Black Velvet (10) (Patreon)

After debating on the matter of inconspicuously watering the rose hedge until Tobias leaves his house, I find myself in a predicament. I dub this predicament,

A way for me to casually tell Tobias that he's fired without looking extraordinarily creepy or getting maimed.

It's a very long title.

I decide that the roses will probably drown before he steps foot out of his house, or I'll run the risk of neighborhood watch being called on me for my stalker-type tendencies.

The watering plan is vetoed.

—
I stand outside of Tobias' door a good fifteen minutes before it swings open on its own accord. Tobias has a bag strapped over his shoulder, adorned with pastel flower embellishments. I assume it isn't his, refraining from an awkward quip about his fashion choices.

Hello, I value my existence sometimes.

I do think, now, that I probably could have gotten away with the casual watering the flowers run-in. I'm supremely disappointed in myself. Instead, here we are — doing the awkward shuffle of brazenly forward eye contact and crossed arms.

"You selling popcorn, Oliver?" The dark-eyed man snips, finally, seemingly less impressed to find me standing on his stone porch. He arches an eyebrow and my shoulder's slack, heartbeat ratcheting up in the same breath.

"I haven't been a cub scout in like six —"  I grit my teeth, blowing out a good amount of breathing air to keep me from continuing. Don't let him under your skin. Leave it to Tobias to start this off badly. "Anyway, that's not what I'm here for."

My voice quiets, less energetic than it normally is. I'm nervous. The prospect of telling a man he's lost his primary source of income is scary even when it isn't your brooding neighbor that has made you severely question your sexuality since childhood.

Randy is a dick. I think, crossing my ankles over each other, my boss is a bigger dick.  Or... smaller? Anyway, this is unethical.  I'm pretty sure it's illegal — actually —

Because really, what kind of breakfast diner owner sends someone they barely know to fire their neighbor?

Randy is a tiny penis.

Tobias' sigh interjects through my thoughts,

"I'm in a hurry." He mutters, managing to look threatening even as he readjusts his flowery bag. I should've sent Nic on this endeavor, but he started classes back up today and has an out of city study this coming weekend.

He's pretty much off the map at this point.

"Nice bag?" I offer, unable to help myself, nodding towards his luggage.

"— It's for my mom," He spits out, but his eyes are tired, rung in dark circles. His tenor barely carries any venom at all, taking a tone like I have when I'm past hungry and approaching murderous. Before I can ask more, he cuts in with his own inquiry,  "Why have you been standing on my porch for the past half hour?"

"It hasn't been half an hour!" I yelp indignantly. I rub my nose.  "it's been like fifteen minutes, max.  I can't stand in one place for thirty —"

"Oliver."

"Randy from the diner came into my work today," I exhale, eyes dropping to my feet- scanning the bits and pieces of stray gravel,  "um, he was — talking to my boss."

"Yeah?" His hands flex where he has them crossed over his biceps and his adam's apple bobs as he swallows; the only real indicator that he feels more than what his imperturbable expression lets on.

"He's a dick." The words are rushed and forceful as they leave my mouth, and the man in front of me takes a step back. My voice falls, unable to commit to my role as a messenger.

"My fucking shift..." Realization dawns on him, and his chin tilts back, eyelashes grazing his cheekbones, "I forgot my fucking shift."

"Yeah, so — he asked Ms. Martin what to do — and she calls me over," I motion wildly to myself, "I told him you were nice, which you aren't really, okay, and like — a good neighbor but," State farm is there. I'm absolutely appalled at the word vomit cycling from my mouth, and Tobias is flinching at the use of my wide-spanned hand gestures. I can't finish, biting my lip to keep myself from any further embarrassment.

"He sent you..." Tobias scrubs a hand over his face in barely concealed anxiety, "To tell me that I lost my job, didn't he?" He knows, the question is scarcely a hint past rhetorical.

I nod.

"Fuck.  That asshole," The older man pushes a knuckle against the strap on his shoulder, rolling it as he calms himself. "Fuck, my mom has bills — and
—"

He must realize he's talking out loud, jaw snapping shut.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry —"  I wish I had something in my hands.  Instead I'm tugging at the hem of my shirt, fingers tirelessly searching for something to quell my fidgeting.

"Don't apologize for something that isn't your fault." Tobias worries the sleeves of his shirt, eyes flickering over the sky above me like he's assessing the situation internally. I don't let it deter me,

"Ms. Martin likes you; you could always apply.  I mean, she's kind of a pervert, and it's not that great of pay, but — it's something."

"Oliver," Tobias silences me with a hand cupping around my elbow, leading me out of his path with a spark of warmth to my nerves from the touch, "Just — just stop."

"I just want to help."

It's almost a whisper, but our eyes don't meet.  He rolls down the cuffs of his shirt and readjusts a dark strand of hair. His bag presses against my waist as he descends the stairs.

"— You can't."

I stand there, on his side of the hedge — but feeling further from knowing him than I ever had.

—
When I leave for work that night, Tobias is hammered. It's usually a struggle to pinpoint when the man is intoxicated, but not this time. I hear him before I see him — retching his guts off the side of the porch with an agonizing groan. I almost text Nic, almost.

Why're you spending that money on booze?

It's a worry I can't seem to rid, even with the knowledge that Ms. Amadeus is back home with her arm slung in a decorated, pale pink cast. I'd heard her chipper voice from where I fell asleep next to my open window — peeked out to watch Tobias and his sagging shoulders — in light conversation with her.

She doesn't seem to notice, or maybe she doesn't want to, the worsening dark-circles under her son's eyes. It's been hours since I delivered the news, and apparently —

It hasn't set well.

—
I've read many books with protagonists who suffer terrible ends for the greater good  — or in my case, not minding their own business. You'd think that would serve as some sort of warning to me. It doesn't, of course.

Their cars are parked awkwardly along their locked front gate, so I push past the space in the rose hedge, earning myself a small scrape on my upper arm that trickles a little warmth of blood beneath my shirt.

Tobias is hunched over his knees with his back to me. Thankfully, I'm equipped with the only thing I can think of to ease his misery come morning. I dig a water bottle out from my bag — and then two pain relievers, depositing them on Tobias' top porch stairs,

along with a couple of breath mints.

He's curling over to vomit again.

—
It's almost midnight — which means that my Friday is about to pass just as unexciting as any other Friday in my life. Instead of attending another house party as a DD, like I would if Nic was in town, I've just found an article on magnetars.

Way cooler than stale booze breath and awkwardly flushed party girls, I gather. Magnetars are dense, collapsed stars that possess enormously influential magnetic fields. I'm totally engrossed, because astronomy is badass and who needs a social life, am I right?

I'm only pausing in my reading to text Nic excitedly because if the thought of a burning hot, collapsed star isn't cool enough — one was spotted in the gravitational grip of a supermassive black hole.

They're spooky, and I still can't rid myself of my childhood belief that they lead to other dimensions, but besides the point, this magnetar is in the most significant proximity to a black hole that has ever been discovered.

Nic repeatedly states my affinity for astronomy is what keeps me single and friendless — but I continue to hope something familial will spark in him, and he will enjoy all the new information spouting from my fingertips. I always scoff at him for his disdain of anything space-related, telling him that someone who didn't respect the inner workings of the universe probably didn't know enough about it.

Therefore, I take it as my job to keep him informed.

(Incoming Message) Nic:
omg dude, let me sleep

(Incoming Message) Nic:
ur gonna give me weird space dreams

The flecks of color are beautiful, and I'm trying to pin-point the smear of white-hot that indicates a neutron star — as I also hastily text back that he's disowned as a brother — and how can he not think it's cool that this star might end up in another dimension. 

I then send him a picture of the article.

(Incoming Message) Nic:
i'm going to find that squashed star thing or whatever and shove it up ur ass if u keep nerding at me

(Incoming Message) Nic:
im tryin to dream about shakira tonight not fucking aliens so fuck off man

I roll my eyes, having a harder time keeping up with my excitement without the presence of his own. I click out of my browser and slide shut my laptop, tucking it under the bed and curling into the warm spot that it's left behind.

My eyes are barely drooping, adjusting to the darkness — and my phone vibrates again. I expect a text in succession from Nic, like he often does if I don't reply immediately. But it buzzes again, and again, and warily I realize it's a phone call.

I lazily push the receive button, propping it up in the awkward curve between my ear, neck, and collarbone.

"Nic, dude, you use mostly acronyms. It can't be that hard to formulate a text response," I groan, "I'm not paying for a phone call about Shakira."

"Oliver." And oh, that's not my brother. My heart picks up immediately, and I roll onto my elbows, hands grappling at my phone,

"Tobias?" I ask, hating the way my voice travels upwards to speak his name.

"I didn't know who else to call." His voice is low and scratchy, but he isn't drunk. The phone he's using must be old, and it transfers grittily. It doesn't distract from his tone. Something about it sounds panicked, regardless, and my stomach drops.  "I didn't know — who else would answer."

"Is it your mom?" I assume, immediately, hoping he doesn't take offense — but I'm already hopping off the bed and searching for my discarded khakis. "Does she need something? I can go over there right —"

"Oliver." His laugh is low and pained, "It's not my mom." I can hear his exhale of breath through the receiver, "— and I need you not to say anything to her."

"Cross my fingers?" I offer, nose wrinkling at what in the hell Tobias Amadeus could be calling for at midnight. I find my pants, untucking the legs from wear I'd shucked them off.

"I'm at the police station — if," He sighs. I can hear the sound of men in a conversation behind him, and pick up something along the lines of, he didn't press charges. "I didn't — Can you pick me up?

"Yes —"  I begin, tongue feeling swollen and heavy in my mouth. "Yes — of course.  I'll leave now."

The police station? What did he do? What did someone else do? I rush to my window and peek out, realizing Tobias' car is sitting there next to the garage. I frown, wrestling on my pants with the cell held to my ear with my shoulder.

"Uh — wait.  Tobias?" I breathe. He makes some sort of hum, a non-committal sound that tells me to get whatever I need to out fast. "Are you okay?"

There's a long pause, one that lasts long enough to make me wonder if he's hung up.

"I'm okay." He takes a second to continue, "Thank you — for asking."

Then the line goes dead.
—

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