, but this? This was vulnerability. This was new. This was... not wholly unwanted, actually.

saedusk