IAMP
Road Kill Oliver
329
AU
Lomitzz and I were discussing a certain story, by Sillylittleteaparty, on Tumblr, one day and then we came up with a "what if" scenario/an alternative ending/a story of its own. She ended up making an art piece for it and I wrote this thing.
And of course, I have the best titles…
Also, mentions of drugs, character death, attempted suicide, mentions of drug use and prostitution. However, THERE IS A HAPPY ENDING!
IAMP
Road Kill Oliver
Jean Tremblay walked down the streets, of Montreal. It was a cold, windy day and the chill went through his clothes, to his bones. The years hadn't been kind to him, or rather, he hadn't been kind to the years. At the age of thirty-eight, he knew he didn't have much time ahead of him, due to his own decisions.
He stumbled down the empty, dark road and hoped he would find what he was looking for. He wasn't sure whether he was early, or very late, but he was willing to pay the price, to pay the consequence, whatever it might be, if it meant he would be able to have those few, precious moments, of salvation and peace.
His plan had never been to end up like this, over here. He supposed few people planned to end here, but yet, here he was. He had no future, no hope, no dreams and he was wasting his life away.
It had started a little over two decades ago, when he had transferred, to a new school and had met Oliver Stanley. He briefly got to know the boy, over the few months, they had spent together, but their relationship came to a brutal end, when Oliver got hit, by a truck and died, on the spot. Jean blamed himself, for the death, and never got over his love, for the other boy.
He tried to pass it off as a crush, as a simple infatuation, but it persisted. The harsh reality remained that he had fallen in love with Oliver and he had never been able to act on it, due to circumstances. Then they had that fight and Oliver had stormed off. No one had seen him, for the rest of the day, but as it turned out, he got hit, by a truck, while walking back, to school.
Jean had given himself time to grieve, he really had. He refused to go to the funeral, not being able to handle the crying family members and the general ambiance, of the place, but for his own sake, he snuck in, shortly before the last viewing.
He had wept over the open casket and thanked the fact none of Oliver's family, or any of the staff members, of the funeral home, were there. He spent half an hour sobbing and cursing the injustice of it all, before he pressed his lips to Oliver's cold ones, saying goodbye to him, before he removed the small Maple Leafs' pin, from Oliver's jacket, and pinned it, to his own jacket.
Jean never ended up graduating high school. He went to school, for one other week, after the incident, and couldn't take it. Either the others showed him too much pity, or they told him to get over it. His parents tried to counsel him, but couldn't reach out to him, and by the end of the week, Jean packed his things and went back to Montreal.
At first, he spent his days and nights meandering the streets of Montreal, or hiding in the parks, weeping over his lost. After a while, he ran out of tears and decided he had enough of the pain and suffering. He decided to do his best, to forget Oliver Stanley.
He found refuge in alcohol. For some time, he was able to put Oliver aside and forget about him. The drink provided him with a lulling sensation, but as time went by, he needed more of it, to numb the pain.
By the middle of summer, there were few moments, in the course of the day, when he was sober and the neighbouring people tended to avoid him. He was no longer the quiet, contemplative drunk, but the loud-angry one. Alcohol no longer provided him with the effect he wished and he found his problems resurfacing, instead of drowned.
One night, he got an offer he couldn't refuse, guised as the cure to all his problems. The promised solution to completely eradicate Oliver Stanley, from his mind.
The drugs came in many shapes and sizes, in many methods and colours, and Jean tried them all. He took as many pills and injections he could get his hands on, not because they made him forget about Oliver, but because he was able to see him, instead.
He found out, quite by accident, one day, when he overdosed, that in his last moments, before he passed out, he would have hallucinations, of Oliver. He looked, as he had, when he was alive; young, small-framed, baby blue eyes and that beautiful, blonde, curly hair, he loved so much.
In his first hallucination, Oliver did not speak to him, he simply stood there and gave him a reproachful look. By the time he came through, the memories of his hallucinations were slowly fading away and he knew he needed more of those glimpses, if he was to stay alive.
The problem was, the drugs and the alcohol ne needed to get those short visions came at a hefty price. With no stable income, Jean begged his providers to give him the things he needed, in exchange of anything. He would do anything to get his means, to see Oliver, again.
His reputation was quickly made, within the month. Everyone on the streets knew that Jean Tremblay, the tragic boy, who mourned the love of his life, would sell his body, for a dollar, or a sniff, or anything, really. Some people saw it as an opportunity, others took advantage of him, but Jean did not care and kept offering himself, for anything he could get.
The conditions, out on the streets, were not kind to him, and when he got lucky, someone with a slightly better living condition, than him, would take him in, during the particularly cold nights.
A few times, Jean was too far-gone, in his addiction, or his disease, to fully realise where he was, or whom he was with and he was convinced he really was dead. He would be delirious and call out to Oliver, until his fever dream would break.
Over the years, he got worse. He still got his fix, by offering his services, either receiving, or giving orally, and he was reaping the consequences of his lifestyle.
More than once, he was rushed to the hospital, either from overdosing, or because of the disease. He had more than one sexually transmitted virus, by now, and his days were counted, one way, or another. He was okay with that. The sooner it ended, the sooner he would be with Oliver, again.
In the early years, he tried to end his own life, to put himself out of his misery, and to join Oliver, but he quickly realised he was too much of a coward to do so. He hated himself more, for it, and then settled, for a more destructive approach.
His only consolations, throughout the years, had been the brief hallucinations, and the Maple Leafs' pin, he wore, on his jacket.
Once, someone tried to take the pin away, from him and he ended up beating the man, unconscious. Sometimes, he was convinced the pin was the only thing keeping him sane.
Jean leaned against the fence and opened his brown paper bag. Inside, he had his dose; his gateway to see Oliver, for a few moments. He made sure no one was around, took his tools from his pocket and proceeded, with practiced ease, his hands shaking, lightly.
He paused. Beside him, a figure he could not see tried to reach out for him and call his name. Jean shook the feeling he was being watched and returned to his task.
There were also times when he was convinced Oliver was with him, when the reality of what had happened and of what he was doing washed over him, when he would break and crumble, he would almost feel Oliver weeping next to him.
By the time he stumbled back onto the streets, he wasn't sure how much time had passed. The wind had picked up and he brought his jacket closer, to his body. He went to brush the cool and familiar pin, to bring him some comfort, but nothing was there.
He froze, his heart beating faster. There was no way he had lost Oliver's pin. Not after twenty-one years. He would search all of Montreal, if he had to. He needed that pin, to survive. He turned around, ready to start with the last places he had been, when he froze, in his spot, yet again.
Oliver was standing there, in the street, just a few feet away, from him, holding up his pin. His heart raced faster, in his ribcage. There was too much to process for his brain. Oliver looked at him and gave him a sad smile.
Jean raced for the other man. He shouted for Oliver to wait for him, shouted his name and many other things.
By the time he reached Oliver, he was gone and he never saw the truck that hit him.
Jean woke with a start. He felt a jolt of pain run through his body and expected the feeling to remain, but it quickly faded away. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, around him, and what followed next, confused him.
"You stupid idiot! I can't believe you did that to yourself! I'm so glad to see you… I've been waiting for you, but I was willing to wait a little longer!" He was tackled into a hug, and alternatively hit on the chest, while being hugged.
"O-Oliver?" Oliver Stanley looked at him and gave him a small, sad smile.
"It's me, Jean, it's really me…" Jean tentatively brought his hand to caress Oliver's face. He expected the other man to vanish under his touch, but he was solid.
"J'comprends pas… ça veut tu dire que…"/ "I don't understand… does it mean…" Oliver nodded his head.
"You're in heaven now… with me. I waited for you… kept an eye on you. You shouldn't have done those horrible things to yourself, Jean… you could have had such a nice life. Nice, long, healthy life." Oliver reproached him.
"J'en voulais pas, de c'te vie là. Pas si t'allais pas être là. J'voulais une longue vie, avec toi."/ "I didn't want that life. Not if you weren't going to be there. I wanted a long life, with you." Oliver caressed his face tenderly and then slapped him lightly.
"Still, that's not a reason!"
"Ce l'était pour moi, misère, pis arrête de m'frapper!"/ "It was for me, jeez, and stop hitting me!"
"I'll hit you all I want. I had to sit here and watch you hurt yourself over and over. I couldn't even do anything!"
"C'tait la seule façon que j'pouvais t'voir."/ "It was the only way I could see you."
"You could've had a nice life!"
"Ben c'tait à toi à pas t'faire écraser, par un camion, au secondaire, crisse!"/ "Well it was up to you not to get hit, by a truck, in high school, Christ!" He yelled out. Oliver's eyes widened slightly and Jean realised what he had just said.
"J'm'excuse, Oliver, chuis désolé. Chuis désolé, pour tout."/ "I'm sorry, Oliver, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything." He choked out. "C'est d'ma faute, tout ça est d'ma faute. C'est d'ma faute si t'es mort. Chuis désolé, j'm'excuse…"/ "" He unwillingly felt a few tears slide down his cheeks. Oliver wiped them away and took his face between his hands.
"It's not your fault, Jean… it never was. I never blamed you, for my death."
"Mais, c't'à cause de moi, que tu t'es fâché. Ch't'ai blessé a'c c'que ch't'ai dit, pis t'es parti à cause de ça."/ "But it's 'cause of me, you got upset. I hurt you with what I said, and you left 'cause of that."
"I'm as much to blame, as you are, if that's the case. I fought back with you, on that day and I'm the one who decided to leave. I could have stayed on school grounds. You're not the one who told me to go on the street." Jean seemed unconvinced.
"Jean, please, listen to me. I never blamed you, for what happened, or for my death. I never did and never will. I'm sorry you felt that way, though, but please, don't think that anymore. It happened a long time ago. Now, we're in heaven together, for the rest of eternity. We'll have plenty of time to talk and catch up."
For the first time, since he woke up, Jean looked around him. There was a large bed, in one corner, of the place and a baby-grand piano, at the other end. There was a vast library, with many books and a large, fully furnished kitchen. The kitchen led to a small, outside space, with a veranda and a small garden. He allowed himself to smile, softly. It was perfect.
"The kitchen is new. Before you showed up, it was just the bed and the piano, with the outside. There are also new books, on the bookcase shelves. I guess they knew you were coming. It's our own little bit of paradise. Cute, no?" Oliver told him, following his gaze. He reached out, for his hand, and twined their fingers together.
"Un p'tit bout' de paradis à nous deux…"/ "A little bit of heave for the two of us…" Jean murmured. Oliver turned to look at him and smiled.
"Yeah… that sounds about right." He leaned his head, on Jean's shoulder, smiling to himself. Jean looked down at him and finally felt at peace. Oliver looked up in time to catch the expression, on his face. He got on his tippy-toes and pressed his lips to Jean's, in a sweet kiss.
Jean was a little surprised, by the sudden gesture, but he quickly got over it and leaned in for more, wrapping his arms around Oliver's body, holding him close, knowing he would never let him go. If this was what heaven would be, he was perfectly fine with it.
OWARI
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Started writing: October 24th 2013, 5:12pm
Finished writing: November 3rd 2013, 9:13pm
Started typing: December 27th 2013, 10:44am
Finished typing: December 27th 2013, 4:34pm