OLIVER HARGREEVES
dad hated caffeine. even if oliver bought his own coffee and left it in the kitchen, labeled and everything so his siblings didn’t take it, it would likely be thrown out by pogo, because their father never dared step foot in the kitchen. he paid people to do that. oliver, on the other handed, needed caffeine to survive. he didn’t do well without it and the throbbing migraine behind his left eye was a testament to that. it wasn’t a hard decision to get coffee but getting out of bed despite the pain was where it got tricky.
after sending a quick text to his siblings asking if they wanted anything from the coffee house a few blocks from the academy, he left and had already made his mind up that if they didn’t reply by the time he got there, they weren’t getting anything.
or at least, he tried to be firm in his resolve. waiting for a reply from everyone, he stepped off to the side, watching his phone anxiously. feeling someone else standing near him, he didn’t look up. “you can go ahead, i’m not in line.”
..
he’s writing — no, scratch that, he’s not writing. he’s been not writing for three days, trying to review some movie that critics are heralding but he still hasn’t managed to finish. netflix might knock it out of the park with their series’, but their original films make him want to throw his computer into a river just to have a valid excuse as to why he’s not updated his site in three days. but as long as they continue to pay him and send him free stuff, he’ll keep reviewing whatever shit they keep rolling out. it’s a vicious circle; even when you’re free, you’re never really free.
he’s just abandoned his post, an airpod shoved into his ear to listen to whatever true crime podcast has updated most recently on his phone, when he hears a familiar voice. in a city as big as new york, he’s mostly managed to avoid his siblings, but sometimes he’s just UNLUCKY. today seems to be one of those days. it doesn’t help that he and oliver don’t get along. he’s never been able to prove it, but something about his memories always just felt ... off. when in doubt, you blame the one who can manipulate said memories. so instead of snapping, or ignoring him all-together, he goes the pettiest route possible; feign ignorance. “ cool. ” he steps forward, taking his spot in line. “ thanks. ”










