Endless, Forever (13 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Oliver had been away from London long enough to forget that the summers could get hot.  The moisture in the air from the unforgiving Atlantic sea combined with the summer heat made the days oppressive and uncomfortable.  The flat they’d grown up in had no air conditioning, and the windows offered very little relief, even when every single one sat wide open.  The brothers were profoundly grateful for the suite their father booked, and even more so that they’d have to spend very little time in the Chelsea flat.

The funeral was to take place at their mother’s church, an ancient cathedral with the same echoing walls, marble statues, and stained glass that littered the city.  It was the same church Oliver had been tied up and dragged through to a back door where he was loaded into a car, and whisked out of the city to be purged of his demons.

It wasn’t the same Vicar, of course.  At Oliver’s tender age of sixteen, the Vicar who spent his days rambling about demons and Lucifer was already reaching the end of his years.  This one was younger, almost fit.
A waste of a perfectly good, shaggable man
, Oliver thought.  He had a pretty mouth and wondering eyes, and if Oliver had been in a very different place in his life, he’d probably attempt to seduce him.

But what was the point, now?

Death was supposed to leave the living miserable, and he certainly was.  His mother’s wrath hadn’t ended with her life, not when it was destroying Oliver from the inside, and taking away what little support he had.

He only had himself to blame, really, but it felt so much better hating her for it.

A chilled glass pressed against his knuckles, and Oliver looked up to see his brother handing him a glass of whiskey.  There was a lime mashed amongst the ice, just the way he liked it, and he gave his brother a grateful smile as he took it, tipping back a long swallow.

“Text off dad.  He’ll be here in an hour, and we’ve got to go to the viewing at the church.”

Oliver felt his stomach roil hard.  He clamped his jaw together, praying to a God he never believed in that he could just keep it together, just for a little while.  He took another sip, then sat back against the chair, glancing out at the London skyline which was beginning to cloud over.

It was funny how the skies in the movies were always dreary and dark the day of funerals.  He never really thought about it before, but maybe it was fitting the Universe would mourn the loss of a life—even someone like his mother. 
Someone ought to
, he thought.  Because apart from the vicious, acidic anger sitting in his gut, he felt very little emotion at all.

Leo strolled over to the sofa across from the chair and sat, and it was then Oliver realized his brother was wearing a black dress.  It wasn’t tight, off the shoulders a bit, long sleeves, the skirt hanging down well past the knees.  He assumed it was Leo’s last fuck you to their mother, and he appreciated him all the more for it.  Oliver wasn’t as brave.

“You hear from Gabe at all?” Leo asked after a few moments of silence.  It was profoundly obvious Oliver and Gabe were on the rocks, but Leo didn’t bother to ask after Gabe until now.

“Text off him this morning telling me I could ring him if I needed to.”  Oliver didn’t mention it was in response to a series of drunk texts and subsequent apologies from the night before.  Most of them had been innocuous—he missed him, wished he was back home, was sorry for the things he’d done.  A few bordered on pathetic, begging Gabe not to leave him, and Gabe was gracious enough to let those slide.

“You two on the outs, then?” Leo asked, swirling his drink around his glass.

Oliver rubbed his face, leaning his head back with a long-suffering sigh.  “I don’t know what the fuck we are right now.  I made a complete fucking arse of myself the last time we went out.  We’re…taking some time.”

“Ah, the kiss of death to every relationship.  How well I know it.”  Leo pressed the side of the glass to his temple.  “Whatever, you know.  I mean…it happens.”

Not to me
, Oliver thought.  And it was true, because Gabe had been his first, and letting Gabe go would be like carving out one of his own organs.  But what else was he supposed to do?  He had no idea how to make a relationship work.  He was a hopeless case, and he knew it.  He wasn’t going to stop trying, but it was almost funny how he could see the end just along the horizon.

He was two more glasses of whiskey into his drinking binge when the door to the suite opened, and Ren walked through the door.  He looked well put together, of course, in his expensive suit and short-clipped hair.  His shoes made a faint tapping on the tiled floor as he approached the brothers, a somber look on his face.

“The car’s waiting downstairs.  Please tell me you’re not drunk.”

“Not drunk enough,” Oliver said, easing himself to his feet.  “Proper drunk,
Otōsan,
” he sneered.

Ren blinked in surprise, then scowled.  “Please don’t make a scene, Oliver.”

Barking a laugh, Oliver sauntered over to the table and set his drink down.  Hard.  He ran his fingers through his fringe, making sure it fell into place, then gave his father his most winning smile.  “If you’re worried I’m going to embarrass you—don’t.  I’m here for propriety’s sake, and the sooner I can get the bloody
fuck
out of this city, the better.”

Ren looked over at Leo whose face remained passive.  His eyes raked down Leo’s dress, but instead of ordering him to change, he merely let out a weary sigh and beckoned them along.

It was a small triumph, Oliver supposed.  He walked close to his brother, elbows touching, grounding him in the moment which he desperately needed.  Leo seemed to realize it, and kept close to him as they headed for the sleek black car parked right out front.

Ren took the front seat, letting his two children have the back, and no one spoke a word as they pulled onto the main road.  London traffic was still as bad as Oliver remembered it, the car nearly at a stand-still, and had a sudden vision of himself bolting from the car and taking the tube somewhere—anywhere that wasn’t here.  It would be too easy.  They were moving at a crawling pace, and the door handle was right there.

A hand on his thigh stopped his train of thought, and he looked over at his brother who was staring at him with a knowing expression.  “It’ll be over soon,” Leo muttered.

Oliver felt his throat constrict, eyes burning with tears because Leo might not have suffered the same, but he knew.  He knew like no one else did.  “Yeah.  I’m…I’m alright.”

Leo barked a low laugh in the back of his throat.  “You’re about as alright as I am.”

Oliver rewarded him with a smile, which was returned, though strained.  They didn’t say anything more as they approached the church, and the car pulled around to the side where the Vicar was waiting at the side door.

The viewing wasn’t for another hour, meaning the immediate family would have some time alone with the body before the public was let in.  Their mother hadn’t been a very popular woman, not even in her social circle.  The name Alice Mary Worthington-Sasaki didn’t command a lot of compassion or respect in her community, and very few were there to grieve her passing.

But people would show up.  People who respected her husband, and distant relatives who only showed their faces at weddings and funerals.  Oliver assumed he’d have a few cousins showing up, maybe even a few old friends from school, but no one he cared about seeing in particular.

Really, he just wanted to go home.  He wanted his little beachside condo with his brother upstairs and his boyfriend in his bed.  He wanted warm arms and comforting kisses, and to forget this had ever happened.  He wanted to erase her, to burn her out of himself with the violence she used to burn out his demons.

He would have no such luck, though.  The estate in Chelsea was left to him, his father having long since abandoned London.  He would have to deal with it at some point, he knew, along with any other unfinished business she’d left behind.  He would have to perform the role of functioning adult, prepare the house for sale, and take care of any final debt.

Oliver had known all along that’s why his father insisted he show up here.  He wanted proof his son was worthy to be called son by him.  If only Oliver truly cared, really.  If only he had a reason to.

Climbing out of the car, Oliver stuck by his brother as they made their way to the Vicar who looked slightly taken aback by the sight of the brothers.  Oliver had to assume he looked about as well as he felt, and he knew everyone would be looking twice at Leo’s attire.  But he had never been prouder of his brother, and found himself standing up a little straighter as his father made the introductions.

“Ah, here are my boys,” Ren was saying as the pair approached.

Oliver bit down on his tongue with the urge to correct his father when calling Leo a boy, but he knew that was Leo’s choice to fight that battle.  His brother, it seemed, didn’t want to bother.  It made Oliver’s stomach twist that he’d gone so wrong with Gabriel at the bar, especially when respect was so easy.

He shook his head mentally, knowing this was not the time to relive that moment.  Instead he stuck out his hand.  “Good to see you.”

The Vicar didn’t seem to look directly at him, shaking Oliver’s hand, then Leo’s with only a hint of trepidation and a second glance at the dress.  The pressing rain had them all hurrying inside shortly, however, which Oliver was grateful for.  The longer they stood around and made pleasantries, the longer the day would drag.

He wanted nothing more than to see his mother’s body put in the ground, and buried under six feet of dirt.  She could lay there for eternity, and he wouldn’t find it in him to care that she was dead and rotting away.  Maybe she was in her own heaven, or maybe she’d found her way to the hell she so loved to threaten him with.  Maybe, he thought with a wry grin as they walked down a dimly lit corridor to the viewing room, he would see her there one day.

The Vicar opened the door, the hinges giving an ancient squeak, and he stepped in first.  The parlor was very low light, the heavy scent of both flowers and perfume coming from somewhere which Oliver assumed was to mask the smell of either death, or chemicals used to embalm the body.

The place had a slightly homey feel to it, which surprised him.  It reeked of old Anglican rituals, but the chairs were soft, and there were small tables laden with tissue.  Her casket sat against the far wall, the lid propped half open, and he could just make out the stark white profile of her face.  From where he was standing, she didn’t look real.  Nothing like the hateful woman who had spit venom at him as he and Leo took their things and left for good.

No, she was a wax statue.  A ghost of herself, now in more ways than one.  They’d put make-up on her, which startled him.  He could see a dusting of blush across the one visible cheek, and her lips were rouged.  Her hair was powder white, and he didn’t know if it had happened naturally in the time he and Leo were gone, or if it was a side-effect of being dead.

Either way, the whole thing was starting to make him dizzy.  The room felt hot suddenly.  Too hot, and he tugged at his collar until Leo’s hand gripped his wrist and pulled it down.  “You need to get out of here?”

Oliver swallowed, his throat painfully dry, and he couldn’t help but look over again.  Insane ideas began swirling around his head.  What if he just started screaming?  What if he rushed the casket and tipped her body onto the ground?  What if he fell to his knees and started to cry, begging her God to let her come back long enough to tell her what she’d done to him, what monster she’d created?

What if he took a knife to her dead skin?  What would it look like?  He doubted she’d still bleed.  Not like he had, anyway.

He forced himself to think of how Leo’s fingers felt on his wrist, the tight grip almost painful, but necessary.  “I think I need a bloody drink, but no chance of that now, is there?”

Leo looked pained, then reached into his pocket and pushed something hard plastic into his hand.  A pill bottle.  “It’s opiates,” Leo said under his breath, glancing over at their father who was deep in conversation about what to expect with the funeral proceedings.  “Mikey gave them to me before we left.  They’re not that strong, but just…take one.”

Oliver swallowed thickly again, then turned away and popped the cap as quietly as he could.  He tipped one white, round pill into the palm of his hand, and dry swallowed it.  It went down harsh, painful, sticking to his throat and leaving him with a vicious, bitter taste.  But he got it down eventually, and shoved the pill bottle back at Leo.

“Thanks.”

Leo gave him a slow, careful look, but didn’t say anything as he slipped the bottle back into his pocket, and then glanced back up at the front of the room.  The Vicar and their father had finished talking, and were beckoning them over now.

“We’ve come early so the pair of you can pay your respects before other guests show up,” the Vicar said.  “Only family is allowed for the private viewing, but you’ll be expected to greet them here, as well as during the funeral.”

Oliver felt bile rising into his throat at the thought of all those insincere condolences.  He doubted anyone really knew what she’d been capable of, what she’d done.  He doubted anyone would see him as anything more than a grieving son.