starry-eyed kid, look at what you did @nightfalling-rps-blog - Tumblr Blog

Oct 13, 2016

McStrand, ‘Beginning of the End’ or, “The One Where Casey’s Mother Is Finally Dead and He Doesn’t Know How to Feel About It” @truebluerps

Almost two years after her husband passed, Eleanor McCall died of a heart attack on a Monday afternoon. Casey had been in Marseille with Oliver when his father had died, and it hadn’t been expected for him to come all the way to Washington for the funeral, but there was no convenient ‘out-of-the-country’ excuse this time. Especially not after the phone call he’d received from Tiffany. After telling him what had happened, she’d said only two more words: “Casey, please.”

He and Oliver arrived at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport late on Wednesday, almost at midnight thanks to unforeseen delays and problems. After they’d checked into their hotel, Casey barely made it to the bed before he passed out, and he slept for a grand total of thirteen hours before it was time for the Thursday evening viewing.

It was surreal being there. He stood between his sisters in front of the open casket, gazing down at his mother, and she looked so small. Had she always been this small? He swore that he could distinctly remember her being taller, could remember being engulfed by her shadow. He had to reach up and loosen his tie. His suit was perfectly fitted — as were all of his clothes because he wasn’t a fucking plebeian, come on — but it felt way too tight. He was suffocating. And sweating way more than he’d have liked. He could feel Oliver’s eyes on him and he knew he was standing in the same place that Casey had left him, in the back of the room, no doubt feeling even more awkward and out of place than Casey himself did. Casey wanted to go to him, but something kept him rooted to the spot. Moving now would only draw more attention to him from the other attendees, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t want that attention.

In fact, he kind of wanted the ground to open up right then and there and devour him whole. If he could just disappear into nothingness for just a moment, life would be peachy fucking keen.

He swallowed against his dry throat, dragging in a quick breath. “She kinda looks like the Crypt Keeper, huh?”

An unattractive snort left Delia. It had a gross wet sound to it because of the tears that were slowly trailing down her cheeks — Casey didn’t understand how one woman could have so many tears in her. It seemed like whenever she cried, it lasted for hours. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late — she’d already laughed. Tiffany said Casey’s name, her voice soft but scolding, and yet when he glanced sideways at her, there was a little light in her eyes that said she at least saw the humor in his remark. A little bit. Her roots were showing and her makeup was half-assed tonight. Casey didn’t point it out.

“I keep expecting her to open her eyes,” Delia said.

Not him. His mother looked well and fucking dead.

She almost looked like a wax figure, like something out of a god damn nightmare — more so than usual, anyway. If she did open her eyes looking the way she did, like some kind of demon spawn, Casey would have likely shit himself on the spot out of sheer fright. She was so still and he stared so hard that his eyes were beginning to play tricks on him: it almost seemed as though her chest was rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

He reached towards her. Tiffany smacked at his hand.

He tossed her a sarcastic look as he jerked away from her touch. As he reached forward again, Tiffany didn’t stop him this time, and both she and Delia watched with their breaths held, waiting to see what he’d do.

He pressed the tip of his index finger to one of Eleanor’s lined cheeks. Her skin was cool and surprisingly firm, feeling just as waxy as it looked. He pulled back so sharply that Delia jumped beside him, startled. He almost expected to find a patch of skin stuck to his finger like wet tissue paper, leaving behind a hole in his mother’s face. It didn’t, but he shook off the imaginary sensation anyway, his fingertip seeming to tingle.

The room spun around him and the walls crawled. Spots suddenly danced in his vision. His stomach was tight and hot, and bile rose in his throat, and hell, he didn’t know what was going to happen first — was he going to faint or was he going to be sick?

As fitting as it would have been for him to throw up all over his mother at her funeral, he had just a little more class than that. Blinking away the blotches in front of his eyes, he turned and made a beeline for the hall. Delia whispered his name, puzzled, but he barely heard her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Oliver straighten and move towards him, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

He slammed open the door of the small bathroom, glad as fuck to find it empty, and he shoved into one of the two stalls so he could bend over the toilet. Vomiting came easy to him. A past like his, trying to maintain a body like his, sometimes you had to make daily sacrifices to the porcelain god, you know?

Of course, he hadn’t eaten anything since they’d arrived in Washington. The only thing in his system that could even come up was the shitty coffee that Oliver had insisted he drink before the viewing.

“If you’re not gonna eat, at least drink this,” he’d said, and though he’d handed it almost tenderly to Casey, his voice had been low and firm, and Casey had known he wasn’t going to be able to get away with not drinking it. Oliver had been using his Dad Voice.

And boy, as bad as the coffee had tasted going down, it tasted even worse coming back up.

When Oliver appeared behind him, he settled a big hand on Casey’s lower back and rubbed gentle circles, speaking softly to him. Casey couldn’t make out the words, really — those little nothings that come out of you on instinct when someone’s getting sick, shit like: ‘you’re okay,’ and ‘I’m here.’ Meaningless at the end of the day, but when they came from the right person at the right time, they were everything.

Casey retched emptily, then spat into the toilet and groaned, annoyed. “I should be happy.” His voice seemed hollow as he spoke into the toilet bowl.

Oliver didn’t say anything. He’d met Eleanor more than a few times, sure, and he knew the extent of the damage she’d done to her children. But what exactly was someone supposed to say to that? He couldn’t agree without looking like a douche, and Oliver Strand was anything but a douche — even if Casey liked to call him one on the regular.

He spat again and straightened. The stall was cramped with Oliver in it, but Oliver made no move to leave, and Casey didn’t want him to. He used his foot to flush the toilet, wiping his mouth with a wad of toilet paper and tossing it into the swirling waters before it was finished. His stomach was clenched and empty and exhausted. His throat burned. His muscles quaked. Damn her for making him feel like this.

He turned to face Oliver and leaned his back against the stall wall. “Why do I feel so bad?”

“She’s your mother, man.”

“She’s an asshole.”

“But you aren’t. Well, not entirely.”

Casey’s eyes met his, and he felt stupidly vulnerable at the emotion in Oliver’s gaze. Quiet, understanding, concerned Ollie. He loved him so much.

He looked down at his hands and snorted. “Half of me is hearing the munchkins sing ‘Ding-dong! The Witch is Dead!’ but the other half…. It’s fuckin’ stupid, pal.”

Oliver offered up a smile, the tiniest quirk of his mouth, and he shook his head. “It’s natural.”

Casey wanted to argue just for the sake of arguing — like always. Instead, he just nodded and hung his head, breathing in another deep lungful of air. He wanted to cling to Oliver, wanted nothing more than to be in Oliver’s arms, but it didn’t feel like it was the right moment. He got the feeling that if Oliver tried to hold him, he’d just shake him off in annoyance — sometimes even he didn’t understand himself.

“You gonna be alright?” Oliver asked softly.

“I want to get the fuck out of here,” Casey admitted. “I think they’re all expecting us to get up and say some super nice, corny fuckin’ shit about her and honor her memory or some bullshit, but god knows not one of us has any good words to say about her. I mean, except ‘she gave us unlimited access to her money, may God rest her soul, amen,’ or whatever.”

“We can go. People would understand.”

“It’s tempting to get up and speak, actually. Finally tell them all just what it was like to live with the great Eleanor McCall.”

“But even you know that’d be pretty low?” Oliver suggested.

“Bingo, buddy. I’m way too fuckin’ classy for that.” As he said it, Casey straightened his jacket, but even with the confident motion, his voice sounded less than. He almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Oliver reached for him and Casey practically surged forward to meet the touch. Oliver’s hand cupped the side of his neck, his grasp familiar and warm and firm, and it grounded Casey. Anchored him and reminded him that he wasn’t alone. He’d been alone a long damn time, but by now he’d also been with Oliver a long damn time, and it was high time he remembered that.

“You wanna get out of here?” Oliver asked.

Casey nodded. He felt strangely… guilty?

“We’re gonna get something to eat, alright?”

Casey made a face, but he nodded anyway. Oliver seemed pleased. He squeezed Casey’s neck affectionately, then pulled Casey to him, and Casey surprised himself by melting into the embrace. Like he could disappear completely into his husband. He’d never felt more grateful towards anyone in his life before. What had he done to deserve having Oliver in his life? God only knew how he’d have been handling this if he were still on his own.

Shit. He probably wouldn’t even have made it this far in life if he’d never met Oliver. The thought made him hug Oliver tighter, but he hoped Oliver didn’t notice.

****

Eleanor was placed into the family tomb beside Jameson, surrounded by other McCalls that Casey had never met in his life. Casey was one of the pallbearers and Christ, he fucking hated it, but he did it for his sisters — they couldn’t say he’d never done anything for them, right?

When he rejoined Oliver, he said, “Cremate me when I go. I never want to come back to this place for the rest of my bodily existence.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to excuse me for not wanting to think about you dying.”

“Hey, I know I look damn good for my age, big guy, but I’m getting up there.”

“Babe?”

“Yes, apple of my eye?”

“Shut up.”

Casey looked at him and when their gazes met, Oliver offered up one of those smirks that he loved so much. Despite it all, Casey flashed him a little smile — though he pretended it was a begrudging one and not at all a ‘I-love-you-so-much’ one. He wanted nothing more than to go back to New York, and for a moment, he was almost excited. The funeral was over, they could leave! They could go home and he could hug each of his cats and then he and Oliver could crash on the couch with the Playstation.

But then he remembered that the will still needed to be read and he cursed aloud. “Oh, shit on me.”

Oliver’s eyebrows went together. “I really hope that’s not something you’re into.”

“The fuckin’ reading of the will.”

“What about it?”

“Why is it a thing?”

A bemused chuckle left Oliver, like he wasn’t sure if Casey was being serious or not. “Uh… you know —”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what they’re for, just…. Why the hell do I need to be there for it? Just send me a letter. Give me a receipt of all the shit I got.”

Oliver’s hand found his, and he linked their fingers together. He tugged slightly until Casey looked back at him. “We’re almost done,” he said. “The hard part’s out of the way, right?”

Casey thought back to what his mother had looked like at the viewing the night before. He remembered the feeling of her skin and how he’d expected it to fall apart at his touch. He fought back a cringe and nodded.

“Yeah. Sure. But I swear to all that is holy, if this shit runs for over an hour, I’m ditching early.”

The reading of the will ran not just for one hour, but for almost three.

Casey and his sisters sat in a tiny office that smelled bizarrely like pencil shavings, with their mother’s lawyer, who was a tiny man dwarfed by his desk. There’d only been two leather chairs in front of the desk when they’d arrived, and Tiffany had sat down immediately, leaving Casey and Delia to fight over the remaining one. Casey had won, and the lawyer — hell if Casey had caught his name — brought in a third chair for Delia, though it was a hard and straight-backed one that didn’t match.

He listened — or tried to, at least — for the first ten minutes, but it got harder and harder to want to listen as the minutes wore on. The lawyer had a nasally voice and an atrocious sense of fashion, and he sniffed after everything he said like he had a perpetually running nose. At about the hundredth time of him pushing his glasses back up his nose as he read, Casey’s attention span went out the window and he found himself looking all around the office, wishing he was anywhere but there.

Tiffany listened with rapt attention, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. Her makeup was better today. Look at you, Casey thought. Tried so desperately to live up to her expectations and where’d that get you, sis? Just as fucked up as me, only you like to pretend otherwise. At least he and Delia embraced their fuck-up sides. Maybe it was the older sibling in Tiff, always wanting to appear the mature one. Or maybe she feels like she has to for your guys’ sake, said a logical voice in the back of his mind.

He pretended not to have noticed.

Delia spent her time looking between the lawyer and Tiffany — back and forth, back and forth. She didn’t understand what he was saying and was instead relying on Tiffany’s reaction to let her know how she should feel about it all. She was still so immature, even despite her age. How in the hell was she going to get by without Mommie Dearest to run to when things got too hard? Would Tiffany be who she went to now? Or, god forbid, would she start coming to Casey? Yeah, sure, their relationship had gotten much better in recent years, but that didn’t mean he wanted her hanging around even more than she already did. Especially not with her petty problems — Casey had a life of his own, thank you very much. A family he needed to take care of.

The more the lawyer spoke, the more Casey felt like he was sinking. It wasn’t like what he’d hoped for at the viewing — the ground wasn’t swallowing him whole and making him disappear. Instead, he felt like he was in quicksand. Just slowly sinking into it, his limbs heavy and his chest growing tighter and tighter.

None of this felt real. He hadn’t gotten high on anything in a long, long time, but he sure felt like he was high right now. And as he heard about who got exactly what from their mother’s estate, the feeling only intensified.

And when it was over, well…. It was over. Casey felt numb as he and his sisters signed whatever shit Little Nasal Man asked them to sign, and then they were just leaving. Like it was nothing. All he could think as he rushed out ahead of Tiffany and Delia was that this had all been a gigantic waste of fucking time.

“How’d it go?” Oliver had been sitting on a stone bench outside the law offices, but he jumped to his feet the moment he saw Casey coming towards him.

Casey shrugged and shook his head at the same time, shoving his hands into the pockets of his Jacob-Cohën jeans. “Well,” he said, pushing out a sigh, “Tiff got the house here — don’t know why she’d want it. Not like we have any good memories there, and she’ll probably hear our dear old Mom’s cackling echoing throughout the place in the middle of the night a la What’s-Her-Name in Jane Eyre, let’s be fuckin’ real here. Delia got the vacation house in England — she wanted it apparently, which is idiotic considering the dumb bitch hates flying.”

Oliver shifted his weight. He seemed to consider his words carefully before he said, his tone easy, “And you? She leave you out like you were convinced she would?”

“Next to a considerable share of the family fortune, I was also given the winery.”

Oliver hesitated as though he were waiting for a punchline, and then he raised his eyebrows. “Is that a good thing? Is that a bad thing? Talk to me, McCall.”

Casey bit back the instinctive ‘I don’t know’ that threatened to escape him, mostly because he hated looking uncertain or vulnerable. He shook his head again and when he spoke, he sounded frustrated even to his own ears. “I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want any fuckin’ ties to this place, Ol.”

Oliver studied him for a moment, but as he opened his mouth to respond, they were approached by Tiffany. She was wearing outdated shoes, Casey noticed for the first time. She’d really let herself go. This was affecting her pretty hard, wasn’t it? Remembering how he’d felt at the viewing, Casey figured it was affecting him hard too.

It was a notion that made him angry. The bitch was finally dead and gone and they should have all been free of her and her influence. But they weren’t. Would they ever truly be?

“Can I speak to you?” she asked, approaching Casey almost tentatively, like he was a wild animal whose actions were unpredictable.

Oliver immediately started to say, “I’ll just go —”

“No,” both Casey and Tiffany said at the same time.

Casey whirled to look at her, surprised, and she dropped her gaze, embarrassed.

“I mean, you don’t have to go anywhere, Oliver,” she said. “You’re a part of the family, aren’t you?”

Casey was touched. Although Delia had seen Oliver on many occasions now, this trip to Seattle was pretty much the first time Tiffany was meeting him. That she was so willing to accept him was out of character — or maybe Casey didn’t have his older sister as figured out as he’d thought.

Oliver seemed just as surprised. “Uh, yeah. Right. Thanks.”

Casey was so going to make fun of him for his awkwardness later.

“What’s up?” he prompted Tiffany. He loved her as much as a brother can love a sister he absolutely hates spending time with, but damn, he was more than ready to get the fuck out of dodge.

“I just — I just wanted to make sure you were alright with how things went,” she said.

“Are you saying you think I’m disappointed with my share?” Casey asked indignantly.

“No, no, Case — don’t be silly. I meant, Mom didn’t know what to leave to you. I suggested the winery. I thought… you know, you have your life in New York, that it’d be pointless to give you the house. And Delia really wanted the London home, so that wasn’t in the equation at all. You know how she is when she doesn’t get her way.”

“It was your idea to give me the winery?”

“I guess.”

“Did you want it?”

She shrugged, grimacing a little. Somehow, Casey got the feeling that she wanted the winery about as much as he did.

“I mean it, Tiff, I don’t care. You know me, I’m happy with good old cash money.” Casey rubbed his fingers together, the universal gesture of money, but Tiffany didn’t crack a smile. Delia would have, he thought.

She shrugged again. “Sell it.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“That’s what I’m probably going to do with the house,” she said truthfully. She hugged herself and shook her head, sighing a little. “I think. After I go through and clean it out, of course. Donate all that I can.”

Yeah, Casey thought. Maybe he didn’t have her as figured out as he thought he did.

The goodbye that followed was uncomfortable and tense, but even so, Casey felt a tiny bit lighter after he and Tiffany had embraced and she’d walked away. He felt almost like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

“You know, you talk a lot of shit about Tiffany,” Oliver remarked as they made their way to the rental car.

“Oh, suck my dick, you’ve known her for ten minutes, buddy. Try knowing her your whole life.”

Oliver chuckled. The sound never failed to make Casey feel warm and secure. “So what now?” he asked.

There was a pause as Casey considered the question. He opened the driver’s side door and hesitated, and Oliver struck a similar pose, looking at him from over the top of the car. Casey really wanted to go home, but something had him wanting to make a detour. Was it a need for closure? It wasn’t as if he had many good memories of the place. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been.

He gave Oliver a thoughtful look and said, “I’m gonna show you the winery.”

****

The Belle Époque Vineyard and Winery in Tacoma was just as big as he’d remembered, stretching across god knew how many acres of land. Like many things in the McCalls lives, it was excessive and grandiose, almost sickeningly so, but at least it had a purpose. Not like the houses and cars and wardrobes of the family members.

It’d been closed for a while, Tiffany had told him — ever since Eleanor had fallen ill. Employees still came by to tend to the vineyard itself, but production had stalled, and resources were shipped out to other wineries so as not to go to waste.

That surreal feeling washed over him again as he led Oliver to the entrance, pulling out the set of keys that Tiffany had given to him. Was any of this real, or was he in some bizarre dream? Whenever Oliver appeared in his dreams, he was usually gloriously naked, so the fact that he was dressed led Casey to believe that no, he was truly awake.

He unlocked the main door and hesitated only briefly before pushing it open and slipping inside to turn off the security alarm — using the code that was on the post-it note that had been given to him alongside the keys. It was his father’s birthday, which meant his mother had had a hidden streak of sentimentality or she was just a fucking idiot. Anyone attempting to break in would have just had to know the slightest bit about Jameson in order to figure out such a simple code.

Oliver followed him inside, pushing the door shut. Casey merely had to gesture with a wave of his hand for Oliver to understand that he wanted him to lock the door — and good old Oliver obliged. His hands went into his jacket pockets as he watched Casey, and Casey let his attention drift to the familiar surroundings.

The winery had often been used for his mother’s events. It was big enough to entertain a good deal of people, classy enough that it never failed to impress, and it was always fully stocked with some of the best wine the United States had to offer. Casey and his sisters had had to attend a great many of these events, mingling and partaking in the wine tastings despite their being underage, and, in general, their presence had been meant to make Eleanor and Jameson look good.

Casey had only made a scene once, surprisingly, when he was nineteen. That was the last event he’d been expected to attend. After that, he’d stepped foot in The Belle Époque only a handful of times, and he’d never stayed any longer than he’d had to.

Oliver let out a low whistle and Casey turned back to him, smirking.

“Not bad,” Oliver said.

“How many times do I have to tell you, asshole? My parents did not fuck around,” Casey said, snorting out a little laugh. “Go big or go fuckin’ kill yourself, you worthless piece of shit — that was their motto.”

Oliver chuckled and did that thing he did — hunching his shoulders as though he could shrink himself and appear smaller. As long as they’d been together and he still wasn’t comfortable around big displays of wealth like this. It was as if he thought his presence would sully the place, dirty it up. It was something that both annoyed Casey and endeared him all the more to his husband.

“This place was always crowded whenever I was here,” Casey said, making a face. “I mean, it’s usually because my mom was holding her usual ‘Look-What-A-Good-Philanthropist-I-Am’ parties, where she’d end the night donating thousands of dollars to research for children who didn’t have sweat glands or something, you know how it is.”

“Not really, babe.”

“Oh, you know, she’d find the most obscure charities, but she always acted like she was curing the world of cancer or ending poverty or something. She was such a grandstanding wannabe.”

And just like that, Casey found himself growing angry. It was like an itch under the skin that couldn’t be scratched — an irritation that couldn’t be relieved. He moved further into the lobby of the winery, drawing past the register and empty shelving that had once housed display bottles. On the wall was a large framed photo of the family at the winery. It’d been taken the night that Casey had made his scene and had earned himself a place on the no-invite list to any and all events that followed — in fact, he was sure he’d thrown his tantrum almost immediately after the picture had been taken.

In the photo, the McCalls were all standing together like a perfect and happy little family. Eleanor’s face was reserved, but pleasant, and Jameson wore a small, proud smile. Neither Casey nor his sisters seemed happy to be there. Seeing them all standing together like that, back before Tiffany had started dying her hair, Casey was struck by how similar they all looked. He’d placed so much distance between he and the rest of his family that he often forgot that that’s exactly what they were: family.

Oliver hovered at his elbow. He looked between Casey and the photograph, seeming to question whether or not he wanted to say anything. Finally, he murmured teasingly, “What a twink.”

A surprised laugh bubbled out of Casey, but he punched Oliver in the chest. “Fuck off.”

But as his attention went back to the picture, Casey’s smile quickly faded. Without even realizing he was doing it, he reached with both hands and pulled the portrait from the wall. His motions were almost cautious, attentive, as though he actually gave a shit about it, and as he looked down at it, he felt a bit like he was in a daze. It was like someone else was controlling him.

Oliver was quiet as he watched, and while Casey didn’t exactly forget that he was there, for just a split second, it was like nothing else existed to him but this stupid fucking picture.

He could hear that night in his mind like some kind of faraway echo. He could hear the music and the glasses clinking and a drone of uppity voices. And his mother — telling him to behave himself and treating him like he was a child. Comparing him to Tiffany — perfect obedient Tiffany, who was always willing to do anything to try and win Eleanor McCall’s nonexistent love.

Everyone always acted like Casey was dumb, but no. He was just the only one who’d ever seen things the way they really were. He hadn’t been blind enough to think anything he ever did would make his mother love him. He’d even bled for her and it hadn’t been enough.

He didn’t think about it — he just did it. He released the photo and let it drop to the tiled floor. The glass of the frame smashed on impact, and just like that, the spell was broken — the sounds and images his mind had conjured up were gone.

Oliver had flinched when the frame hit the floor. The subtle movement reminded Casey that he wasn’t alone.

Belatedly, he said in a monotone voice, “Oopsie.”

“You alright?” Oliver asked.

Casey opened his mouth, the words on his tongue — ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’ — but they didn’t come. He was okay, he was totally okay — Ding-dong! The Witch is Dead!

But his stomach had clenched into a hard, icy knot. He blinked rapidly to get rid of the colorful spots that had started to bloom in his line of sight. He pictured his mother in her casket, her waxy skin and bloated face, the way it’d seemed like she’d actually been breathing as she lay there.

He snorted and shook his head. For the second time in just a few days, he found himself asking, “Why do I feel so bad? Why do I feel so fuckin’ shitty?”

And for the second time, Oliver patiently replied, “She was your mom.”

Something inside of Casey snapped. “She was a cunt!”

Oliver frowned. It wasn’t the language — it wasn’t a word Casey often used, but that didn’t mean either of them had any strong feelings towards it — but it was the way Casey had said it. He’d practically shouted it, so unable to control the anger that had started boiling inside of him, an anger that he most often buried under his insane desire to look nonchalant and unable to feel pain. His throat was tight and he couldn’t breathe and his head swam. He’d thought he was going to pass out, but he realized now that it wasn’t that — he was approaching a meltdown.

Not here, not here, not here, he told himself.

But the words were leaving him before he could stop them. “She ruined me, Oliver,” he snapped, as though it was his husband who he was angry with and not his mother. “Everything that she did, every little fuckin’ look or barb that she so graciously gave me, turned me into this! And I’m glad she’s gone, bucko, I’m over the fuckin’ moon about it. I hated her and I’m never gonna stop hating her. And I’m never gonna forgive that bitch for dying before I got the chance to tell her exactly what I thought about her. Fuck!”

He kicked the framed portrait, ramming it up against the brick wall. And then he kicked it again for good measure, cracking and mangling the frame. But it wasn’t enough. He picked it up and hurled it across the foyer with all of his strength. It hit the wall opposite them with a sound that seemed way too loud for what it was, and then it crashed to the floor in a graceless heap.

The silence that followed was ringing and oppressive. Casey clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, his rage finally starting to dissipate. It left in its wake an embarrassment like he’d never felt before, and he hung his head as heat crawled up his neck and flooded his face. It had felt good — not great, but good — but he instantly wished he’d been able to contain himself. He wished he wasn’t so weak. His mother’s didn’t deserve to have his emotions wasted on her.

Oliver had remained quiet during the outburst, letting Casey get it out of his system. Now he took a small, easy step towards him. “Hey.” His voice came out light, but it had that authoritative ‘I’m-taking-control-of-the-situation’ undercurrent, the voice he used when the kids weren’t getting along. That kind of tone told Casey to look at him, and after a moment, he did. “You’re allowed to feel this way, Case. You’re allowed to hate her. It doesn’t make you an asshole.”

Casey scoffed. “Like I give a shit if I look like an asshole.”

One of Oliver’s eyebrows went up just slightly, and Casey pressed his lips together hard. As always, Oliver could see right through him.

“And yeah,” Oliver went on, “Maybe you turned out to be a bit of a fuck-up —”

“Ha!”

“Alright, you’re a pretty big fuck-up, babe. We all know it. But I love you. And the kids love you. And you know those damn cats fuckin’ adore you.”

Casey ducked his head again to hide the small smile that touched his mouth. You’re a fuck-up, but you’re my fuck-up, was basically what he was saying. Only Oliver could pull it off, Casey thought.

“And hey,” Oliver said, “At least we don’t gotta worry about anymore unexpected visits from her, right?”

Casey huffed out a strained laughter, and all of a sudden, his vision blurred with tears. He took a deep, steadying breath and blinked them away. “I just don’t know why I was always too afraid to say any of this shit to her. She obviously didn’t care. And now I feel like a fuckin’ dumbass for not taking the chance when I had it. It’s like the time I put off buying that Armani jacket and it turned out to be a limited edition thing that disappeared before I could get it.”

Oliver smirked. Casually, he said, “Nah, see, while you would have eventually bought that ugly fuckin’ jacket, you never would have said anything to your mother.”

“How the hell do you know, dipshit?”

“You said it yourself — you’re too classy.”

Casey sighed. The anger had faded completely, that borderline hysteria he’d felt was gone, and he was beginning to feel like he could breathe again. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I, ah, don’t need to throw any more of a bitch-fit. I guess I’m done.”

Oliver snorted and gestured around them. “Fuck that, let’s destroy everything. Let’s torch the motherfucker.”

A little laugh slipped out of Casey and the steel band that had been constricting his chest loosened. “Don’t get me all excited here, big guy. You always know just what to say.”

“It’s a natural talent of mine. C’mere.”

Another day, under different circumstances, Casey would have declined just to be a brat. He would have played hard to get, as was expected from him, let’s be real. Instead, he moved to Oliver’s side in a single stride, and he allowed himself to be wrapped up in the other man’s arms.

Even after all this time, Oliver held him almost reverently — as though he were a sacred object or something to be worshipped. And Casey sank into the warm, familiar embrace, letting Oliver’s love wash over him.

His mother was dead. She was cold and rotting and food for the worms — which was no less than what she deserved. She’d produced three massively fucked up kids with god knew how many issues, and then she’d just said, ‘lol bye.’ And Casey would never forgive her (or himself for being so passive with her). He’d never hate — absolutely hate — her any less.

But he had a better life waiting for him on the other side of all of this. He had a better family who accepted him and loved him unconditionally, and they didn’t make him beg for it like she’d tried. Maybe this was exactly what he needed. Maybe now he could find some semblance of peace.

“You about ready to head home?” Oliver asked.

“Fuck yes,” Casey groaned against his shoulder. He’d been ready to go home the minute they’d stepped off the plane. He added, “I miss the cats.”

Oliver chuckled in his ear. “Don’t ever change, you perfect fuck-up.”

And maybe, just maybe, Casey now had enough love in his heart to make the hate easier to bear.

#super super long and i only edited it just barely #very casey-centric very mccall-centric actually #also casey uses a word that i can't stand but it's in character for him and fitting for the moment so i'm so sorry lmao #ship: casey x ollie #mine: writing