Olly Olly Oxen Free

Even a scar became a wound if you picked at it long enough, and Charles was a prime example of someone just the level of neurotic necessary for such behavior. Beneath his impeccably tailored appearance laid an insatiable impulse that settled deep within his veins. And while it seemed to pump his blood, it was intolerable to observe as an outsider.

“You’re late,” Oliver said, managing to slip an edge of frustration into an otherwise dull tone.

Charles threw him a half-assed smile. “Sorry, Ollie–you know how it is: busy, busy, busy.”

"I do,” Oliver said, “but I don’t see how it rings true for my seventeen-year-old brother. And don’t start–I’m aware of how much homework you have, and we both know I don’t make you work.”

Now frowning, Charles tossed himself into his chair–always his chair; ever since moving into the house, he had claimed the chair as his own, as he did with everything he could, from drink glass to couch pillow. Already flustered, he tapped his finger against the table and watched Oliver with wary eyes. “What, you want me to get a job?”

Oliver shook his head, and some tension left his brother.

“Good,” Charles said lightly, cheered enough to plaster a smile back on. “So, what is this, then? Your texts usually aren’t so prissy.”

Oliver’d prepared for it; he’d spent hours scouring the web for advice and sympathy and encouragement. Unfortunately, his heart was a size too large for his stature, and all the groundwork dissipated as he stared at his younger brother whose cheeks still clung to the last vestiges of baby fat; whose jaw had sharpened but still fell victim to patches of acne; who was all Oliver had left.

“Ollie?” Charles started then faltered. His dark green eyes darted across Oliver’s face, detailing its intricacies and searching for clues.

“I’ve contacted a residential treatment center,” Oliver finally said and turned, busying himself with toweling off already dry dishes. “We have an assessment on Monday to plan your treatment.”

“What!” A crash followed the cry, and Oliver looked over his shoulder to see Charles hastily uprighting his fallen chair. “You–Ollie, c’mon. Dude, this is…it’s a joke, right? You got me, all right?”

“It’s not a joke.”

“What the fuck!”

“Don’t use that language with me,” said Oliver. He turned to face Charles fully, and they found themselves in a stand off. His younger brother may have gotten away with it years ago, but the playing field had changed beyond recognition–they both knew that much.

“I think I’ve earned it in this case!” Caught in a double feature of hurt eyes and a heavy scowl, Charles backed up to the other end of the kitchen. “And you can’t do that, you can’t.”

“You’re not eighteen for another seven months. Legally, I’m still your guardian.”

“Oh, sure, make it all technical and by-the-book,” Charles snapped. “Not like I’m your own brother.”

“That’s why I’m doing it, Charles,” said Oliver; he could hear his own thundering heart beat in his ears and could nearly match it to the shuddering tempo of Charles’ chest. “Don’t act like I haven’t seen the marks on your arms; you haven’t made much of an effort to hide them.”

Charles cradled one arm against his front, pressing a shaking hand against his half-covered forearm. “So what? It’s nothing serious. Just some fun. Not like you were Mr. Perfect in school yourself.”

“I may have skipped a class or two,” Oliver said softly, “but I never took drugs.”

Initially, Charles relaxed at the gentle tone, but he closed back up when Oliver finished. “So you got no experience. Why should I believe you know what’s best?”

“I don’t, which is why I’m going to the experts for help. I’m not fit to undertake something like this.”

“Then try! You didn’t even try!” Charles broke off with a hissed sob. As he collected himself, he pressed a hand to the wall and let it take the brunt of his weight. Despite the effort, tears began welling up, and no amount of his vigorous blinking could quell them. “Shit.”

Oliver wondered what atrocity he could have possibly committed that warranted being subjected to the scene before him. It’d been two and a half years since he’d seen Charles cry–thick, hot tears drawn deep from the chest on the anniversary of their parents’ death. Since then, it’d been a slow but steady progression toward the tense and ever-widening chasm between them.

“You didn’t even try,” Charles repeated. His resounding sniffle was pathetic, and he knew it based on the scowl that reached his face. “You say you saw the marks, but you didn’t even try.”

“Charles, you’re snappy with me on the best of days–over things like taking out the trash. How am I supposed to find the time and patience to fight with you about this? It’d only stress us both out.”

“You should have given me a chance! Instead of dropping me straight into fucking rehab like–like some misbehaving dog you send to the shelter.”

“Don’t compare yourself to that,” Oliver said. “Look, it’s been half a year of this, and you aren’t showing signs of stopping. I needed to do something; I couldn’t just watch you destroy yourself like this.”

Charles fell quiet, save for his sporadic sniffs, and turned his gaze away. “I’m not doing it.”

“You don’t exactly have a choice,” Oliver said carefully.

“Would you even visit me?” Charles countered. “Or would you just wash your hands of me the second you could?”

Anger nipped at Oliver’s mouth but he held his tongue; it was nothing new for Charles to work to provoke him. And even though Oliver rarely exploded, the fallout was enormous. “You know how much I care about you, Charlie.”

“Don’t call me that! Not–don’t.” Charles straightened to his full height and pushed himself off the wall. “And why should I believe that? Not like I ever saw your face at my baseball games or at breakfast.”

And a part of Oliver did hate Charles in that moment, because his brother always knew which comments would strike the harshest blow. With a deep breath, he said, “I can’t miss work for those kind of things, no matter how much I want to–and I do want to. I need to keep you in school.”

“Oh, so your solution is to send me away from school to some shitty treatment center? Makes sense,” Charles snapped.

“They have teachers who oversee an academic program,” said Oliver. “It won’t be forever, Charles. A few months at most. And of course I’ll visit you on weekends.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“I mean it,” Oliver said, working to keep the calm in his voice. “I can’t skip work during the week, and they only allow for visits on the weekend, anyway.”

“But you can take all of Monday off? Sure, whatever.”

“I’m doing it for you!” Oliver shouted. “You think I want to take a day off to drag my brother to an RTC?”

“You sure didn’t seem too beat up about it!” Charles tensed, skirting closer to his chair.

Oliver briefly wondered if it’d turn physical; they were nearly the same height, now, and the once lean, almost scrawny pre-teen had grown and gained muscle. “What would you have me do? If you were in my position?”

It was wrong question to pose, as Charles shut down completely.

“I’d listen,” he said flatly, “and stop pretending I could make all the decisions by myself when it wasn’t just my life getting affected.”

“I just want you to have access to help and get better,” said Oliver. He hoped he was doing the right thing; but who at twenty-five could be prepared for such a conundrum when even those decades older struggled?

“This is bullshit,” Charles said. He had already retreated into himself.

“The assessment is at ten,” Oliver said. “I’ll wake you by eight-thirty and make some breakfast. I’m not the enemy, all right? I just want my brother to be okay.”

Charles scoffed. “Hard to tell when you’re acting more like a traitor than a brother.”

Oliver ran a shaky hand through his hair. The worst of it was over, it seemed–at least for today. “What do you want for dinner? Pizza? Chinese? I’ll order out.”

“Save your time,” Charles said coolly as he made his way out of the kitchen. “Prick.”

A nearby door slammed shut a few moments later, and Oliver could only pray that Charles would cooperate come Monday–that Oliver wouldn’t enter his room only to encounter an empty bed. Distantly, he heard the rising sounds of music mixed in with muffled sobbing. Oliver sat down in Charles’s chair, dropped his face to his palms, and cried and cried.