so hey, let's be friends - Chapter 3 - whimsicalwaves (2024)

Chapter Text

The metallic taste sits heavy, bitter like a mouthful of pennies. Blood, Venetia realises, or more so can’t help but equate the taste to blood. It’s like there is blood sitting on her tongue, tangy and bitter. It’s hardly an issue, she’s not so precious as to start retching in the middle of a busy roof terrace where she’s currently sitting down for brunch.

She gazes at the rancid looking slices of green floating atop of her glass. Why in the f*ck do people put cucumber in water in the first place?

Idly, Venetia’s eyes wander away from her gross looking beverage, catching a young mousey brown-haired teen sitting in the table nearest to hers. She appears to be accompanied by her mother, the woman in her mid-forties, Botox and filler up to her eyeballs with a sour lemon faced expression to match. The daughter is dressed in a Burberry pinafore, one of the straps having slipped off one of her twiggy shoulders. She is currently picking at her barely eaten French toast, picking off the raspberries, turning up her nose at the ones that have any evidence of powdered sugar. Opposite her the stern looking mother, with pointed cheekbones and hair scraped back into a painfully tight bun is consuming the smallest amounts of her scrambled egg whites possible at a glacial pace. Leaving the unbuttered brown toast untouched.

Venetia’s eyes fall to her avocado toast, swallowing down feelings of déjà vu like a sudden wash of sick. She continues to pick at the diced pieces of cherry tomato, small cubes of feta, turns over the pieces that are drenched in the balsamic reduction, moving them around her plate and the untouched sourdough bread.

“And he kept going on and on about where to do Atticus’s stag.” Comes a hifalutin tone.

Venetia’s gaze drifts up to the man opposite her, quaffed jet-black hair and thick square rimmed designer glasses to match the distractively square looking face shape. A slightly too warm tan that is unlikely to be natural, given it’s tangerine like hue, and that for the last few months the English weather has been nearly constantly overcast and drizzle.

Between bites of fatty greasy bacon, the man continues. “Bloody Freddie actually had the nerve to suggest Lake Como, the f*ck would we do there?” Giving an obnoxious braying laugh, “hang out on a yacht, drink limoncello and stare out at the water like f*cking E.E Cummings?”

Venetia’s pretty sure she can feel the regions of her brain slowly starting to shut down, never again to come back online. “Barmy was keen on Monte Carlo, but ever since Atticus’s father had that issue a few years back, you know getting caught by border control with that young woman in the boot of his Bugatti relations have been rather, let’s say ‘tense’ with Monaco.”

Oh lord, she prays that a piece of that grease-soaked bacon gets stuck in his windpipe and no one in the nearest vicinity knows how to administer the hindlick manoeuvre. It’s the only way she can see being put out of her misery. A wide grin suddenly splits across his face, deep smile lines accented by years of too much sun exposure. “Which left us with the only solution, Courchevel— and I know Fee can’t resist a bit of snow eh?”

Now that Venetia thinks about it, there is quite a leathery quality to his skin that shouldn’t be possible on someone so young, only adds to the off putting, unfriendly, lizard-like quality about him.

“Exciting right?”

God, she really needs to stop giving Felix’s old boarding school buddies the time of day. “Real riveting stuff Cosmo.” Venetia drones out, not bothering to mask her sheer disinterest and sarcasm at the whole thing.

Cosmo is the kind of man whose ever inflatable ego is impenetrable. But then again, leave him in a room alone with her for an hour and she could crack him like a f*cking nut.

“And you know,” he starts doing his best to sound earnest, but it’s hollowed out of any sentiment, really just downright false. “It’s only like what date number two, three who’s counting?” He reaches across, fingers stroking Venetia’s knuckles, trying to cradle her hand in some mock form of affection that she does her best not to cringe away from. “But we’ve known each other forever Vee, I’d really like it if we went together to Atti and Hattie’s wedding.”

Venetia just about holds down a snort. Honestly, it’s only years of training and tolerance building when it comes to boys like this that she just about manages it. “I don’t know.” She’d gotten an invite of her own to this wedding, but she knows it was more so out of vindictive flaunting rather than a genuine desire to have her there.

“Come on,” Cosmo says heartily, “it will be fun.” He really is an absolute air head; she can’t help but judge her brother by association for still remaining somewhat acquaintances with him.

Cosmo’s the slippery social climber sort as well, which just about anyone with half a brain can tell from a mile off. One that’s managed to sink his roots deep into plenty of the old money lot. Despite being from a nouveau riche expats family based out of Hong Kong. It’s a wonder he fell in with Felix’s crowd at Harrow. But then, Venetia supposes being the kid of a British Diplomat likely helped, giving the family an illusion of prestige and influence. Not that preteen boys notice that sort of thing, but they definitely pick up on who their fathers’ always shake hands with at the polo and invite for a few rounds of golf.

Venetia being in the currently stable position she is in life, having little reason to fall in line and restrict herself with the hieratical bureaucracy of the upper class, doesn’t hesitate in loosening her tongue. “Might be a bit awkward since Atti was ‘at it’ with me while him and ‘Hattrick’ were on ‘a break.’”

Cosmo draws back his hand, thank God, floundering slightly at her crude statement. “That’s all in the past I’m sure,” he leans forward slightly, like he’s so gracious in giving her a word of advice. “Also, Atti’s really trying to get us all to stop calling her Hattrick, was before his time you know and it’s not very becoming of the future Viscountess of Wessex.”

Now Venetia does snort, like it wasn’t Hattie’s future husband and current fiancé that was one of the barbarous dickhe*ds that encouraged the name calling. It was shortly after Felix brutely dumbed Hattie for some blonde, skinny Danish exchange student that joined Cheltenham that term. It had been at a weekend party not a week later that Hattie had proceeded to hook-up with three boys in one night. Hence the name which thanks to the herd mentality of British school children had stuck well into her twenties.

It's also rich coming from Cosmo and all of Atticus’s groomsmen, Felix included that they were attempting to take the high road. And sure, like the other girls, Venetia had played along with it but that wasn’t the least of Hattie’s beef with her.

“I don’t think Hattie will feel like it’s all in the past, given it all went down not a month after they got engaged.” Venetia points out. Yeah, not one of her best moments but it was a decision made after far too many Long Island Ice Teas. Besides the levels of illicit entanglements within their group of ‘friends’ was practically incestuous at this point, no one really batted an eyelid. Now that Felix was out Venetia could only see it escalating. “And one of you idiots is going to get sloshed at the reception and end up calling her Hattrick during one of the groomsmen speeches.”

Cosmo seems to turn her words over in his head a few times, it’s the time someone like him requires as a slow thinking nitwit with the emotional intelligence of a spanner. “Gosh, I mean, it is a bit awkward now that I think about it,” he stutters, like he’s finally getting it, but then he stops, eyes widen on her as he considers something even worse. “Wait you think Fee, might back out of the stag then?”

Venetia’s nostrils flair as she inhales sharply, she barely resists temptation to whip her plate of avocado toast at him like a frisbee. The force hopefully enough to decapitate his head from his body. It would hardly be much of a loss, not like that brain is doing much. Likely his body would continue to shove down his full English in the severed space left from his missing head.

Instead of giving into violence Venetia flags the attention of the waitress who is mercifully just passing their table. “Excuse me, are you serving any alcohol yet?”

The lady’s eyes dart from Venetia to Cosmo. “It will be another twenty minutes doll.” Her tone sympathetic.

Honestly, f*ck British alcohol licencing laws, it’s no wonder they’re all miserable. “I honestly don’t think I can wait that long.” She admits rather desperately.

The woman gives another grim look of understanding and sympathy before departing. Venetia turns back fully ready to say f*ck to any semblance of decorum and bury her head in her hands. She’d been too hasty in taking up with whatever guy paid her any interest right off the bat post break-up. It’s a reflex she really needs to taper, but the idea of her ex taking up with someone before her feels like a social assassination attempt. She’d rather avoid the faux sympathy from her friends, who would turn to her over afternoon tea with a and how have you been doing? Like they are not foaming at the mouth to see her in a position of vulnerability, her weakest parts exposed for them to sink their teeth in to like hungry jackals. First would come the rampant craving for gossip, some name calling of her former boyfriend and the woman he’s taken up with. Then, a week later over espresso martinis they’d be singing this new girls praises, while promising Venetia that they are still on her side, with their fingers crossed behind their backs. Venetia knows this because it’s exactly the same thing she’s done when she was on the other side of things.

Venetia is so lost in feeling sorry for herself for a moment while also trying to figure out if they’d evacuate a roof terrace if someone ‘accidently’ set off the fire alarm, that she doesn’t hear her name being called.

“Venetia?” The voice says. She looks up at Cosmo at first, expecting it to be him, but he currently is chewing on a forkful of baked beans. Then, “Venetia, hey!” and her gaze swings round in the direction the voice came from, a familiar northern lilt.

It's then, that she sees Oliver approaching the table looking pretty flustered and out of place in his jeans and tight polo shirt. She’s amazed someone let him in without forcing him into a dinner jacket first.

“Oliver?” Surprise then confusion colouring her tone, clearly, he’s not here with someone else. “Hi,” she gets out now that he’s at their table, his pale blue eyes slightly wild looking, which is enough to have her heartbeat picking up, adrenaline spiking slightly. It takes a lot to get such a look out of Oliver these days. “What— what are you?”

She can see where his upper lip is slightly sweaty, he’s not shaved in a few days, stubble on his jaw and chin. Makes him appear more rogue looking, less put together.

“Hi er—” Oliver’s eyes dart to Cosmo who is looking at him in complete puzzlement, expression vexed with the way his forehead is starting to pinch together, mouth twisting unattractively pulling at the thin leathery skin.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Oliver says in a way that is on the surface apologetic but to anyone that knows him can see how superficial it is, clear that he’s not really trying.

“What’s going—” Venetia demands.

“Don’t panic alright Vee,” Oliver interrupts, slightly out of breath. The words of course have the opposite effect of what he intended, but Oliver looks at a bit of a loss with what to say. “It’s Felix, he uh, got into a bit of an accident.”

Venetia feels something icy stab her heart. “What.”

Oliver looks down now, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, fighting with himself. “It’s nothing too— I mean,” He stops, sighs exasperated at himself and how he’s handling the situation, Venetia watches as his fist clench by his side, his jaw locks. She can see how glassy his eyes have gotten, striking blue irises trying their best to freeze the unshed tears. “The doctors aren’t telling us everything at this stage, but I think it’s best, look you really need to come with me now, okay?”

The firmness in Oliver’s tone has Venetia moving before she’s thinking about it, grabbing her purse from where it had been hanging on the back of her seat. “Yeah, uhm, yeah okay, f*ck—"

“Jesus,” Cosmo exclaims, eyes wide on Oliver then darting to her.

“I need to go.” Venetia gets out shakily.

Cosmo shakes his head, the movement jerky, fast like a bobble head toy. “Yeah, no, of course, hope the old boy is alright.” He pauses considering something, then, with what he must think is the most earnestness Cosmo has likely ever been able to conjure in his life he says: “also, look, let him know we can totally rethink a ski lads stag if he isn’t up to it by then.”

Venetia doesn’t even give him any form of acknowledgement, just marches with Oliver towards the lift, one of his hands firmly grasping her elbow as he guides her to the exit.

They don’t speak on the lift down; not till they are well out of the lobby and making their way along the street.

Venetia finally lets out the breath she was holding, her pace slowing now to something more of a stroll. “You f*cker,” she hisses slapping Oliver’s upper arm. “I seriously thought you didn’t get my SOS.”

Oliver who’d shaken off his performance the moment the lift doors had shut, shrugs giving a lazy smile. “I was in the area, thought getting you out in person was more effective.”

She huffs, then can’t help but give a chuckle, what Oliver had done back there had been Oscar worthy, he had her for a moment as well, it’s kind of scary how good he is at it actually. “You know he knows Felix; the whole boys group chat will be blowing up with that one.”

Oliver’s eyes light up with recognition, then in the next second his face twists into a grimace. “Oh yeah, the smarmy f*cker from Felix’s twenty-third. Felix can’t stand that guy.” To be fair Oliver could be talking about anyone, but Cosmo is definitely in the top three of smarmy f*ckers.

“He can’t stand most of them to be fair.”

They come to a stop now in a busy street in Westminster. Venetia’s eyes dart amongst the frequent cars and open top tourist buses. “f*ck I’m supposed to be in Kensington for this stupid f*cking luncheon.” She groans.

Oliver has his hands stuffed in his pockets, nudging his head over towards an underground station entrance. “Well, you’re near the right line.”

“f*ck that Ollie I’m not getting the tube.” Venetia says wrinkling her nose, it’s mad that he would even suggest it.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Right then.” Before proceeding to put his fingers to his mouth, giving a sharp whistle that has Venetia wincing as he waves down one of the black cabs.

She catches him as he opens the car door for her, before he can say his goodbyes and disappear off into a crowd of people and city smog. An idea is starting to form in her head. “Wait, are you busy?”

Oliver pauses, looking uncertain if he wants to give her an honest answer, “…no.”

“Come on.” She beckons.

Oliver’s eyes dart around, likely looking for potential escape routes, maybe regretting responding to her call for help now that he’s been roped into something that he really doesn’t want to be involved with. “But—”

“Get in the f*cking car Oliver.” She cuts over him firmly, leaving no room for arguments. They have a brief silent stand off before the cab driver gets impatient, barking at them in a harsh co*ckney accent, along with the loud blare of a horn. Left with little choice Oliver joins her in the car, slamming the door shut a little too hard.

They sit in silence before they reach the top of Hyde Park. The traffic is gridlocked most of the way, while the cab driver gives a series of annoyed huffs and grumbles, briefly getting in a spat with a motorcyclist who’s cutting between the stationary vehicles.

“So, was that really the best you could do?” Comes Oliver’s voice and Venetia meets those eyes that are shinning with mirth. Of course, if she’s going to force him into doing her a favour he’s going to have a little fun at her expense.

“What can I say maybe I’m losing my charm.” Venetia notes lightly, it has nothing to do with the fact she’s feeling on the back foot and quite distrusting at all straight white men at the moment.

Oliver’s lips curve upwards, she’s always struck how he can look totally innocent one moment but completely and utterly nefarious the next. This particular expression is sitting on the fence between the two but edging into wickedness. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Cosmo is harmless,” she notes, fiddling with a strand of her hair, “maybe that’s what I’m looking for, a nice harmless rebound.”

Oliver’s face twists, rejecting her words. “Cosmo is a f*cking drip, and you can do so much better.”

It’s sweet that Oliver thinks so, she muses as her gaze drifts out the window, eyeing the tall oak trees. Their branches sprawling out wide, lines of green hedge row for miles, green intertwined with concrete jungle.

“How you holding up?” Oliver asks. Venetia forgets with him sometimes, when Oliver asks things like this it’s coming from a place of actually wanting to know. Otherwise, he just wouldn’t bother. Whether it’s genuine or not, with some sort of agenda is another thing, but at least he’s interested in hearing her answer. Will actually listen and interact with more humanity about the whole thing than anyone else in her life.

It's strange to say the least, even after all these years of Oliver being a near constant in her life it will still catch her off guard, will have her scrambling with how to proceed.

“Feeling like an idiot, but then what’s new.”

“You’re not Venetia,” Oliver’s words come out indignantly, but it’s on her behalf this she knows, she’s figured out enough about Oliver now to discern where his anger is pointing. “He’s the f*ckin’ eejit, doing that sh*t to you, like the f*cker deserves you.”

Venetia remembers when she first learnt that Oliver had sisters, it had come as a shock. Just something about him always struck her that he was an only child. Uneducated in the way of sibling dynamics, a loneliness and sensitivity that just wouldn’t make sense for someone growing up in a busy home of others all vying for attention and constant demands. But she’d been wrong.

And upon finding that out, she’d gone over every past interaction that she’d had with Oliver in her head to try and figure out what she’d missed. Where she’d allowed her own perceptions to cloud her opinion and miss what was right in front of her.

The truth is she just wasn’t looking in the right place, focusing too hard on the details that were too close to the surface and not diving into the shadows. Because now she sees it, in little more subtle ways, like now for instance how Oliver seems to know the exact right thing to say like he’s mindlessly memorised all the reassurances to pull out when one of his sisters has been dumped. How he’s always been so f*cking eagle eyed when sniffing out even the deepest buried insecurities, knows exactly how to work them into his fork tongued musings. That level of emotional intimidation, so much more common in women, yet he’s an incredible knack for it. It’s like he’s been a devoted student in such things but also an ill-fated victim.

“It’s going to sound sad,” Venetia starts, allowing herself to open up to him. “But… the only reason I went out with Cosmo really is to have someone to take to this stupid f*cking thing today, but honestly my brain would have started leaking out my ears if I had to spend a moment longer with him.”

For all her brother’s love of stepping into the hapless hero role with a platinum card, Oliver also has his own desire to be viewed as something of a provider, more so in a sense to be needed she thinks, or something darker that she can’t quite put her finger on. She sees the way he’s thrown himself into the role of confidante and guide while Felix navigates hooking up with other men. But then Oliver’s always leaned more into such things when it comes to Felix. So perhaps this will be a test to see how far he’s willing to go for her. No reason she can’t throw in a bit of a sob story to allow for some good old fashioned emotional blackmail.

“The majority of girls there are going to be from my boarding school days, flashing their boyfriend’s cheque books or titles and I really could do without feeling like I’m back to being the ostracized ugly duckling again.”

“I thought you were the queen bee of secondary school.”

Ah, well he’s not wrong there. There had been a brief spell, during Venetia’s first couple years at Cheltenhamwhere she had absolutely been treated like one of the school mingers. It was during the time when she had horrific acne in her teens, she’d been a late bloomer to everything else but not the raging teen girl hormones. She ended up starting her period at eleven. She was one of the only ones at that age and starting such a thing was impossible to hide at an all-girls boarding school.

Venetia still remembers how her mother use to brag how gently she personally transitioned through puberty, a particular point of pride for Elspeth was not starting her menstrual cycle well into her late teens, her skinny girlish figure was preserved despite the development of womanly curves. She always remained so dainty and elegant. No such luck for Venetia, she’d always felt the opposite, her body cumbersome and repellent. It had been her mother’s idea for her to start the pill as soon as possible, which did reduce the acne and hormones firing in her adolescent body. But then, came the weight gain and really that was where everything started to go downhill.

The obvious forms of bullying were one thing, but that’s never been how girls solely operate when they identify something to shame. It had been the hushed whispers behind hand covered mouths, the way eyes would track her down the corridors. The words that she never heard were always the thing that stuck with her worse than the words said to her face.

“Not till I got through puberty, got myself under fifty kilograms and firmly embraced my inner vindictive bitch.” She says with a barbed smile, nothing can hurt her now.

“Not that I care what any of these c*nts think.” She says dismissively in the next moment. Now for the real truth of the matter, which she hopes will be enough to get Oliver to bite. “But most of their mothers’ attend mum’s garden parties.”

“Ah.” Oliver acknowledges, things clicking into place. He’s one of the few outsiders that has had the opportunity to know their family so intimately, one of Felix’s lost boys who made good.

“So,” Venetia stretches out the word. “Fancy playing at being my prince charming a bit longer?”

Oliver’s lack of surprise at where this had been going is predictable, his hesitance disappointing and just so damn boring of him. “Think I’d be a worse option than the smarmy f*ck in this scenario.”

“Oh, come on now Oliver,” Venetia drawls, really humility is also dull even if it is his way to try and wriggle his way out of this. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

If he were to come out and say no outright, then she’d accept. Sure, she’d be disappointed because she knows it would be fun, a way to flip off the people at this sort of thing by bringing someone like Oliver. No onewould expect her to waltz in with someone like him on her arm. It’s wishful thinking on Venetia’s part that it would be considered an affront by her mother, as the woman remains so damn besotted by Oliver, to the level of creepy. Elspeth would likely get a right kick out of it, if a little put off that she’d not be made aware beforehand. That’s something at least.

“Besides you know how these people lap up anything ‘other.’ Especially if they are led to believe you were once a boy from the wrong side of the tracks.” She wouldn’t mind if Oliver revisited that one purely for the purposes of this. Might even be some people’s assumption when they see his unshaven face in a sea of primp and proper posh boys, hear the rough and clipped tone of his accent that will have people scratching their heads to place. However, by Oliver’s sour expression he doesn’t seem to be keen of the idea.

“Come on,” Venetia urges, seeing that she’s losing him. “It will be fun, you wouldn’t even have to redo that whole schtick, you can be whoever you want to be.”

Oliver sighs somewhat tiredly. Now that Venetia looks more closely at his face, he looks more worn-out than usual. Dark circles under his eyes, the lines on his face more pronounced from the level of exhaustion, skin devoid of colour. Venetia supposes he’s had to learn to rock such a look ever since he went into his taxing career in journalism, keeping him up late or at the office all hours of the night.

Or maybe he’s been too agreeable to Felix’s requests for late nights at sex clubs and gay bars, maybe it’s all finally catching up to him. Either way Oliver can get away with it, in an odd way it makes him more alluring, he seems more shifty, less predictable and plenty of people find that tempting enough to trifle with.

“Alright,” Oliver relents, “but we’ll need to stop over at the flat so I can grab a suit or my tux.”

Venetia can’t help but give a squeal of glee, which has Oliver shaking his head but that signature small smile of his on his face. Venetia again takes in his profile, plucking at his polo, sizing him up. “Please Oliver, I refuse to have my date wearing the only decent suit that he’s owned since he was nineteen.”

Oliver is now looking regretful at giving into her, no matter he’s signed his soul away now, no taksie backsies. “Venetia I’m not cashing out all my savings just for this thing.”

Venetia rolls her eyes, really, who does he think she is? Felix isn’t the only one that Oliver can play kept boy for. The detour might make them an hour late or so, especially since Oliver’s size and stature definitely won’t fit anything off the rack well enough for her liking. But luckily, she knows the majority of the tailors in Kensington, one in particular that will have no issue fixing him up in a flash. “No need to worry darling,” she winks, just as the traffic finally filters out and the taxi picks up speed, they are well on their way now. “Your sugar momma’s got this one.”

All in all, they may rock up at bit beyond what is considered fashionably late. It’s worth it however to see the faces of all those snooty girls she went to Cheltenham with drop from their impassive facade into genuine surprise in the way their mouths slacken, eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s comical seeing the identical expression coming from each of them – Stepford wives in similar versions of floral and pastels, immaculately styled hair freshly blowed out.

Venetia knows she matches in with the aesthetic, although her shorter brunette hair is viewed as a bit of a break from tradition, compared to the majority of mid length curl ironed waves, divided into a perfect middle part. Not to mention the pinched looks of condemnation when she turned up to a girls’ brunch having abandoned her bleach blonde locks for her natural colour. Back when Venetia was in her late teens, early twenties, such a reaction would have had her racing straight back to the hair salon to have it reversed. Now she knows better, sees those kinds of looks for what they really are: envy.

She sees it now in how it turns their gaze’s sour. Venetia is well aware it would have made the rounds of all her friends and acquaintances that she’d went out with Cosmo this morning. Likely they were all expecting her to turn up with him, or someone else they know as a pity date. So, it’s incredibly satisfying to wipe any hint of smugness off their faces as she enters with Oliver on her arm, dressed sharply in his brand-new charcoal grey tailored suit.

There’s always been an odd dichotomy to Oliver when he’s dropped into these settings of ostentatious wealth. On the one hand he’s been around it all long enough to know the etiquette and the dress codes. Knows what utensil to use with the amuse bouche. It’s rare that he needs to look at Felix for a subtle non-verbal cue these days. Same goes for the bizarre social decorum of the British upper classes, when dining always speak to the person on your left first, above all else keep conversation light while also straddling the fence of being engaging.

As Venetia watches Oliver, expression relaxed not intimidated in the slightest by the grand room with its ornate cornice, gilded chandeliers and floral arrangements of pristine white gardenias and bulbous peach-coloured roses decorating every corner of dead space. He blends in perfectly with his bespoke Italian suit, flawlessly pressed having resisted the temptation to stick his hands in his pockets. It strikes Venetia that Oliver with his blasé unbothered attitude could pass for one of them in a heartbeat.

Yet, no matter how hard Oliver works to make it seem as second nature to him as it is for herself and Felix, it takes more than an aloof underwhelmed attitude to fool these vipers. The second Oliver opens his mouth, it’s hard not to shift to a totally different impression, the common surname and people’s minds just run wild with the idea of what his background could be.

Venetia knows Oliver would like her to think it doesn’t bother him, that after all these years of Felix dragging him to the black ties at Kensington Palace and every notable event on the rich elite British social calendar that it doesn’t get underneath his skin when someone gives him the subtlest of slight. But Oliver’s not nearly as closed off about it as he thinks he is.

It does make Venetia a little concerned, how worn he seems now in the harsh light of day. Not breakable, Venetia can’t quite imagine him exposing himself in such a way. But he certainly looks like he’s been pulled taunt, stretched thinner than usual. It has Venetia wondering if he has it in him to keep a hold of his patience. She knows Oliver well enough to know how volatile he can get when he’s pushed, scrambling for control.

Venetia recognises the impulse like an old aggravating dinner guest, that chews too loud, helping themselves to too much sherry and pounding their fist on the table drunkenly, causing all the crockery and glass to clatter. She’s at least managed to tamper down her own impulses, channel them into something craftier but just as satisfying. She hates to say she learnt such techniques from her mother, having been both witness and victim.

Speaking of, a potential opponent approaches her and Oliver, pearly blonde waves bouncing as she walks over, sickly sweet smile now plastered on her face, apple cheeks round and highlighted by her pink blush. With her large hazel eyes and plumped lips, flawlessly milky skin and symmetrical face she reminds Venetia of one of her blonde China dolls she had as a girl. Felix had dropped the thing from the first floor out onto the patio, curious to see what damage would occur to the glaze porcelain from such a height. Venetia had hardly been upset; she always much preferred his toys anyway. Had stolen away his rocking horse till he passed out from sobbing so hard with how inconsolable he’d gotten about the whole thing.

“Venetia, darling,” comes the unbearably high-pitched trill voice, then she’s greeted with an air kiss at each cheek.

Georgia takes her in, the untarnished skin and fixed well-mannered expression like that of Venetia’s old porcelain doll. It would be impressive that she could keep her appearance so contained, but then Georgia was always the best at keeping herself in check, never lets herself crack. Venetia eagerly waits for the day she finally snaps, becoming completely unhinged and starts smearing her own excrement and period blood on the walls.

Georgia shakes her head in mirth as she glances at Oliver. “We all thought you might be bringing Felix.” She comments brightly, but Venetia isn’t fooled. Georgia finds it the height of bad manners that she never confirmed who she would be bringing as her plus one. Like she was going to provide Georgia with the bloody ammunition to hold her to it.

Venetia returns Georgia’s smile, but she always finds she can’t quite keep the sharpness out of it these days. It’s a wonder what you can get away with when you start to give less of a f*ck what other’s think. “Georgia, you look,” Venetia shakes her head as if she’s lost for words, sliding her eyes down her periwinkle dress, right down to the open toe stilettos, “are those last summer’s Vuitton’s?” She asks innocently.

Not even a crack, damn maybe Venetia would need to chuck her off a roof to make an actual dent in her. “Anniversary gift from Spencer, you know me I’m nothing if not sentimental.”

Excellent parry – Venetia can appreciate that. Which she knows even if Georgia isn’t showing it on her face, will likely have her seething, as there’s nothing she hates more than knowing she’s only adding to Venetia’s entertainment.

Oliver rightly so has chosen to remain silent, instantly picking up on the antagonistic dynamics masked by faux civility. Doesn’t stop him from glancing between the two of them, like an avid Wimbledon spectator following a rally.

“Well,” Venetia starts, the free hand that isn’t interlocked in Oliver’s arm coming up to squeeze his bicep, “this is Oliver.”

“Oliver?” Georgia questions as her eyes shift to him, her cheeks rounding as her smile broadens. “How lovely.” She notes with an appreciative gaze, practised in the way she’s able to conceal the predatory edge to it.

Oliver takes his cue, reaching forward to take one of her delicate French tipped hands in his. “Nice to meet you,” he intones with an inclined head. The picture-perfect chivalrous gentleman as his appreciative gaze darts around the room. “Everything looks wonderful.”

Georgia has yet to allow Oliver to have his hand back. “Well, aren’t you just divine.” She notes, fascination laced in his voice and expression. This tends to be the usual reaction to Oliver, Venetia’s grown use to it by now. And she’s the sibling that will actually be normal about it, not react with bashful pride or seething jealousy. “You’ll have to accept my apology Oliver we don’t have a place card set down for you, but you’re opposite Venetia. Next to Rosie and Caggie, I promise they don’t bite.”

Oliver thanks her with a nod, turning to Venetia and giving her hand a squeeze. “Drink?”

He’s making a swift exit, likely dying for a drink just short of rocket fuel after the torture of the continuous combination of suit material changes, she made him go through in the last hour before she let the tailor actually measure him. “I’d love one.”

Georgia makes no bother to hide her show of tracking Oliver as he makes his way to the bar. “Well, well,” the shift of her tone from polite decorum to something more barbed and scandalised. “You’ve been holding out on us Vee, where on earth were you hiding a specimen like that?”

Venetia equally makes no show of hiding her eye roll. Georgia continues lips pursed and she sidles up to Venetia, the two of them watching where Oliver is standing at the bar, instantly getting snapped up into a conversation. “Honestly, such an improvement on the last one, my god.”

“Oliver’s a family friend.”

“Hmm, good for you honestly,” Georgia drawls, sucking her teeth. “Why keep trying to mine away at the same spot when you aren’t getting any gold. You two seem much better suited I think.”

“How’s Speny?” Venetia asks in the next breath, she can’t see Georgia’s equally vapid other half anywhere, pretty sure she’d catch sight of him instantly due to the lights reflecting off his excessively gelled slicked back hair. He would be smarmy f*cker numero uno.

“Oh, it’s so wretched,” Georgia whines, with a baby doll pout to match. “He got caught up at the office again.” Likely caught up doing his secretary, Venetia had heard he’s went through five of them within three months. No doubt when Georgia starts popping out the sprogs, he’ll move onto the nannies. Okay maybe Venetia is embellishing but honestly the man’s randiness puts Felix to shame. “You know all about him becoming senior partner at Slaughter & May, youngest in thirty years apparently, I know, we’re very proud.”

By some miracle Venetia makes it through the actual lunch, leaves Oliver to deal with the two soul sucking succubi on either side of him. The two seem much keener on him than either of their Canary Wharf business boyfriends.

Venetia finds him later, miraculously with his virtue still intact, at the French doors that lead into a small courtyard that is sheltered by a canopy. In predictable Oliver fashion he’s choosing to stay out of the fray, while still having a clear view into the ballroom, smoking a cigarette next to the koi pond looking incredibly unapproachable. Uncaring about his obvious display of insolence for all to see.

“How are you fairing?” She greets, snapping her fingers in a request for a drag of his ciggie.

Oliver looks positively cranky, on his third whiskey, cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger, gaze like laser directed into the crowd of pastel, floral and linen – like he’ll be able to make everything in front of him combust with his eyes. “I’m fighting the temptation to start a gas leak.” His tone dead serious.

“Well at least you’re fighting it.” Venetia snaps her fingers again, tutting impatiently when he doesn’t respond to her request to share the cigarette.

Oliver huffs annoyed, throwing her a sharp glance with those eyes like blue flame, reluctantly he hands it over. “How can you stand these f*cking people?” He grumbles.

“Years of training,” Venetia responds, inhaling sharply around a mouthful of smoke, cradling her glass of wine closer to herself, then she gives a drawn-out exhale with an air of laziness, it’s all so typical to her now, “since the womb pretty much.”

Oliver shakes his head, a hand now buried in his pocket, his posture slightly slouched. So, he’s chosen to say f*ck it to decorum, fabulous. “Still, you guys aren’t as bad as this.”

Venetia shakes her head; Oliver really does think too highly of her family sometimes. “Sure, we are Ollie, you’ve just acclimated to us, like our little pet hamster.” If Oliver hadn’t carved himself a space in their lives, she’s not so sure he would think such a thing. No matter how often he’s seen them warm themselves by the fire on a bleak mid-winter English morning, or by the scorching sun on the bow of a yacht off the coast of southern Italy, the nature of their cold-bloodedness remains the same. Only difference is Oliver’s found himself entrapped in their reptilian world, and it’s hardly one he can turn his back on now from his own volition. No, their talons are sunk in too deep into him now. Tainted whatever warmth he has with their frostiness.

They finish Oliver’s cigarette between them, Venetia filling him in on various scandalous details about several members of their party that are of interest. Oliver as ever is a quiet listener, but she knows he’s drinking in every last drop.

“Oh, there’s Speno,” Venetia indicates to the tall lean man, built like a long-distance runner who looks like he’s coated his hair in gelatine. “That’s Georgia’s man.” Spendy Speny, Felix dubbed him when the rumours of his poorly concealed gambling addiction got out. Apparently, he’s in recovery, not allowed within a mile of any casinos or inside any betting shops like he’s on some sort of sex offenders list for gambling addicts. Farleigh always brings up whenever anyone references the man how he f*cked his stock portfolio from six figures to less than a tenner overnight.

Oliver only needs to take one glance at the man for his opinion to be fully formed. “Seems like a bit of a propped-up c*nt.”

Venetia laughs, Oliver really does have a way with words and condensing a person down to their key attributes. She’s always liked that about him.

“Yeah well, he bullied Felix something awful if you can believe it. Speny was polo team captain and use to ride Felix pretty hard, and not in a fun way, almost to the point he considered quitting the team.” Venetia has always wondered if it was a proverbial boy incessantly pulling the pigtails of the prettiest girl in the class to get her to pay him any sort of attention.

Recognition flares in Oliver’s eyes like he’s just connected something, before giving way to the look of a nuclear missile that’s just locked onto its target. “Bet I can get him to agree to a ludicrous multimillion pound business proposal.”

Oh, finally some fun, she knew there was another reason she brought Oliver along to this. “Written agreement?” She enquires casually, taking a sip of Chablis.

Oliver’s eyes haven’t deviated from his prey. She can practically see him salivating at the thought of sinking his teeth into the man, drawing blood, gnawing flesh, and cracking bone. “On a f*cking co*cktail napkin.” Not even sounding co*cky, just so sure of himself, single minded and fixed on his mission. He normally gets his way when he’s like this, too determined to entertain any chance of failure.

“You’re on, usual stakes?”

“Double it.” Oliver says shortly before downing the rest of his drink, flicking his cigarette butt into the koi pond before stalking off.

Venetia knows she’s likely going to end up on the losing end of this one, but it’s worth it to see Oliver like this. She watches as he prowls over to his quarry, the muscles of his defined back flexing under the sleek charcoal material, like a menacing panther stalking in the long grass. How easily his standoffishness melts away into a veneer of charm and seduction.

Venetia watches him for a good few minutes, enjoying the show of watching him reel in an unsuspecting Spencer, like a fat juicy catch he’s about to hook. Oliver’s always been the most alluring and unsuspecting bait, Spencer won’t know what’s hit him. Impressive that Oliver’s wolf in a sheep’s clothing act could pull the wool over a lawyer’s eyes. But then Spencer is a public school educated boy, he’s used to recognising fellow predators that walk, talk and sound like him. Likely he’ll underestimate Oliver, which will be something Oliver will be using fully to his advantage. Hmm, this may also have the potential consequence of knocking Spencer back into active addiction. Oh well, the man should have thought better before reducing her brother to hiding poorly concealed tears for the better part of two years.

“Venetia is that you?” Calls a shrill voice, suddenly snapping her out of her observing Oliver’s game.

Approaching Venetia is a woman dressed from the top of her head to the tip of her toes in decadence. Shimmering, floating fabric of a jade couture dress, likely fresh off some twiglet supermodel for Stella McCartney. Despite being in a room filled with opulent splendour this woman’s ensemble stands out amongst the whole crowd. In fact, Venetia would say it verges on overdressed. But then, no one is going to be saying any such thing about the attire of a duch*ess. “Oh, darling,” Venetia is ingulfed by the warm embrace. “How delightful to see you.”

“Now let me look at you,” the woman gives a hum, trailing her dark blue-eyed gaze up and down Venetia’s figure. Any other fit of forwardness from other members of the buddying aristocracy would have Venetia channelling all her energy into not cringing. However, individuals who’ve seen her as a toddler, naked, cackling like a little terror through the gardens as an appalled nanny chased after her with a towel and would sneak her wine gums during dull church services gets a definite pass from any recoiling.

In fact, Venetia, finds herself preening under the regard of her ever elegant godmother, Victoria, as the woman gives her an approving look. High praise coming from the duch*ess, that is regarded as the fashionista of her cohort of noble ladies, particularly in the way she could with ease flit between sophisticated grace and contemporary chic. Venetia remembers as a girl flicking through the pages of Vogue and Vanity Fair, eyes glued to the vibrant pictures comparing her godmother’s get up to Princess Diana’s during a state dinner. Much to Venetia’s mother’s enormous displeasure, Victoria had always remained the more relevant of the two, although mother could hardly contend with Victoria’s higher status. Truth be told Elspeth could’ve been a worthy contender, but she tends to fall into the trap of her own aloof desultory. Yet Venetia knows for a fact that doesn’t stop her from being locked in with feelings of envy or nostalgia for a time that never was, to keep her company in her purposeless life.

They are similar in a lot of ways, the same waif, tall figure, preserved by their aversion of anything; gluten, processed, non-organic, high fat and sugary, so pretty much all food that isn’t exclusively made from some form of kelp or bone broth. Victoria has a softness to her features that Elspeth lacks, although the Botox renders any great movement from her facial muscles limited, she still manages to soften the severity to her appearance.

“Tell me how is Felix?” Victoria enquires in the next breath, her terracotta lipstick pink lips pursing, the rest of her face remaining immobile. Striking accented cheekbones and the hollowed-out space below, exaggerating the angularness of her face.

Venetia never needs to wait long till her brother is brought up in conversation. “I hear he’s being pulled from pillar to post poor dear; I advised your father against it all, bless him the poor thing but I don’t think your brother has the constitution for politics.” There is a touch of caring in her voice, but it is mainly for show, the acts of a Baronet to be are beneath her and undeserving of her attention, godson or not.

Felix when he was younger, despite his with the fairies disposition that he’s yet to grow out of, picked up on the rivalry between their mother and godmother. Ever his mother’s son had taken to calling Victoria, Duck Face behind her back in order to get a laugh out of their mother. Of course, such a thing being started by her nine-year-old son, resulted in much giddy joy from Elspeth and this gave way to Felix’s first early years’ experience of really recognising the sort of behaviour that allowed him any sort of bonding experience with their mother. It’s no surprised then that Felix never reciprocated the familial relationship with their godmother. His loyalties lying with their mother and sticking there.

“But enough about that nasty business.”

Venetia had been hoping that Victoria would stick to pleasantries. After all it would be in keeping with their current setting, light conversation on the bouquet of the Cabernet or upcoming engagements of the social season. But no such luck, Venetia can see where this is going, and does her best to not shift awkwardly on her feet, making sure not to grip her wine glass too tight, as she braces herself for what is coming next.

“Oh, darling,” Victoria accentuates, looking positively downtrodden, impressive for one of the most asset rich women in England. “I’ve been having such a horrendous time, organising this whole thing to make sure it’s not like some Woodstock ’99 disaster, and I swear I’m surrounded by utter buffoons that don’t even know the accurate definition of vintage.” She reaches out, cold, smooth hands with long coloured nails to match her lips with spider-like fingers that wrap around Venetia’s forearm. “You must save me.”

“Tell me have you thought about my offer any further?” Those sharp talons round Venetia’s forearm give her a firm squeeze, like a boa constrictor wrapping itself around its prey.

Venetia swallows.

Truth be told, when Victoria had cornered her at another similar luncheon a month back and impressed upon her the direness of the organisational management of London Fashion Week, her first thought was that the woman had simply been looking for a place to vent. A listening ear to complain about getting into another spat with Karl Lagerfeld over combining animal print with feathers. So, it had been to Venetia’s complete shock that Victoria had tried to persuade her to come join Victoria’s team for organising the event. She hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone, still convinced the whole conversation had been some pathetic fever dream her subconscious had created to f*ck with her.

“And I’d hardly expect you to do it for nothing, you’re an asset darling you’d have been lost on modelling. Mindlessly strolling down a catwalk in Chanel.” Victoria continues, finally letting go of her arm, tone humorous and light. “Don’t tell your mother I said that, but I’m glad she never encouraged anything like that.”

“And it’s only a matter of time before the Italians snap you up, or worse the French.” Venetia takes a gulp of wine. The acidic liquid going down, helps distract her from the uncomfortable feelings that rise from such a statement putting such a weight on her abilities. It feels a bit like being blinded by a spotlight. She’s so used to the little praise being thrown at her in a way that has her reeling from the backhanded slap.

“I,” She starts, not really knowing where she’s going with this, “hadn’t had the chance to think on it yet honestly.” Wincing at how disingenuous it sounds.

Victoria’s expression remains open with curiosity but there is understanding in her eyes, like she’s cracked the code to Venetia’s tentativeness. “Well think of this as a little nudge. And who knows,” she says tone overly casual, throwing out a baited hook. “There might be a more permanent position in it for you if you impress the BFC. I know your mother will say it’s all very drab but it’s very modern darling, quite becoming of a lady of your standing.” Then completely ignoring Venetia’s jaw dropped expression, she continues with a spirited chuckle. “Why let the men do all the work.”

It's safe to say the surprise at this temporarily limits Venetia’s ability to fully concentrate on the rest of her interaction with her godmother. Thankfully the woman gets whisked into another conversation with a lady from her Debutante days.

Still reeling, Venetia doesn’t notice at first Oliver popping back up at her elbow. But she does feel his presence, by the tingling on the back of her neck at the feel of his warm breath ghosting by her ear. “What was that about?” He asks, eyebrows raised when she turns to him. She’s unsure how much he’d overheard, but likely he saw enough from his position where he’d been luring in Spencer into his sharp toothed mouth that Venetia had been in a conversation that looked more than casual.

“Nothing.” Venetia says too quickly, Oliver’s expression clearly showing he doesn’t believe her. Sighing, Venetia expands, “She offered me a job. Working with her team for a fashion event, not a big deal or anything.” She adds quickly.

Oliver makes a noise of amusem*nt, any hope of him just glossing over the whole thing gone. “Look at you, another Catton sibling ascends. Somewhere your mother’s six sense for disregarding her life ethos has been activated.” The joking meant to be light-hearted has Venetia spiralling. f*ck, Oliver’s right her mother would never approve of her doing something like this.

Seeing the nervous shift in her demeanour. “So, you going to accept it?” Oliver asks delicately.

“No, of course not.”

“Why not?”

Figures he’d be ridiculous about this whole thing. “Seriously Oliver me— doing something like that can you imagine?” She laughs, the sound dying in her throat. Her doing an actual job where people rely on her, where she has any form of say or leadership. The idea is ludicrous for f*ck’s sake.

Oliver’s expression is pinched, no amusem*nt in his eyes, not sharing in Venetia’s joking. “Yeah, Venetia I can.” Seeing her resisting the idea he presses on, “no come on, you’d be perfect for this.”

f*cking hell had he given Felix the same pep talk as well? It probably had Felix going all f*cking gooey. “I think I’ve had enough of your earnest attempts of bullsh*tting me for one day Quick.” She fires back, temperament quickly turning frosty.

Oliver opens his mouth to spout something more at her, but Venetia just talks over him. “Ah, shut the f*ck up.”

He respects her command, staring into his drink, having got another at the bar while extorting as much as he can out of the upper classes. Oliver goes quiet, purposefully not saying anything. The silence between them hanging there – he’s such a dickhe*d.

Then, “you really think I could do it?” Venetia can’t help but ask, surprised that anyone would think so.

“What I think isn’t important,” is what Oliver says, “but yes.” Catching her eyes to emphasize his point, she finds herself looking away from his intense gaze suddenly feeling all bashful, the curious sensation of fluttering butterflies in her stomach, her tongue suddenly feeling too big for her mouth like she might start falling over her words, embarrassing herself in front of him like a fawning schoolgirl.

There he goes blind sighting her again and she’s left feeling not sure what to do with it. So, in classic familial fashion she quickly changes the subject. She’s no interest to linger on this, she needs to go away and think for herself.

She nods to where Oliver had been across the room a few moments ago. “How did you get on anyway?” It’s a shame really, she missed all the action.

Oliver’s expression remains innocent, like whatever could she mean. But while he keeps her in this cruel state of anticipation, he reaches into his trouser pocket to reveal a slightly soaked co*cktail napkin, with clear black marker chicken scratch scrawls on it with the addition of an obnoxiously large looping calligraphy type signature that could only be written by a public-school boy after years of being forced to practice handwriting. He holds it up to her eyeline proudly, like some wild tomcat presenting her with a dead mouse.

Venetia can’t believe it. “You’re joking? For how much?”

Impressively Oliver’s expression remains annoyingly innocuous, yet she knows how f*cking smug he’ll be feeling on the inside. “A rather conservative one point five mill.”

“You rascal!” Venetia hoots astounded, not caring if her outburst calls attention to them. Let them all f*cking look, let them see the absolute cut-throat beautifully cunning devil she has by her side. “Within fifteen minutes!?”

Now Oliver’s smugness is starting to shine through, his body language unbothered, the dimples of his smile peeking out, smile lines around his eyes scrunching. And his eyes seem to twinkle with elation. Not just at his successful fit of craftiness but that it is going recognised and applauded by someone else. “I had him by the balls within two. Apparently, his wife adores goats, and they would be more than happy to invest in a public park goat landscaping business. These invasive non-native plants are a scrouge on London’s sacred green spaces Venetia, it needs to be stopped.”

There’s nothing she enjoys more about Oliver than this. The reminder that he has a sharp mind that rivals her own, his willingness to sink to some rather low depths while using said intellect. It’s equally captivating and terrifying. Those two things in combination have her knees feelingly slightly weak.

“You Machiavellian f*ck.” She notes in total admiration, wicked delight knowing that a man who had been so cruel to her brother had been made such a fool of. God, she can’t wait to bring this one up at the next brunch with the girls. Georgia’s doll face will likely finally crack into a hundred ugly pieces, Jesus the thought of it actually f*cking tickles her.

The words and tone have Oliver’s smile broadening of course. f*ck, she’d missed this, their time together, scheming next to each other at the table at Saltburn, taking everyone on and giving them a run for their f*cking money. She swears there’s no one that plays on her level like him, Felix certainly doesn’t have the taste or intellect for it, and Farleigh, well, he doesn’t really value a team working approach, Farleigh is out for only Farleigh.

It's a creeping quiet feeling that sneaks up on her, but she knows what this is – she’s been here before. The magnetic pull she feels towards this man before her, the sense of overpowering fascination. Taken in by that covert razor-sharp smile and those pale eyes, the way they seem to look right through her yet seem to dissect every part of her. The reminder that no one quite understands her, gets her like Oliver can and he barely needs to try.

They’ve been here before, so when she sees Oliver catch it, the way his eyes darken – the way his pupils expand slightly, dark pink lips parted ever so slightly. He’s not smiling now, but the way he’s looking at her can only be described as grinning.

Venetia wants to greet that old familiar feeling inside her, say: why hello, there you are.

Despite Venetia’s breath catching she’s able to say. “I think I’m ready to go.” Breathing out in the space between her and Oliver.

Just like that, the way he meets her in the middle without even a second of consideration, always on the same page as her if not a few moves ahead. “I’ll get your coat.” Voice soft, lilting, he doesn’t need any further hints. He just gets it.

~

“Can you, f*ck—a bit more to the left?” Venetia squeaks out, rolling thrusts punching into her as she grasps at sweaty, compact shoulders, her fingers clutching for purchase at thick, meaty muscle. The request has barely left her lips before there’s a warm hand at her thigh, hiking her further into the lap she’d been moving over. Bringing everything into a perfect equilibrium, and with it the movements rolling inside her result in even more toe-curling pleasure. “Oh f*ck,” she gasps in response, panting open mouthed into the side of a flushed red neck.

Man, she’s missed good sex. Sweaty, filthy, messy, nasty, unadulterated sex.

A hand cards through her hair, pushing away where it had plastered itself against her sweaty forehead. For a moment all she can see is two points of piercing blue, everything else in her eyeline hazy and out of focus.

“Good?” Comes Oliver’s gruff inquiring voice, he’s got a firm grip of her hip, thumb rubbing small, slow, soothing circles into her skin.

Venetia shakes her hair back to get the rest out the way, allows Oliver to control and direct her body up and down to meet his movements. The feeling of him rock hard inside her, and good, filling with just the right amount of stretch. “f*ck—uh,” she gets out, panting at a particularly accurate thrust from Oliver that has all her nerve endings igniting and sparking. “I’m not—uh, feeding you’re a-already large ego.”

She hears Oliver snort in amusem*nt, feels the zing of pleasure from where his chest rubs up against her nipples. “Is that what they call it these days?” He notes all smugness and arrogance. He knows he’s a first-class f*ck, with his well-endowed co*ck and pro athlete level skill and stamina in using said equipment. But that all means nothing in the face of what makes Oliver so good at this. He doesn’t shy away from anything, is willing to make it as nasty as f*cking possible. And that is just such a f*cking turn on for Venetia, versus the prim and proper boys she’s been with before, that don’t even ask if she’s cum.

Oliver mouths, nipping at her collar bones and Venetia feels herself squeeze around him in response, God, she can feel how wet she’s getting just from what he’s doing to her. “Jesus,” Oliver exclaims, hand trailing down her bony spine. She can hear the wet slapping of his thighs against her, can feel it, the force behind it, the way he seems to find a way to bury himself inside her just that little bit further each time. “Forgot how good this feels.”

Same, she thinks automatically but then not quite following what he’s meaning, “huh?” She dips her chin down to see Oliver’s gaze locked on to the sight of his co*ck sliding in an out of her, he’s totally transfixed, “oh.”

“Been a while for you-u?” She asks, biting into her lip because it comes easy this. f*cking and talking have always been easy with Oliver, figures they’d be good at both at the same time.

Oliver nods, then pipes up not sure if she’s seen it, “yeah.”

“Been too busy— f*ck Oliver! Taking Felix out to all the gay clubs.”

Oliver gives a breathy chuckle, pulling her right in close to him roughly, every inch of their skin that can, pressing together, wet, slick, burning hot. Venetia gives a moan, she not so secretly loves it when he handles her rough like that, like he’s taking it upon himself to decide what’s best for her, knows where he wants her. It reminds her how unexpected she found him all those years ago in the gardens at Saltburn. Hiding a shocking level of assertiveness under his shy common demeanour.

He goes somewhere for a moment, focused on f*cking into her firmly and forceful, pupils blown wide. Pressing his forehead into her shoulder, he pants, eyes screwing shut for a moment just focusing on the feel of her. Giving a choked off moan, “Jesus, the muscles on you Vee,” Oliver remarks in awe.

Venetia can’t help but preen. “Ha, that will be all the Pilates.”

Oliver gives another throaty groan at that, f*cking up into her harder and it’s like all the different parts inside her, have no choice but to shift to accommodate him. “That’s new?”

“Just really got into it,” Venetia rolls her hips, tugging at Oliver’s curling locks because she can, scratching her nails into his scalp because she remembers he always responds best to some pain mixed in with his pleasure, “this year.”

Licking at her shoulder, following her slower, deep rhythm that she’s now set. “Bet your boy appreciated it.” With a sharp, devilish smile.

“He never really quite got the handle of it.” Is it weird she’s encouraging this, Oliver bringing up her ex during sex? She feels she should care more, but she’s quite happy to be just as spiteful.

Oliver laughs gleefully into her skin, a throaty giggle. “That your way of saying I’m a better f*ck than your ex?”

Now he’s fishing, if he wants compliments then he should really go find Felix. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Instead of pouting or getting affronted, Oliver just gives another laugh, enjoying himself. It’s good, makes Venetia feel more carefree than she’s felt in months. Because here in Oliver’s bedroom, it feels safe, it feels simple and that’s exactly what Venetia needs, has been craving. Really there’s few people in her life that she can rely on to provide that to her.

“f*ck you’re so wet.”

“Yeah,” Venetia agrees, she can feel it, how she must be dripping all over the sheets, all over Oliver right to his balls. It’s so hot. A smile spreads over her face as she has a thought. “I think I might be ovulating.”

Oliver’s hips stutter, movements jerking of their own accord as he gives a punched-out groan right from his lungs, vibrating through his chest. His head falls onto her shoulder, his hands flexing now at her hips, having to halt their movements or this will all be over for them both. Not that Venetia would mind that much. Oliver’s already had her cum twice, once with just his fingers, the second with his mouth and tongue while he’d laid on his back, and she’d rid his face.

“God you’re so easy,” she laughs because he is, always been so obsessed with all that sh*t.

Oliver snorts, teeth bared as he shakes with laughter. “What?” Venetia asks with a smile wanting to be let in on the joke.

“Just remembering,” Oliver tells her, looking right up at her with a look of pure wickedness, licking his lips, blinking out the sweat in his eyes, “how your mum said to me once she found women far too wet.”

The shock Venetia feels is reduced by the fact that Oliver chooses that exact moment to start moving again, the evil tyrannical f*cker. “Oliver, I really don’t want to think about my mother while you’re inside me.”

Oliver’s mouth falls open, sharp teeth and lolling red tongue. “Well, that makes one of us.” He pants, gives a guttural groan at his next rough thrust f*cking into her sloppy wet c*nt, the drag of his co*ck along the inside of her just too damn perfect. She can’t control the way she flutters around him, body pulsing, begging for more of him without her say so.

Venetia gives a surprised laugh. She doesn’t have much time to decide how to react to that one, Oliver’s fired a speed of light curve ball that she barely has time to consider how she’s going to return it. So, she reacts on instinct, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back harshly, “you’re f*cking disgusting.” She gasps at him, the words slightly winded by the hard thrusts. She delivers a sharp, stinging slap to his cheek. Not quite enough room to strike him at full range, but it will do.

Oliver’s mouth falls open in total elation, exposed for a moment in his complete bliss as the pleasure, mixed in with pain and humiliation hits. Still, he manages to move, continues to work himself into her body. Giving her what she needs like a good boy.

He looks so aroused, yet so pathetic and that in turn is turning her on, has her insides feeling molten and white hot. Reverberating out to the rest of her to the point that she thinks if it were to continue, she just might combust. “Really? Look at you, getting off on the most repulsive sh*t.” Becoming more confident in her words, in taking this further, as she moves on top of him, over him, makes her feel powerful. “It’s f*cking revolting, worse it’s bloody sick.” Giving his hair another violent pull that has him whimpering, neck bared to her, “you are sick Oliver.” She hisses at him.

Giving a breathy whine, Oliver nods his head, continuously, vehemently at her words, agreeing with her. Jesus, he’s really into it, a bit of rough handling and some demeaning dirty talk and he looks on the verge of cumming. Bear hugging her to his body as he continues to nod his head far longer after her words than he should, he seems so totally lost in it. “F-f*ck— Oliver,” Venetia chokes out, consumed by watching him like this, can’t take her eyes off this gorgeous addicting sight. She’s pretty sure she can cum from just this, this feeling of total authority.

Oliver looks up at her then, head co*cking minutely, seeing something. His movements slowly becoming less compliant, now firmer, he’s guiding them again. Back in control as he looks up at her, eyes teasing, depraved. “Come on, Vee you can do better than that.” He coaxes, egging her on, his appetite never satiated. But Venetia feels out of breath, too caught up in whatever is building in her body, can feel it right from the tip of her curled out toes, working its way up her calves, thighs, pulsing through her c*nt which grips his throbbing co*ck. Her belly twisting and fiery, the feeling threatening to take her whole.

There’s a look of total adoration coming from Oliver, it softens him along with the red flush of blood on his face, the striking cyan of his eyes. He looks in total awe as his fingers find a strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingertips like golden thread. “I really like your hair this way.” He says suddenly, expression open, earnest.

Oh f*ck.

“It’s your natural colour, right?” Oliver continues, panting breath into the tiny space between their lips, not quite looking at her anymore, eyes dancing around her head, he looks overcome by it, f*cking her with her natural hair.

“Yeah,” Venetia murmurs back softly, suddenly feeling timid. That Oliver can make her feel powerful then have that turning on its head on a dime.

Venetia knows what this is, but she goes with it, too focused on chasing the feeling of overpowering pleasure, earth shattering org*sm to really think about it. “f*ck, you like my hair?” And Oliver nods his head mindlessly, eyes locked onto her hair. As he does the words she spoke earlier suddenly pop into her mind while she rolls her hips to meet his thrusts, you are sick Oliver.

Afterwards they both lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling doing their best to catch their breath.

“We’ve still got it,” Venetia notes with pride.

“Yeah,” Oliver agrees beside her, voice rasped. “Pretty impressive for it being like what? Since the end of last year?”

“More like this time last year thank you very much,” Venetia reminds him, settling further into the bed sheets, she wanders when the last time was that he’s washed them. “I don’t count that brief stint back during that December.”

“You don’t count me going down on you before family Christmas lunch as us hooking up?”

Like she needs reminded of that, or the fact that her and Oliver do have this habit of falling into each other like this when coming out of respective relationships. They don’t exactly share it, it’s hardly anyone’s business that they are friends who have the occasional no strings attached f*ck, it’s pure uncomplicated comfort. And the fact that Oliver doesn’t get weird about her not being weird about it is an added bonus. “Well, no, I was on my period, plus Christmas really brings out my sentimental side and it was at Saltburn everyone knows that doesn’t count.”

“Your parents perpetual virgins, are they?” Oliver notes with a snigg*r, the hair framing his face starting to coil into loose, lazy waves, softening his appearance adding a youthfulness to him that has faded over the last couple years.

“Gross Oliver!” Venetia gags, “I doubt my parents have f*cked each other since Felix and I’s conception anyway.” Her tone remains casual, that way it always gets when she says something matter of fact about her family. “I used to joke how I’m convinced Duncan and Daddy are secretly lovers, that’s the only reason he’s been kept around for so long. And then there’s all mummy’s ‘dear friends.’” Oliver meets her eye with a sly smile, it hardly seems news to him, likely holds similar theories in his head.

“Felix never used to find it that funny at first, he took so much longer to let go of this conventional perfect family fantasy.” Poor Felix, he would deny any family dysfunction to his dying breath. He’s always saw the world behind tinted rose lenses but it’s not his fault. Despite having the same upbringing, the same home, the same opportunities they see things very differently, how could they not. The heir and the spare, the perfect golden son and the problematic overlooked daughter.

Venetia suddenly tugs the bed sheet up her body, feeling self-conscious as she shifts onto her side. She watches Oliver, who remains on his back staring up at the ceiling, watches the way his chest rises and falls as he breathes. Her eyes following the line of a thick bicep and defined shoulder, the dark wiry hair at his arm pit on display. His old scar; a thick ragged pink snake running down from his elbow, stark against his pale skin. He looks the most relaxed she’s seen him all day, like the crushing weight on his shoulder has eased slightly and she can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction that she’s the cause of it. He’s not the only one that’s a class a f*ck.

But then of course, she has to go and ruin it. “How’s your family by the way?” Attempting to be light in her question but it has the approach of a bull in a China shop.

Oliver gives an indignant snort, but she sees his shoulder tense up ever so slightly. Damn, and there goes any chance of him having a break from that weight. “Oh god, so we’re at the therapist pillow talk stage, are we?”

Venetia doesn’t let up, she bared her dusty old soul enough for today, it’s only fair that Oliver is made to feel equally exposed. And she knows she won’t get another chance to have him with his guard down like this for a while. So of course, she takes advantage and who knows Oliver might actually feel better for it.

Giving an exasperated sigh, Oliver relents. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, gets that stiff look in his expression whenever he talks about his family, his parents especially. Like Venetia is at his toes with a set of pliers, threatening to rip off his toenails. In fact, Oliver would likely be more in favour of that by comparison. “Never told them I moved. So, I imagine any correspondence is being used as joint roach by my old flatmates.” Voice neutral, clear that he couldn’t care less.

Well, that’s not messed up at all. Venetia almost wished she didn’t ask, Oliver’s family stuff is always so heavy, it sort of leaves her feeling stuck with how to respond. Other than: parents aren’t they just mental, she tends to be at a bit of a loss. Felix can at least make believable cooing noises and Farleigh goes into armchair psychologist mode with all the tips he picked up from his therapist.

“I follow one of my sisters’ on Instagram, see her posts occasionally.” Oliver gives a shrug as he says it, imparting the information to her awkwardly, like he’s aware of the clumsiness of this whole interaction.

Venetia can feel goosebumps start to break out on her skin and she curls in closer to Oliver’s warm body heat, her thighs pressing up against him, shifting to rest her chin near his plump peck. When she inhales, she smells his sweat mixed in with the stench of sex, hanging in the room. The evidence of their coupling ripe and obvious. “That your second oldest sister?”

One of Oliver’s fingers, graces the skin of her cheek lightly, shifting a strand of hair that fell over her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. The action natural and doting, as he looks down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. “Yeah.” The rumble of the word reverberating from his chest into her.

Venetia feels her body move up and down with his breaths, not putting all her weight on him, so he doesn’t complain that she’s too heavy. “How’s she doing?” She asks, the question genuine.

They talk about it sometimes. When Oliver first opened up to her about the time spent being dragged along for family appointments with a therapist during the course of his sister’s treatment. It was a better part of his secondary school years, with things getting particularly bad when she was in and out of hospital while Oliver was doing his GCSEs. He still doesn’t give much away about the whole experience, but he did speak about how tedious it had been getting forced to join in on the whole thing. That in his selfish, childlike mind found wearing and confusing. Being forced to sit in a stuffy, soulless room that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the late seventies, made to engage in repetitive and enate questioning that he had no interest in being a part of. The level of frustration his parents’ would then voice towards him because they could hardly take it out on the real source of their anger. He even told her about the few times he’d nicked his dad’s car keys and locked himself in just so he wouldn’t have to go in for those torturous appointments. After a while his parents’ got the message, stopped forcing him to come along.

“She’s a junior doctor at The Royal now,” Oliver tells her, everything about him neutral, not letting one thought or emotion slip by, blocking her completely from guessing what he must be thinking. “Mainly she posts about all the triathlons that she travels the world for.”

It's reassuring that she’s not the only one with a slightly odd, ill-shaped family. God, Venetia is probably the Oliver in her family scenario, and she snorts back a bout of laughter into his side. Oliver gives a wriggle to get her attention, arching a brow in question when she looks up.

She just shakes her head in response, and they lapse into a comfortable silence.

Part of her doesn’t want to leave this bed, the sweat damp and stuffy space between Oliver’s navy sheets. The lines and lines of bookshelves across his walls, filling every space with books, all categorised in some sort of bizarre yet totally logical order that only Oliver can understand. Unlike most people, she bets Oliver has read every single one of these books.

Mainly this space feels… just the right amount of familiar to be safe but just the right amount of unfamiliar to make her feel removed from her own life. She’d quite happily stay here with Oliver and forget about the world, and she has a feeling that he feels the exact same way.

But she’s starting to get the after-f*ck munchies and she turns to a right c*nt when she’s pushed herself without food for too long, especially after their intense session of cardio. “Hey Ollie?” She mumbles into his skin, tasting the salt of his sweat on her tongue.

“Yeah?” She feels his answer more than she hears it and sees it.

Lifting her head up to look at him with a sharp smile she says: “think I’m ready for the post-sex refuel now.”

“Huh,” Oliver retorts, face screwing up slightly like he’d be able to recall what they actually had in their kitchen other than every source of protein and electrolyte drink. It seems he can’t bring anything to mind, so they’ll need to go on a hunt and Venetia will need to take point otherwise Oliver will end up making them f*cking fruit salad. “Well, I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

“Yeah!” Oliver yells later from where he’s got his face stuffed into the freezer. The way he’s bent over gives Venetia a nice view of his impressively firm ass in his cotton boxers, from where she’s currently perched on top of the kitchen island counter, “sooo, cookie dough or half baked?”

“Half-baked you philistine!” Venetia fires back, appalled that she even needs to dignify that question with a response.

Oliver ambles back to her, fakes a toss of the Ben & Jerry’s tub at her, his face breaking into a sh*t eating grin when she gives a squawk and a flinch. His smile only broadens when she grumbles, f*cking asshole under her breath.

Joining her up on the island, Oliver presents her with the tub. Watching Venetia’s comical attempts to dig a metal spoon into the frozen rock-solid block of ice cream, makes no move to help. He just watches her as she eventually manages to scoop the ice cream into a bowl, filling it up with various sugary and processed condiments, the whole confection enough to spike their blood sugar and likely put them at risk of developing diabetes.

Venetia had scoffed down a few spoonfuls of the sickly sugary sweet goodness, feeling the glucose modules hitting her bloodstream fairly instantly. She gives a hum of delight, both at the sensation and the scrumptious taste of her creation. It takes her back to when her and Felix, who had a sweet tooth that could rival her own, use to raid the kitchens at Saltburn in search for a prohibited midnight snack. That all changed when her mother made sure to rid the place of any food that could be considered remotely indulgent and gratifying in an unsaid effort to manage Venetia’s weight gain.

Then, Venetia presents the bowl and spoon to a reluctant looking Oliver, wiping the melted chocolate ice-cream that had caught the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. “With the Nutella as well?” He checks, an eyebrow raised, holding the bowl like it’s some sort of bomb that is about to go off.

“Yeah,” Venetia confirms, licking the remnants of chocolate liquid off the back of her hand. Then with elbows braced against her knees, she peers up at him cross legged. Cheeks leaning into her balled up fists, she grins up at him impishly in a way she’s heard before, makes her look like the splitting image of Felix.

Oliver tentatively brings a moderate helping of chocolatey, congealed liquified goop to his mouth, taking a hesitant bite. All the while wearing an expression of someone who may as well be eating from a bowl of f*cking gruel rather than the best edible creation known to man. “Hmm,” Oliver hums, his pink tongue peaking as he licks his lips, “that’s not bad.” He notes, yet he places the bowl back down on the counter as if it were bloody radioactive.

“Not bad?” Venetia scoffs, rolling her eyes with a huff at Oliver’s bland level response to in her opinion, a creation that would make even Gordon Ramsey proud. “I forget I’m talking to the man who lives off of boiled chicken thighs and broccoli.” She doesn’t get him honestly. Oliver lacks any sort of taste for sweet things, but she knows for a fact he always adds lollipops and hard sweets to the weekly shop.

In Venetia’s fit to create the best post sex refuel snack, she had pulled out virtually any jar in the cupboard the looked vaguely dessert like and placed it on the counter while Oliver had hunted down anything the met similar criteria from the fridge and freezer. Venetia had rolled her eyes, to the point she felt like the almost got stuck in the back of her eye socket, when he brought strawberries with him. But then maybe she could convince him to let her spread some Nutella and whipped cream on his firmly cut abs, could use the berries and her tongue to clean it off.

Venetia grabs the jar of what looks like violently lime green jam, looking like the colour of toxic waste or an intense frozen margarita. “What the f*ck is this?”

Oliver is resting back on his hands, legs stretched and crossed, thrown over to one side of her. Venetia can see where the inseam of his underwear has ridden up. Paler skin at the inside of his thighs, decorated with dark wiry fine hairs, the bulge in the crotch of his boxers hard to miss. But he looks totally relaxed and he watches her lazily, nothing to result in him getting caught up in himself, any sense of self-consciousness gone. Venetia’s embarrassed to admit it, but there are times when she enjoys this more than sex. The casual intimacy of it all, the ease the comes with being completely comfortable with another person. The sense that nothing else exists here but them.

“Ah, that will be Farleigh’s lime curd, you touch that; it’s on pain of death.”

Venetia had already opened the jar and gave the contents a sniff, nose wrinkling at the acrid smell. “It smells like metal.”

Oliver nods his head knowingly with a grin. “Felix and I have been swiping little bits while he’s not been looking,” as soon as the words seems to leave Oliver’s mouth, his smile drops as he pauses for a moment, eyes becoming clouded by something suddenly. Then with a subtle clearing of his throat, he’s back. “You know, just our form of psychological torture – every time he uses it, he finds there is less there than he remembered.” He shrugs, watching her warily as she sticks her pinkie into the jar, then gives the gooey substance a cautious lick, a wince breaking out over her features instantly. “Yeah, tastes a bit like a knife down the throat.”

Venetia gives a smirk at Oliver’s comment, discarding Farleigh’s jar of pretentious pixie ji*zz to the side. “Knife play, I should have known.”

Reaching for her phone, Venetia checks her messages, only to see nothing. The annoyance must show on her face because Oliver then asks: “everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she says trying her best to shake off her feelings of irritation. “Felix just hasn’t sent me at least thirty messages today, he’s not got in touch at all actually.” Which is very unlike him. Normally she’d be getting frequent updates, and she can’t even think of a day recently where she’s not received a text from him. Even if Felix is in the arse end of nowhere, against his will, likely cleaning out his hosts of every alcoholic beverage on offer just to get through this weekend farse that father had forced him to attend. He should be messaging her various scathing commentary and slithers of contemptuous gossip he’s managed to overhear just to keep himself entertained and his morale up.

“Maybe don’t get the best signal out there.” Oliver offers quietly.

“Hm it is Gloucestershire I suppose.” Wherever the f*ck that is, she supposes Oliver would know. “He told you about this dumb weekend, with the Duke of Beaufort and his buddies? They’ll probably spend the weekend doing some shooting then finish off with an illegal fox hunt.” Felix is likely going out of his mind with boredom, he never had much of a taste for all that and it was hardly something father encouraged. Sir James much favoured dragging them along to the Opera or trying to convince them to join a yachting club. And mother being herself, never took much interest in anything really. Still, both her and Felix had ample opportunity to further their skills in the bizarre hobbies of their upper-class peers. “At least Felix will be happy to be able to get out for a ride.” If he’s not drunk himself into oblivion and needed to be helicoptered to a hospital to have his stomach pumped, again.

Oliver remains quiet. “Hmm,” he sounds out eventually, “I didn’t realise he was going to be gone most of the week.”

Oh, so is that what has him so sore all of a sudden. Felix not keeping him updated with his comings and goings, how quaint. “Just left without saying anything did he?” Venetia can’t help but lavish in the potential tiff. Petty she knows, but she does so love any hint of disruption. Likes to stick her fingers in what she imagines is a shallow wound and see if she can open it up wider, see if she can get the skin to tear, to see how quick and thick the blood will come, how much of a potential mess she can make and get away with. It’s an awful impulse she knows, but she can hardly help it and it‘s one that always came so naturally to her when Felix is involved.

And she needn’t go to the trouble, as what would it gain other than making Oliver feel worse and start withdrawing from her again. No, she can’t have that. He’s here with her after all, no need to give any more influence to Felix than he already has. “Well, you shouldn’t take it personally, daddy has been running him ragged of late.” She tries her best to sound bored by the whole thing, rather than mildly resentful. No, she reminds herself, she’d never want to be in that position even if she would have father’s undivided attention.

Oliver’s still looking, well awkward. Like he desperately wants to move off the topic, he’s normally better at hiding it. Maybe it’s bringing up the topic of Felix at all, when they are like, well: this. Getting together behind Felix’s back. But it confuses her, because he had no problem bringing up Felix earlier, in vastly different circ*mstances.

Venetia doesn’t like to think about that, any further, however.

“Yeah,” Oliver says in that soft lilting voice. “I did notice.” Speech far off, shimmering like a mirage. She can’t help but feel like she’s missing something. But Venetia isn’t like Farleigh, she’s not so ravenous in her need to know every f*cking thing, like him. She’s quite happy to wait and be invited into whatever the f*ck is going on when he’s ready. She learnt the art of waiting for such things by being related to Felix. The outcome was either, he’ll break and spill everything to her, often the more common outcome of the two, or he’ll seal himself up tighter than a virginal nun’s vag and take whatever it is he’s holding to the grave like the stubborn twat he is.

Still seeing Oliver moping all of a sudden like a tragic Victorian lady straight out of Tess of the d'Urbervilles, is annoying. So, she provides what little information she can in hopes that it will sooth Oliver some. “Also, he promised that he’d stop into Saltburn on the way home, think daddy wants to discuss the appointment some more. So prior warning he’ll likely be in a foul f*cking mood when he gets back.” Then at least Oliver can have an opening to provide some solid best bro support and those two can get up to whatever the hell they kid themselves passes as a normal relationship, with no undercurrents of hom*oeroticism whatsoever.

But then that leaves Venetia wondering if the issue has been staring her in the face for weeks, monthsand she’d not noticed it.

Oliver can only tolerate disorder for so long, so within the next few minutes of her finishing her delicious snack, he’s already hopped off the counter and started to put various food stuffs back in their original place. She watches him, the slide of the muscles in his upper back and shoulders, rippling like disturbed glassy water as he moves about the kitchen in fluid movements.

Could it be something happened, has been happening between Felix and Oliver and she’d been too dumb to spot it. She wouldn’t be surprised if things had turned that way, especially with Felix now out and somewhat proud. It was only a matter of time with these two. But then Felix wouldn’t know subtlety if it haled him off his feet and tossed him out the window. Oliver could find it no problem, but Felix, no way. The moment him and Oliver actually start f*cking, Venetia has no doubt she’d be the first one he’d tell. Not just out of pure jubilation about the whole thing, but also to mark his territory like a randy f*cking Labrador. Despite to the best of Felix’s knowledge, any brief hook ups between her and Oliver beinging long over since that first summer at Saltburn, he’s never quite got over the whole thing and no doubt he’d be giving her the subliminal signs of his now unyielding claim.

And Oliver, well, he’d at least look a lot f*cking happier right now than he does, which is to say he looks like a lost little stray kicked out into the cold.

Venetia moves to help him, feeling a bit bad sitting there watching him tidy up her mess and the more she thinks, the more she feels bad for him in a situation she’s not even sure about. Oliver has that frustrating effect on people, when he’s wallowing in self-pity and sadness, you can’t help but be caught in his tractor beam. She has to go up on her tippy toes to put the Nutella back in what is already a shelf ridiculously full of jars, some that have likely been there since the boys graduated. The act of doing so causes the old Jack Wills t-shirt of Oliver’s, baby soft and cotton thread thinning from years of wear since his uni days, to ride up, showing off her soft belly and arched out lower back.

She’s not really thinking about it really, but Oliver of course is still a man, easily led into temptation and with one thing never far from his mind. She feels the warm, solid arm wrap around her waist, pulling her into him, nosing around her hair.

Venetia sighs contently at feeling him close, sturdy and comforting. Her hand wraps around his forearm, just to touch back. She feels his nose at the juncture of her neck, sniffing or just petting, she’s not sure. But whatever he’s doing feels nice, has her hair standing on end, despite the heat.

The arm that Oliver has wrapped around her starting to grope, tracing her hipbones, briefly ghosting his fingertips over the top of her thighs. A more firm and sure touch comes to the top of her underwear, teasing before he starts to rub and massage over the material with more purpose.

Venetia leans back into him, feeling where his co*ck has started to fill with blood pressing right up against her ass. She turns her head slightly, can feel where his face is in her hair now. The pressure and then tension have her fluttering, her body taking no time in turning on with what he’s doing to her.

Oliver’s other hand has made its way under her shirt, slowly moving up her belly, enjoying the feel of her supple skin as it moves towards her chest. With that Oliver widens his stance slightly, pushing her more firmly into the cabinets. She lets out a moan at the demand and firmness in the gesture. Oliver gives his own answering groan, in small movements beginning to undulate against her, working himself up, while her lips trail from her neck along the top of her shoulder.

She feels the exact moment Oliver stiffens against her, and not a good kind of stiffen. Sort of like he’s frozen up like one of those ferret-like animals off a David Attenborough documentary, that play dead when a predator is around.

Then she hears it; the sound of keys rattling, hastily being forced into the lock, the sound of them turning and the door being shoved open then shut. The sound of heavy footfalls coming up along the hall.

Farleigh’s tired looking face comes into view, coming in from God knows where looking absorbed in thought. Then he catches sight of them, standing awkwardly having broken apart just before Farleigh rounded the corner.

Farleigh’s slack expression of neutrality, tinged with fatigue – freezes. His eyes getting a fraction wider, face pinching in interest as he takes in the very suspect looking scene before him in the kitchen. A shirtless Oliver only in his boxers, looking like he’s already been charged guilty of a crime with the way he’s leaning back, eyes on the ground, hand rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. While Venetia stands next to him, hair dishevelled and in Oliver’s baggy t-shirt, smudged mascara panda eyes and flushed cheeks.

Farleigh’s eyes flicker back and forth between them, mouth twisting in displeasure as he quickly puts two and two together. “Oh, for the love of God,” the condemnation clear in his tone as it rings throughout the apartment and likely travels to the rest of the building. “You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me.”

Breaking away, like the scene is a slap in the face, Farleigh takes a step back, hands on his hips as he looks up, shaking his head as if praying for strength or wisdom on how to deal with this situation. It’s so unlike Farleigh to be so obviously taken over by shock, at a loss of what to do.

“So, this is happening again, is it?” Farleigh finally comments. Stinging both in the fact that Farleigh shows he’s been aware for God knows how long about her and Oliver’s hook-ups and his flippant disappointment at the whole thing.

“Farleigh,” Venetia starts tiredly, she really doesn’t want to f*cking hear it from him of all people.

“No, no,” Farleigh stops her. “I just want to check I’ve not somehow stumbled into the plot of Ground Hog Day, or strolled into Dante's Inferno.”

Oliver hasn’t made a move to interject from where he’s leaning back against the kitchen cabinets, arms folded over his bare chest, looking like a naughty school child getting reprimanded by Headmaster Farleigh. It only adds to Venetia feeling more worked up, because where is the impassive ‘I couldn’t give a flying f*ck, about a flying f*ck’ Oliver Quick that she knows.

“It’s really none of your f*cking business.” Venetia fires back, voice laced with venom. She knows she needs to meet Farleigh punch for punch lest he get the upper hand. And hopefully by coming across all pissed off from the get-go, he’ll deem it not worth his time to even go there and just give up.

Farleigh’s eyes narrow into slits, lips twisting in that expression that he’s building up to go on a half an hour rant. f*ck.

Instead of unleashing his wrathful tirade on her, Farleigh rounds on Oliver. “Hell of a time to fall back into bed with Vee, Oliver.” His scolding tone continues to scald Oliver to the level of fourth degree burns. “Neither of you have the sentimental excuse of Christmas this time.”

God, Venetia thinks as her hands come to her face in a helpless gesture of exasperation, f*cking nosy obsessed twat.

Oliver’s tongue seems to have loosened, but it’s hardly to contribute anything helpful. Sometimes Venetia wonders what the hell she sees in him. “Wait you—"

“You’ve not told her, have you?” Farleigh interjects, eyes still locked on Oliver, who seems to shrink underneath her cousin’s gaze.

Well, Venetia can’t wait to hear this, sh*t stirrer Farleigh strikes again, God forbid anyone but him has a bit of fun or gets some. “Oh, here he goes,” Venetia sing songs, rolling her eyes as hard as she can. “TMZ f*cking lost out with you. That or f*cking SIS.”

Farleigh crosses his arms, squaring up to Venetia, tall and aloof. “Didn’t you ever wonder why it was just you and me for brunch the night after the boys sexcipades Venetia?” She really hates it when he puts on the know-at-all act and speaks to her like she’s some kind of idiot. It’s irrational and it makes her want to rake her acrylic nails down his stupid face. “Hm?”

Oh of course, no wonder Farleigh is being like this, how pathetic she thinks as she laughs in his face. “Oh f*ck, did something happen between you two?” Is that why Farleigh’s so obsessed about where Oliver sticks his penis all of a sudden?

That knocks Farleigh down a peg and has his whole body basically contorting like some surreal Dali painting with how defensive he gets. “Nooo, why the f*ck is that everyone’s first conclusion!?” Farleigh exclaims, literally throwing up his hands in bewilderment.

“Because you hypocritical two-faced slag,” Venetia snaps at him, indicating back and forth between Farleigh and Oliver, “you two f*cked back in the day and I know you like for us all to think it was just the one time, but I know all about those drunken fumblings during Oxford when coincidently you both use to vanish on nights out and—”

“Shut it!” Farleigh interrupts, wild eyed, pink colouring his cheekbones. He’s frazzled despite his best attempts to keep control of himself and the conversation, while beating down long buried memories that have started resurfaced. Oliver remains quiet, hand currently at his temples, rubbing like he’s trying to stave off a migraine.

Farleigh manages to get his next words out between gritted teeth, his body language tensed up. “No, Venetia nothing happened between Oliver and I but, think. Use that dumbass brain of yours.”

Well, now he’s just being a dick. “Eww,” She wrinkles her nose at him. “That’s f*cking incest Farl, honestly the rumour mill already churns out sh*t about Felix and me.”

Farleigh bares his teeth at her like a total psychopath, good she’ll f*cking do it right back. “Ha, ha, ha – I’m going to f*cking kill you now – I’ve decided.” Then Farleigh is advancing towards her with purpose.

Venetia’s ready for him, his hair will be poker straight or in frizzy bloody clumps in her hand when she’s done with him. She’d always came out the winner in the majority of their scraps as kids. While Felix had been such a cry-baby, running to nanny when their play would get even the tiniest bit rough. “Try and get away with it bitch.” She fires back at him.

Suddenly Oliver’s between the two of them, their antics seem to have got him out of whatever funk he was in and back into action. His hands press into Farleigh’s chest as he puts himself between them both. Anyone would find it laughable, Oliver who is completely dwarfed by Farleigh in height, squaring up to him like he is. But Oliver’s shoulders are just as broad, built like a sh*t brick house and he’s lightning fast when he wants to be and packs a harder wallop than most.

Farleigh is fighting to get past Oliver, with little success but then his effort seems to be mainly channelled into annihilating Venetia with his eyes. “I’ve no issue killing Oliver as well or making him an accessory to your f*cking murder.”

“Farleigh.” Oliver says tiredly, a request to stop – clearly f*cking done with their sh*t.

“You don’t have the stones.” Venetia says in a put-on tone of sheer boredom, she even checks her nails as she knows that will only get on Farleigh’s nerves now that he’s so worked up.

“Oh, I don’t know Venetia,” Farleigh says dangerously, “if you knew how much I’d been pushed these last few months you wouldn’t doubt what I was capable of.”

“Bring it on baby.” Her quip has Farleigh attempting to swipe at her like an enraged tiger, hissing and snarling. It’s so satisfying reducing him to this messy, scrappy little thing.

“Farleigh enough.” Oliver snaps now impatiently – all controlled strength and immovable force.

“Come on Oliver,” Farleigh protests, breathless as he struggles to get past him, “just at least some light maiming, it can be an early Christmas gift.”

“puss*.” Venetia says with a sneer.

“whor*.” Farleigh hurls back at her.

“Oh, look who’s talking!”

“Well, I may be the OG but honestly Vee you’re acting like an even bigger slu*t than your brother.”

Venetia comes right up till she’s pressing into Oliver’s back, who then has the job of having to push her back as well. “Woah, Farleigh too far. No way am I a bigger slu*t than Felix you take that back.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“Take it back you little—"

“f*cking stop both of you!” Oliver booms.

That makes them both pause, in shock because Oliver rarely shouts. His voice always soft and lilting, impatient snapping sure, the occasional bark or yap like an agitated yorkie. But Venetia doesn’t think she’s ever heard him shout before. It has both of them stepping away, giving Oliver space as his chest flushed pink, heaves slightly.

Venetia eyes Oliver warily, who seems to be at war with himself.

After a moment of prolonged silence Oliver finally speaks, voice detached, any emotion sucked out of the words like a vacuum. Oliver’s always been good at that. “He’s talking about me and Felix, Venetia okay.”

“Yeah, no sh*t.” Venetia snaps out, can’t help it. She’s feeling… tender. Farleigh as loathed as she is to admit it had gotten under her skin with his prattle, and he’d also taken a wrecking ball to Venetia’s bubble of peace and escapism. And Oliver, well he’d been knowingly withholding and now knowing that what had crawled up his ass did have something to do with Felix only serves to piss Venetia off more. Not to mention he didn’t f*cking tell her there was something going on between him and Felix, making the fact that he was up for f*cking her pretty damn well f*cked up! She’s not even sure she wants to hear any more details.

Venetia crosses her arms. “Well, I don’t care.”

Farleigh gives a twisted laugh, high and abrupt. “f*cking slu*t.”

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with everyone? “What happened then?” Venetia asks impatiently, she really doesn’t have time to entertain this crap. She’s not feeling in a very sympathetic mood to anyone right now. “And clearly whatever it was must have been worse than catching each other’s eyes across the room in the middle of respective f*cking? Because Felix would have been able to no hom*o his way out of that one like every other thing since the two of you first met.”

Farleigh wheezes. “God,” he says now looking and sounding annoyed. “I kind of hate that I like that you know about this now.”

Venetia taps her nails against the countertop, eyes on Oliver’s standoffish form. But that’s hardly enough to intimidate her, she’s prepared to torture it out of him if she needs to, with the anger firing through her veins. She eyes his pink little bud like nipples surrounded by busty pecks, imagining him squealing like a distressed piglet if she were to give them a vicious twist. Knowing Oliver, he’ll just pop a boner from it. “Well, Oliver? I’m waiting.”

As if sensing she’s coming for his delicate like nubs Oliver buries his crossed armed hands into his arm pits, the act hiding his nipples and pushing his chest together. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He grumbles quietly, like a petulant child – no, like a petulant Felix.

Venetia turns to Farleigh. “You fill me in later?”

“Wish I could,” Farleigh replies, “he’s been equally cagey with me ever since, more paranoid than the Watergate guy.”

That takes her by complete surprise. “You used to be better at getting this sh*t out of people.”

Farleigh looks only mildly insulted, eyeing Oliver like he’s a bomb ready to go off. She supposes he’s not wrong in that impression. Even Oliver can only take so much till he explodes, she really doesn’t want to be around when he does. “Boy’s welded tight shut, Vee, I’ve exhausted all my methods.”

Well, that leaves them absolutely nowhere and with too many possible scenarios that would be impossible to narrow down. All that Venetia can firmly bank on, is that whatever went down between Oliver and Felix did not end well. She wonders if that’s what’s been contributing to Felix’s bitchy attitude of late, on top of their father running him ragged.

And Oliver well, the longer she looks at him, the more he looks like some broken little bird that flew directly into reflective glass. Sun blind, laying on the ground gasping limply, trying in vain to flutter his broken wings. “Okay, are you alright?” She asks, helpless to soften to him.

Oliver nods jerkily, too quick in his response to her question, his pale eyes clouded over, dulled. He seems so far away, like he wants to be far, far away.

Farleigh gives humourless laugh, “oh he’s just grand, Felix hasn’t spoken one word to him since this whole f*cking disaster. Clearly, Oliver’s doing absolutely fine.” He says with an ugly, frustrated sneer.

Venetia ignores him, her focus still on Oliver. “And Felix, is he alright?”

His eyes break away from her instantly like he’s been blinded. It’s unsettling, how readable he is, not even able to keep up the pretence around any of this. f*ck, this is bad. What have you done Felix?

Venetia then addresses Farleigh. “And you’re worried this is going to add gas to the flame?”

“Obviously.” Farleigh snipes.

Venetia exhales. “Well, I was just looking for an uncomplicated post break up f*ck. And that’s very much where my head is still at so,” she chances a glance at Oliver, frustrated to see that he’s seems to have got a hold of his impassive horses, and has them in order again.

Farleigh gives an irate laugh, thoroughly unimpressed. He sneers at Oliver, wielding all the cruel fury that Farleigh is so well known for, like the world’s deadliest weapon, an instant kill. “You’re a piece of sh*t do you know that?” He tells Oliver matter of fact, as he goes right up to him, even crouching down slightly so he can get right in Oliver’s face. “Really nasty f*cking person Oliver Quick.”

“Woah Farleigh,” even she’s surprised by the level of contempt coming from him. She’s also slightly worried that Oliver might punch his lights out. But instead, Oliver just stands there and takes it. It’s like watching a little frightened bunny cornered by a snarling, salivating advancing bear.

“I’m done making excuses for you, no more of this helpless to your urges sh*t.” Farleigh continues. Oliver who looks up at Farleigh with those round baby doll eyes, looking hapless and lost, masoch*stic in how he just exposes himself to this. Like he’s convinced he should be punished.

“Do you remember what I f*cking told you, huh?” Farleigh prompts harshly, weakly gripping onto what’s left of his control over his temper. “Felix talks a good talk.”

That has Oliver’s gaze snapping down, his jaw working, and Venetia suddenly notices how glassy his eyes are, shimmering and shining like sapphires. Rare jewels are Oliver’s tearful eyes. Despite this endearing sight, that should have anyone’s heart breaking for Oliver, wanting to wrap him up in cotton wool and hold him close, Farleigh only seems to double down.

Leaning right into Oliver’s face to the point that he’s only an inch away from him, hissing tone ruffling Oliver’s hair. “f*cking fix this.” Farleigh snarls, finger jabbing into Oliver’s chest painfully.

Still sneering Farleigh moves back, eyes flickering between the two of them. Then he gives a dismissive, “as you were or whatever” batting a hand at them before turning on his heels and marching out of the kitchen.

Clearly, there’s even more to this whole thing than Venetia’s not aware of. But she’s not about to kick up a fuss about it. No matter how pissed she feels about being cut out of the loop, there’s a time and a place. And that’s not for when Oliver is just reeling from being verbally kicked in the teeth by Farleigh.

“So,” Venetia starts awkwardly, rocking back on her heels.

“Venetia,” Oliver’s already talking over her, his voice unsure, ready to shut her down because he knows what she’s about to say.

She goes to him instantly, wrapping her arms round his narrow waist, and he instantly relaxes into her, reeling her in as she gets close. “Don’t say anything Oliver okay, look I’m not going to beg or anything, but I’m feeling a bit delicate right now and my self-esteem is in the f*cking toilet given that my beige dickhe*d boyfriend cheated on me with a girl that looks like bloody Gisele, so I’m in really need of a boost.” She chews on her lip, being delicate with her next words. “Felix doesn’t get back till Monday, so I mean, we don’t need to overthink this yet.”

Oliver looks conflicted, but he’s weakening by the way he collapses in on himself, into her.

“I know you need this too, Ollie, please.” She’s barely got the words out and Oliver is curling into her, wrapping his arms around her body and squeezing her tight like he thinks she might slip out of his fingers. He screws his eyes shut but he nods, because he knows she’s right. He knows when it comes to them, they can always find comfort in the other. Feels it like her, that there is no one else that they can trust more to be vulnerable with, no one else understands them more than each other. It’s addicting that feeling, that sense of safety and the intimacy that comes with it.

Venetia locks her arms around him, squeezing him right back. She’s not sure how long they remain embraced like that in the kitchen, taking solace and comfort in each other’s arms. Trying with all their might to return to the bubble of bliss and distraction that they had created together, while both ignoring the fact that they are fighting a losing battle on that one.

It doesn’t matter how hard they try; the tainted stain is too hard to hide now. But they’ll delude themselves for a while longer.

~

Oliver’s out of cigarettes, which is shocking. But what’s the shock of the century, is they can’t seem to rustle up one forgotten about ciggie or vape in the whole of the apartment. And despite Farleigh being out galivanting, Oliver’s too much of a puss* to check Farleigh’s room himself. And despite braving that territory, Venetia still comes up empty.

So, there had been nothing for it, other than for Oliver to make the trek to the local Tesco Express, all the while grumbling under his breath that maybe he’d have spare cigarettes if they all didn’t constantly clean him out of baccy every few days because they constantly demanded that he roll for them.

Well, to that Venetia had said, Oliver can’t possibly blame them for that given the fact that his rolling skills were second to none. There was something undeniably erotic about watching Oliver roll the paper and Tabacco between his thin nimble practiced fingers. That adorable, concentrated look he’d always get on his face and not to mention watching his pink tongue peeking out as it swiped across the paper, sealing up the ciggie effectively. Even Felix had made similar comments about it, particularly when Oliver was multitasking while locked into some debate about literacy prose.

Oliver’s complaining had simmered down then, at getting an ego stroke. And it had taken her casually dropping that she would be very much up for f*cking him, post getting a nicotine hit. Her words had been meaningful, eyes telling as she waited for him to catch onto her connotation. It hadn’t taken him long, and once he’d finished gaping at her, eyes glazed over with lust, he’d been out the door faster than Usain Bolt, likely breaking some new record to get to the shop and back. Honestly, he’s just so predictable at times.

So, she can’t help but crack a smile from Oliver’s room when she hears the door being impatiently fiddled with, like someone is having a fight with it. She debates just meeting him in the hallway totally nude, maybe convince him to let her bend him over the kitchen counters or the sofa. It’s really a crime that they constrained themselves to only f*cking in Oliver’s room.

She rethinks meeting him out in the nude, however, doesn’t want to run into the narrow chance that it might be Farleigh, so she pulls on the same t-shirt of Oliver’s that she’d been borrowing. It barely covers her bum, but she’s wearing knickers at least.

She pads her way barefoot down the hall to meet him.

Maybe she can convince Oliver to do it in Felix’s bed? They did it once, back in Felix’s dorm room when they were both way too drunk while she’d been visiting. Felix had gone home with some girl from the club and Oliver had walked her back to Felix’s, then one thing had led to another. Not one of her prouder moments, but the sex had been out of this world, even for Oliver, and Felix had been none the wiser, any evidence of their hook up cleaned up and aired out. As well with Felix’s hungover brain turning up at his door at 8am, seemingly having forgotten how keys and locks work. Then, promptly getting his vomit acquainted with the toilet bowl while Oliver had held his hair back, Felix had been in no position to even clock what on earth Oliver was doing in his dorm so early in the morning. Still wearing last nights clothes.

Now that Venetia thinks about it, having sex in Felix’s bed might be a good idea, cathartic for the both of them given the state of things, and yes maybe also slightly twisted pettiness on Venetia’s part.

She hears the door swing open, an open mouth grin and total glee on her face. “That was record time Ollie, I’m impress—”

She stops. And pauses. Then tenses. Prays to whatever deity that does not exist that she is having some wild hallucination due to the nicotine withdrawal.

Because the person who is in front of her is decidedly not Oliver.

“Oh, f*ck Felix.” The words leaving her mouth like a punch in the gut.

Felix is standing there, like a skittish calf that’s just been dragged away from its mother. Hair every which direction, like it’s spent multiple days with stressed-out fingers being scraped through it. His face has got that drawn look that it gets when he’s not been eating well, and Felix with his height and leanness, it only takes him a couple days of barely touching solids for the weight to just drop off him. It’s a quality she’s always been envious of. He looks pale as well, which is surprising given the naturally warm tone of his skin.

Clearly, he’s as shocked to see her as she is him. He’s back a day early to the surprise of everyone. His shock is starting to give away to confusion, softening coming into his expression as a natural automatic response to seeing her, his brain not quite processing fast enough what he’s seeing in front of it.

Then, something halts. Like his brain is catching itself, saying, wait a minute, hold on, something isn’t quite right here. And she’s helpless to stop it, frozen, at a loss of what to do at stopping the inevitable.

His eyes quickly take her in, moving up and down, comically fast. Then they do so again. Her current state, in that tee, which no question Felix knows who it belongs to. Her exposed pale thighs – Jesus the purpling hickeys on her neck, hair sex-mused and lips swollen red by kisses. The fact that it’s clear who she’d been expecting, not him. But that’s nothing compared to the bare faced guilt-ridden expression she currently has on, complete and utter shame at being caught. She knows that’s what has him going wary all of a sudden, frown pinching between his brows. The rest is just window dressing really, added extras.

She sees it, the exact moment it clicks for him, hair trigger f*cking mouse trap he goes and snaps shut, locked on and locked down. He won’t let it go now, predator instinct, taking over, jaw fastened shut, dead eyed in the way he looks at her, like she may as well be a stranger. In that moment she’s struck by how much he looks like their mother.

Now, he looks, absolutely f*cking livid. Taking one more skim down her whole body, then back up to meet her eyes, she can see the seething fury, withering repulsion and complete hatred, she can’t remember at time he reacted this obviously to something like this, it’s insane.

“You utter c*nt.” He grounds out, each individual word like the lashing of a whip.

He roughly barges past, where she’s left still frozen. The only thing that has her moving again is the involuntary flinch when he slams his bedroom door shut.

This is bad, this is baaad. God, she f*cked up. How could she be so careless? The sharp bite of her nails digging into her forearm are all she can feel at the moment. The rest of her body feels numb, like she’s been dosed up to her eyeballs with something. Just swimming in the crushing weight of water pressing down against her, the surface always just out of reach.

She has two options: ignore the whole thing, leave Felix to his toddler meltdown and inevitable months long ice queen attitude. Or she can be the bigger person and do something she rarely does, actually try and talk to him about this.

As uncomfortable as it makes her feel, she’s been a pretty crappy sister and she’s the last person left that can maybe sort out this whole mess.

Felix has barred himself in his bathroom and Venetia huffs in response at his level of childishness. Acting like a grown up about anything that is even mildly inconvenient to him is impossible. Instead, it has Felix regressing to infancy.

“Felix, open the door.” Venetia asks, trying her best to keep the impatience out of her voice. He doesn’t respond.

Her patience has always been paper thin when it came to him, her level of irrationality goes to the moon and back so much so for an impulsive moment she’s tempted to try and rip the door off its hinges, despite rationally knowing such a thing would be impossible. Instead, she barks out: “Felix, open the f*cking door or I’ll start shredding your Tommy Hilfiger polos I swear to f*cking god.”

She can feel him pondering through the thick block of wood separating them, then a grunt, the sound of someone moving on the other side.

Once the door is unlocked, Felix kicks it open haphazardly with one of his long legs, remaining slumped on the close lid toilet, giving Venetia a withering look.

Venetia opens her mouth, ready to plough forward with this whole thing, the sooner it’s over with the better. She’s not letting Felix leave this room till they’ve hashed this whole thing out and he quits being so ridiculous.

Felix is currently without his suit jacket, one of his shirt sleeves rolled up, showing off his bare forearm. Venetia’s eyes lock onto a bloody gash on the inside of his arm, violent, red still secreting from the wound, running down his arm. There’s rusty brown dried blood that looks still tackey and staining against his warm skin tone. He’s leaning over the sink, trying and failing to clean up the bloody mess with brittle loo roll.

Venetia regards him dubiously. “What did you do?” She demands. Not this again. “You’re not that upset, are you?”

Felix glances up from his failed attempts at nursing himself, giving her a cutting look. “I was shooting. It was from one of the bullet casings.”

Oh, well that’s a relief. Venetia finds herself springing to action and gets right into his space. “Here let me help.” She’s not taking no for an answer, easily taking the toilet paper out of his hands, discarding it and hunting around for a towel that is clean.

“I don’t want your f*cking help.” Felix snaps out at her.

“Don’t be like that,” she argues, finally managing to find a towel that has not been left on the bathroom floor, so the least likely option to have festering bacteria or soaked in Felix’s three-day old spunk. “I leave you to do it you’ll get f*cking sepsis.” And need his whole arm amputated.

She wets the towel under the tap, moving to start stanching the bleeding first, once it’s clean she can check to see what the damage is. She goes to grab Felix’s wrist to bring him closer.

Felix snatches his arm back. “Don’t f*cking touch me!”

“Quit being such a brat and let me help you.” She bites back at him, meeting his stubborn icy façade with her own equally persistent fiery one. She knows she can out last him.

Felix considers her, eyes still narrowed and his nostrils flare in anger, but he begrudgingly relents. She crouches down, feeling a little like she’s playing nanny.

“Oww! Can you not be gentler?” He whines while she cleans the wound, his shirt a lost cause with all the blood stains.

She wishes she knew how to be gentle with him, but no one ever taught her. They both always craved that tenderness, but it was never anything they received. How are cold blooded creatures like them supposed to know how to be warm, especially towards each other. It’s an impossibility in their biology, a lacking in their nature that only now as adults they find themselves yearning for.

And Venetia only knows this: “quit being such a baby.” In an irritated tone, her touch still having him shudder and wince while she tries to wipe away the most stubborn parts of blood dried into his skin.

“Jeez I’m so glad I agreed to let my horrid sister help me.” He snarks at her, but at least he’s still talking to her rather than giving her the silent treatment. Still, he’s currently staring her down despite her not looking his way. She knows his eyes are scrunched up to the point his eyelashes are obscuring his vision, jaw locked, mouth contemptuous.

“If you keep looking at me like that your face will stick that way.” She says mildly.

That of course, only makes him more irate. “Well good, because I shan’t ever stop being mad at you!”

Well, this is going swimmingly, classic them whenever it comes to anything serious they quickly dissolve into arguments. Not to mention this is unchartered waters, for both of them. Normally in situations like this when Felix has gotten mad at her for ‘over stepping’ with one of his boys he would just ignore her, freeze her out for a bit to show his displeasure but eventually he’d come round, and they’d proceed to never mention it again. So, Venetia’s a bit lost at what to do in this situation.

Venetia does the only thing that she can, she just starts talking. “It doesn’t mean anything Felix, it’s just— it gets like this sometimes, and Oliver helps, he’s my friend too.” Her thoughts run into each other, overlapping with the words coming out her mouth, leaving her feeling unsteady as she looks at him.

Felix just bares his teeth at her, pearly white, small toothy gap, they chomp at her like a vicious tiger shark testing the bars of a diver’s cage. “Well, he’s my best friend Venetia, mine.”

Venetia falters, hurt by Felix’s dismissal of her feelings, then a wave of guilt hitting her to the point she feels woozy or maybe that’s all the blood. They’re both silent for a moment, Venetia wallowing in guilt while she can feel Felix still seething opposite her. The bleeding of Felix’s injury has stopped, his skin once again pristine. It’s a superficial graze but she debates getting the first aid kit that Oliver keeps under his bathroom sink to patch Felix up properly.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you.” The words leave Venetia’s mouth before she realises it.

“Humph, yeah right.”

Venetia keeps rubbing the towel over his skin despite no longer needing to, not wanting to be left without an excuse to avoid looking at him. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

Felix wrenches his arm back. “I’m so pissed off with you.”

Then he’s leaning forward, practically spitting into her face, those lovely brown eyes of his seem black as coal in that moment, in the low light of the bathroom. “And you can tell Oliver to go f*ck himself when he gets back.”

Venetia just nods her head, it’s good she supposes, that he’s letting this anger out not just sitting with it like he always does, letting it fester. She nods to his arm. “How did this happen?”

Felix looks down, then gives a stiff shrug. “I don’t know,” he says with a frown but, there is less anger in his voice at least. “I was trying hard to make sure I didn’t hit any of the birds. And the recoil must have caught me the wrong way.”

Venetia can’t help but give a small smile. Classic of her brother, unable to hurt a fly really, how he would always snap and shove at Venetia whenever she’d stomp on any spiders that found their way into their home. He’d always be armed with a newspaper and a glass and infinite patience to coax them back outside to safety.

“Looks like it hurt.” She notes.

Felix flexes his hand, wincing slightly a tad dramatically. “Like a motherf*cker.” He confirms.

Then he’s looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face. “You were always better at shooting than me.”

Venetia settles back onto her heels, looking up at him with an impish smile. “Yeah, well, I didn’t mind actually hitting something, probably helps.”

But Felix doesn’t meet her easy amusem*nt, instead remains deadly serious. “Don’t do that. You would still be better.”

Venetia looks down at her hands, self-conscious. “Yeah.”

That’s the thing that people don’t realise about Felix, he does have the capacity to be so kind. Sure, it can so often be tainted with selfishness or ignorance but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s the kindest person she knows. She thinks that is why he also has the ability to be the cruellest, when his caring is taken for granted, he can’t help but shut down his heart. He’s protecting himself, but then it’s because of his kindness in the first place that he’s taken advantage of. She rues the day that he shuts away his heart altogether, and she knows she’ll forever hate herself if she contributed to it.

But as she looks at him leaning back, looking so lost in himself, so unlike the confident, carefree, blinding light of a supernova man that she knows. It’s like he’s been sucked dry, his life force drained out of him. Could it be that that heart of his has already started to harden like steel.

“You’d be much better at all this other sh*t as well, Vee—" Felix says suddenly, overcome with frustration, fingers tangling in his hair for something to grasp as he airs the emotions currently rioting in him “They should’ve chosen you. Maybe would’ve been better that I hadn’t ever been born at all. You should have been Baronetess of Saltburn, doing bloody shooting, breeding horses, Lady in The House, the bloody entrepreneur.”His voice has gradually been rising in pitch as he continues his rant. “You and Oliver could’ve gotten married and filled the house with your brat children for the nannies to look after, while you both go off and have a bunch of loud and obnoxious sex.”

Venetia huffs in total bewildered amusem*nt at first at how ridiculous he’s being, then that quickly gives way to insult. She can’t believe what he’s saying. He gets everything, f*cking everything. What’s left for her? Why shouldn’t she be allowed Oliver, or at least a temporary part of his attention, because Felix sure as hell has everything else. And yeah, he’s right maybe she would be better— hell, she knows she would be. This is their curse, the hapless sheltered heir and the ignored capable spare. That’s often the way of things, for families like theirs – a cycle forever doomed to repeat itself.

But for better and for worse these are the roles they’ve been assigned.

She leans forward till she’s knocking against his knees, grasping the hand of his injured arm in hers, boa constrictor grip. “You done?” She huffs into his face so much more angular than hers; no one is better at picking out what makes their appearance different than the two of them. All anyone else can be struck by, is what makes them look so alike. Instead looking at their personalities or achievements as ways of differentiating them. Truth is they are so very different, but that never takes away from the fact that he’s the other half of her, and her the other half of him. She’d rather have one of her limbs chopped off than go without him. She was in this world for all of seven minutes before he followed her into it. She doesn’t plan on allowing it to be any longer than that as long as they both exist.

She curls a hand in his limp hair, not caring if it hurts as she tugs him close. “Because the way I see it is I wouldn’t exist in any universe if you didn’t too, we’re a joint deal you and me, two for the price of one. Non f*cking refundable.”

That has him cracking a smile, whether it’s a genuine one or him cringing at her cheesiness, she doesn’t care. She got him to smile, that’s at least something no matter if it’s a watery one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Better?”

When she let’s go of him, he does his best to regain his footing, blasé attitude, attempting to button up any emotional response just like he’s been taught. “Sure, it’s whatever.”

He sniffs then, dragging the back of his hand across his nose, his eyes on the sink where the blood soaking into the towel is starting to leak out, water washing it away down the drain. “Daddy’s lost weight again.” He says suddenly, voice so very quiet like speaking out the words might inadvertently set off some awful chain reaction.

Oh. “Yeah?” Venetia responds lightly. “He still looking like Tom Hanks on the island in Castaway?” She pauses watching, as he continues to stare into the sink, looking so worn-out, like he’s being eaten away by something. “Or is he more like Natalie Portman in Black Swan?”

Felix gradually nods his head at her comment, his reaction delayed, then voice coming out cracked. “And like Gary Oldman in Dracula, you know, before he turned hot.”

Now Venetia has another thing weighing on her, she has no choice but to reset herself and accept it. “Have they spoken to you?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

“Vee,” Felix utters, a pleading look in his eyes, like they downturn even more just to exaggerate how desperate he is, how torn apart. “I need you to stop okay; I just, I really can’t take it this time—”

“Felix,” she interjects, unable to look at him now, so vulnerable, not caring how pathetic the pleading sounds.

“I’m just, please, Vee, pleeease” the words suddenly so fraught, he’s never pleaded to her this much for something in, she can’t recall a time really. “I can’t explain it – but it’s really f*cking important that you stop.”

Venetia swallows down the emotion caught in her throat, battling in the tightness that is compressing her chest, squeezing the life out of her. It reminds her of the exact sensation that would trigger her to go to the bathroom and shove her fingers, or her tooth brush down her throat just so she could bring those awful things out of her body. Expel it all, allow for something new to take over, something safe, and the relief that would come when the endorphins flooded her body – manufactured bliss, fooling her into thinking everything would be alright. “Okay, I mean, I was going to anyway, we didn’t plan for you to ever find out.”

She hears the thunk of Felix’s head making contact with the wall, this conversation is taking it out of him just as much as her. They weren’t built to handle all this. “Well, that makes me feel so much better.” The sneers evident from his tone.

“Hey,” Venetia soothes, leaning right in, she’d not let go of his hand this whole time, the cluster of stars inked onto her hand, inverse to his where they clasp. Always mirroring each other, always as opposites. “I promise no more, okay,” pressing her mouth, her nose, into the warm place where their hands press together, barely a pocket of air between them. “No more.” She swears.

Felix nods, believing her, trusting her. He still looks so shaky, so uncertain and at his most likely to fall apart as he looks at her, thin like threads holding that shattered pieces of himself together as he looks into her eyes. “Don’t tell Ollie Vee, okay? Don’t tell him that I know, it will just make it all so much more complicated and I’m just, I’m tired of being mad, please pinkie swear.”

Oh Felix, she thinks, as she intertwines her little finger with his. Pressing a kiss to his skin, decorated with the scattered ink of their family crest. Felix, Felix, Felix.

Felix is shattered after it, quite literally for a moment she’s convinced he might pass out on the toilet from exhaustion. Once she’s sure he won’t brain himself on the porcelain, she leaves him be and heads back into Oliver’s room.

Venetia isn’t sure how long she sits there in silence, arms wrapped around her shins, face tucked in close to her knees. But that’s how Oliver finds her when he barges back into the room, face slightly flushed and out of breath, like he’d jogged to the shop and back. She’s glad he didn’t arrive back sooner, now that would have been a complete disaster that she’s unsure they would have all come back from.

“Hey umm,” he starts digging in his pockets, blue eyes clear and fresh. How she loathes wanting to burden him more than he already is.

“Felix is back early.” She tells him, purposefully keeping her tone neutral, face slack with indifference.

Oliver’s whole-body recoils, like she just slammed a baseball bat with all her might into his stomach. He closes his eyes on impact, like his worst nightmare has just come to pass. Eyes screwed tight shut just from the horror of it, or maybe in a childish impulse to make the situation go away.

Then, he manages to open them again. Dread quickly ripples through Oliver, taking root inside him and sprouting vicious, robust vines through every inch of him. “sh*t,” he curses, expression helpless, already working himself up to frantic. “Does he— did he see—?”

“No.”

In his level of shock and emotional upheaval, Oliver doesn’t question her, doesn’t look further than he normally would. It hardly matters if he believes her or just because he wants too so bad – it’s enough for them: for her, for Oliver, for Felix to get through this.

Oliver releases a shuddering exhale, fingers raking through his hair then rubbing at his skull, he starts to pace a bit, chest heaving – looking like a restless caged animal. Venetia doesn’t do anything to console him, just tracks his movements. Let’s him work out the rest of the energy that’s just rocketed into his body.

Eventually, he slows till he’s left standing. Contemplating as he stares off into space, hands on his hips. It’s kind of funny actually, makes him look a bit like a closeted soccer mom.

Venetia releases her legs, standing up. “Is it okay if I stay over?” Not ready, she’s not ready to leave and go back to that God awful flat in Chelsea with only herself and her thoughts for company. Sure, the bubble her and Oliver had created has firmly been burst, but at least she can buy herself some time, before she absolutely must return to real life.

Oliver’s gaze snaps to her, another goddamn hand back in his hair now. “Vee we can’t,” he says with a shake of the head, keeping his voice low like he’s worried they might be overheard.

She shakes her head. “No, nothing like that.”

Oliver swallows, shifting awkwardly not knowing quite what to do now. “I’ll take the couch.” He offers.

“No, it’s fine.” Venetia disregards, the last thing she needs is for Oliver to be all chivalrous about this.

“Venetia—”

“Seriously Oliver, can you quit trying to be such a gentleman, before I actually become properly pissed at you.” She snaps, f*ck she wants something to be angry at. But all she’s got is her pitiful practically zombified empty shell of a brother and his equally, hopeless and mopey cartoon Disney animal whatever the f*ck.

“I’m sorry.” God, f*ck Oliver for sounding so earnest after the almost seventy-two hours they spent with each other this is what gets him to that point. Jesus, he’s one f*cked up guy.

“Oh, stop with the f*cking timid act Bambi.” She snaps at him; it’s doing little to dull the glistening sorrow and remorse in those deceptively docile round eyes. “Needed a break from your chainsaw snoring any way.”

That distracts Oliver completely, and his expression is pure outrage. “I don’t f*ckin’ snore!”

She can’t help but snort at him, because yes, he f*cking does, good thing Felix sleeps like the f*cking dead. They’re a match made in heaven.

Oliver is looking less like a woodland creature that she would personally want to drop into an episode of Happy Tree Friends. Still, he’s looking at her between his lashes, expression nervous. “We good?” He checks.

Venetia huffs at that, God he can be such a girl sometimes. She goes over and punches him in the arm in response. “Idiot.”

~

Venetia avoids being around any of the boys for the rest of the week, hoping when she dips back in the dust will have settled. But even she knows that’s an ambitious expectation.

She rocks up that morning, helping herself to the last pain au chocolat and demanding Farleigh make her a flat white with his fancy Starbucks barista level skills – “Starbucks?” Farleigh had nagged totally insulted, like the coffee snob he is. He had set the coffee down in front of her when it was done, looking thoroughly unimpressed, “you take a picture of that for your Instagram grid and you’ll be nursing third degree burns from the scolding hot coffee you’ll find being thrown in your face.”

See, that’s what she’s talking about: normal. Even the awkwardness has dissipated with Farleigh and Oliver’s dynamic back to its normal levels of animosity, begrudging respect and bizarre sexual tension.

Felix has yet to show face, so the jury is still out on if the Jeremy Kyle levels of hostility has simmered down completely, or if someone in this vicinity will in fact end up with some sort of grievous bodily injury during the argument that will ensue. Not to mention Venetia has already been forced into the role of nurse by circ*mstance, she has a get out of jail free card if any sh*t with blood ends up going down.

“Morning,” Felix sweeps into the kitchen, the greeting not directed at anyone in particular. Certainly not at Oliver, who is suddenly far too interested in the rehydration tablet currently dissolving in his water, fizzing and bubbling, turning the translucent liquid radioactive orange, must make his piss look so weird.

Farleigh catches Venetia’s eyes, and they give each other a knowing look over the top of their coffee cups.

Farleigh directs a wolf whistle at Felix in a sleek bespoke black suit, perfectly tailored to his long, slender body – crisp white shirt and glossy light grey tie. Even Felix’s hair decided to look attractively wind swept but tidy enough to go with the whole look. No way he styled it himself, he’s pretty clueless at such things but has been blessed with their father’s genes of naturally flatteringly styled hair. Still, it wouldn’t be Felix if he didn’t put his own flair on the whole thing, purposefully keeping his jacket unbuttoned despite being standing, he knows better, but has never outgrown this schoolboy attitude of rebelling no matter how small and insignificant the act.

“Get a look at you, looking very suave.” Farleigh comments appreciatively, before taking a sip of his poncy matcha latte. Farleigh can be such a basic bitch sometimes no matter how hard he tries not to be. Catching the smirk on her face and as if reading her mind, Farleigh flips her off, hand still resting on his aloft cup.

Felix’s expression turns co*cky. “Thanks, it’s Brioni.” Like he doesn’t own thirty others that he’s likely totally forgotten about.

“Shame you can’t shoot for sh*t, or you’d be a shoe in for the next double-oh-seven.” It wouldn’t be Farleigh if he didn’t also pair a pat on the back with a fierce uppercut.

Venetia comes in equally cutting. “Double-oh-sixty-nine more like.”

Farleigh cackles at that. “Zing!”

Felix shoots them both a sour look, digging into his pocket for his phone. “Can you both quit busting my balls?”

“Never.” Farleigh quips, just as Venetia shakes her head, saying: “impossible.”

Felix gives them both one last look, before he starts tapping away on his phone. Venetia can’t help but roll her eyes. Ah yes, he’s a very busy businessman now, far too important for the likes of them. Figures that just because he watches Richard Quest on CNN now, and actually knows what a stock index is, that makes him some sort of corporate expert. God, if he starts slicking his hair back with gel and wearing a gilet, she’s going to petition to have him disowned.

“Seriously” Farleigh drawls, hands now braced on the counter, hips and eyebrow co*cked. He’s got the look on his face that can only mean mischief is afoot. “You’re not planning to suck old corporate white man dick with that suit, are you?”

“Hopefully just lunch will do.” Felix replies not looking up from his phone.

“Lunch,” Farleigh sighs, looking far off as he recalls his days of pretty much sucking off every willing prick that moved. His standards have improved a smidge maybe, but old habits die hard, Venetia always says. “That’s how it all starts – an innocent lunch.”

Felix gives him a listless look, all part of his act. “Well, if I need any tips to suck corporate dick I’ve got you on speed dial.”

Farleigh’s face breaks into a toothy grin, mischievous glee bringing a sparkle into his deep dark eyes. “There he is!”

Then, Farleigh turns to Oliver, who had remained quiet during the whole exchange so far. “Hey Ollie know anything about sucking corporate dick?”

Oliver keeps up the same light and playfully disinterested attitude, “no more than you.” He notes, volleying that one right back over to Farleigh’s side of the net, with an air of ease and laziness.

Venetia hoots at that one, even Felix cracks a smile, his attention won over from his phone. “Oliver’s more of a stick it to the man type.” Venetia explains.

“Such an anarchist!” Farleigh notes sarcastically but the double entendre is hardly lost on him.

“To the core.” Oliver says, sneaking a glance at Felix, pale blue lightening quick. But Venetia catches it.

She peeks at Felix too, can see how the slight tension he held in his shoulders when he walked in has eased off. He’s shaking his head, his amused, smouldering eyes on Oliver as he comments: “so alternative.”

Electric static seems to crackle between the two of them now that their focus is on the other.

Oliver doesn’t react, keeping a cool attitude. “You know, god save the queen and her fascist regime, and all that.”

“God,” Venetia laughs, “you need to say that one in front of mum next time you’re round Ollie, I’d love to see her face.”

“Set the dogs on me she would.”

“If the other shoe actually ever f*cking dropped.” They all chuckle at that. Venetia feels herself soar with it, things feeling how they always have, four friends just chatting sh*t and having a laugh. Nothing complicated, nothing end of the world, nothing serious – just how it always should be. “And please, she would forgive anything of you, you’ve no idea.”

It's only been a week or so of her being aware of whatever the hell has been going on, but with the way her belly is warm with laughter, her head present and clear, the sight of laidback, good, humoured expressions she’s mortified to admit she’s missed it.

“Where is your meeting anyway?” Farleigh enquires to Felix.

“Near Regency Park,” Felix answers, then suddenly something occurs to him. “Hey that’s not far from your office, right Ollie?”

Oliver pauses at Felix addressing him so directly, blinks kind of stupidly for a couple seconds like he’s caught in a blinding spotlight. “No, s’not far at all.”

“Hm,” Felix considers, as his attention returns to his phone, tapping away on it for a moment. Venetia wondering if he’s doing it on purpose. “I’ll be there earlier, maybe we could grab a coffee?” Felix proposes, looking over at Oliver innocently

Oliver’s eyes widen a fraction in surprise. “Uh, yeah no,” he flounders, next to him Farleigh making no effort to hide his snort of amusem*nt. “Yeah, I’d be up for that.” Oliver agrees, adorable in his level of eagerness.

“Great, I’ll text.” Felix says casual as anything. Before leaning over to give Venetia a quick peck on the cheek in farewell. She can’t help but feel a bit letdown, he comes and goes so quickly these days and the only proper interaction they get are the emotional upheaval kind, but what can she do.

“Wish me luck.” Felix calls, already out of sight and heading for the door.

“Remember to relax the back of your throat Felix!” Farleigh shouts after him, which has her and Oliver both cracking up.

In that moment, as she watches Oliver grinning stupidly to himself, why wouldn’t she think everything was going to be fine.

~

Everything is not fine.

At least it certainly doesn’t look that way when Venetia comes back from a hot yoga class, still flushed despite the post work-out shower and feeling pretty rung out, but buzzing off the endorphins. She comes back to a distraught looking Oliver all curled up, like some simpering scrawny sighthound with a surprisingly consoling looking Farleigh next to him. “Hey— oh!” She lets out a noise of surprise. This was not exactly what she had been expecting.

Farleigh looks up at her exclamation, while Oliver doesn’t even acknowledge her continuing to look like he’s locked in some inner battle of turmoil.

Figures these two can’t be trusted to figure their sh*t out. Or to at least have a civil conversation over a cup of coffee. “Oh no, did it go that badly?”

“Vee,” Farleigh starts in an attempt to speak over her. He’s got a hand on one of Oliver’s knees, body facing him while he remains propped up with an elbow on the top of the sofa. It’s odd seeing them so soft in their intimacy with each other. She feels almost awkward because of it, like she’s walked in on something she shouldn’t have.

“What?” She defends. “I don’t understand how you could both f*ck up a ‘platonic coffee date’.”

Farleigh’s eyes dart towards Oliver, then back to her. “Felix bailed.” He explains.

“Oh,” she responds, surprised. “Still, I mean — Oliver it’s hardly the end of the world.” Attempting to be positive, Felix just needs a bit more time. He’s never been good at letting things go once he’s got his teeth sunk into a grudge. Honestly Oliver of all people should know, Felix just needs time to get his head round things, takes months where others take minutes to process things. Really, she thinks as she eyes Oliver, overreacting much.

Her words do little to lift Oliver’s despondent mood and Farleigh gives his knee a gentle squeeze before he says: “Venetia, Oliver’s parents turned up at his work today, totally out of the blue.”

Now Venetia gets why Oliver looks like the victim of a world-shattering explosion, leaving him sitting in a decimated post-apocalyptic wasteland. “Oh hell, you okay?”

Oliver’s grip loosens slightly on where it had been clasping his wrist in an iron grip, like a lifeline to try and keep himself from splitting apart – that’s how bad it is. When he speaks his voice comes out monotone, stripping all the emotion from it is the only way he can get the words out. “It was just my mum, her and dad are staying at a premier inn apparently, at King’s Cross.”

Venetia approaches, carefully sits down at Oliver’s other side, unsure if she should reach out and comfort him. “They smoked you out, huh?”

“Pretty much.” Oliver croaks, eyes flat, unblinking as he stares at a spot on the floor.

Not knowing what to say but equally not wanting to remain silent, Venetia says the first thing that pops into her head. “Parents are the worst.”

Farleigh echoes in agreement to this: “yeah, they are.” Reminding Oliver that he’s not alone, he’s with two people who get it.

Still, it does little to take Oliver out of whatever headspace he’s in. Venetia knows his family sh*t has always been difficult, has respected him enough to not ask about it that often or engage with him about his motivations for keeping them at such a distance. Can infer the reason from the details he’s shared with her. But such intimate and private conversations have always been exclusively shared between Oliver and Felix.

Farleigh purses his lips, considering something for a moment. “Well, you know it’s Friday,” he starts casually, “means we can get high. Maybe watch a movie.”

“Yeah,” Venetia agrees eagerly, “maybe we could watch that one you like about that robot man that f*cks his sister then makes friends with a bunch of teddy bears.”

Oliver’s fixed eyes narrow, expression clouding over with confusion at her words. Slowly he turns to her, expression now of someone who is concerned for Venetia’s mental state. “Are you, talking about Star Wars?”

She makes a vague noise of confirmation, while Farleigh gets up to hunt down the weed. “Actually, maybe we should watch something with less family drama.” She muses while Farleigh, is rummaging about one of the top shelves in the kitchen, while Oliver grumbles about her lack of nerdy sci-fi pop culture. Well at least he’s returning somewhat to his normal self.

“Won’t matter much with how f*cked up we are about to get.” Farleigh shrugs, approaching them with an impressively fat looking blunt between his fingertips.

Even Oliver can’t keep the look of awe off his face. “That’s the terminal stuff.” He comments, stunned at the sight of the high-grade black magic kush under his nose.

“Yep.” Farleigh confirms, sharply popping the p.

Oliver’s gaping slightly as he looks up at Farleigh, not believing his eyes. “But it’s for only absolute emergencies, like for when Aliens finally invade and decide to put us all into human meat farms, so we’d need to activate our suicide pact.”

“Jesus,” Farleigh huffs, his lips curling as he dumps himself down next to Oliver, lighter in hand. “You know it’s actually a good thing Felix is avoiding you, you’re starting to become as dumb as him, like idiocy by proximal osmosis.”

Farleigh has the blunt between his lips, flicking at his lighter to light up, completely oblivious to the level of sting in his remark.

“Farleigh,” Venetia scolds, “that was a bit too mean for the vibe we are going for.”

Rolling his eyes, Farleigh passes Oliver the lit spliff first as an apology.

They get halfway through the movie and Venetia is left disappointed that there isn’t any cute teddy bears yet as promised, but she does enjoy the gay golden sex doll interacting with the bleeping miniature trashcan. Venetia finds herself giggling any time they are on screen, when she’s not too distracted by how her eyeballs feel gooey in her head. Ears plugged with cotton wool making every sound feel like it’s been fed to her as if she were submerged in water, far off and dampened.

Distantly she hears Oliver’s voice, like he’s speaking at the end of a long, echoey tunnel. “Farleigh you don’t think Felix—”

Farleigh’s deeper voice sounds, the decibels taking up more space in her brain than should be possible. “Don’t go there Ollie, okay.”

Neither of them speak after that. But out of the corner of her eye Venetia sees Oliver shift his feet so they rest on Farleigh’s lap. Sees the microscopic movement of Farleigh’s elbow, wrapping his fingers round one of Oliver’s delicate ankles. How they stay like that till the movie is over and their minds totally hazed over by the high.

~

“I ordered for you.” Is how Farleigh greets her when she arrives at brunch. Farleigh is a total food snob these days, ticking off every Michelin star establishment in London like a bloody bingo card. Venetia cares little, however, lets him take charge of the ever inconvenient decision of figuring out where to eat in this extensive smorgasbord of choice.

Venetia sits herself opposite him, cutting right through the bullsh*t with a guillotine strike. “So, is this about Felix and Oliver?”

Farleigh sitting there in his eclectic print shirt, poised and thoughtful. “Hardly, those two sad little wretches have been occupying more than enough of my brain space, thank you very much.”

It’s what Venetia had been preparing for, both of their cards finally on the table about this whole messed up situation. Yet it seems Farleigh is still withholding from her.

“So,” Venetia starts eyes narrowed, feeling like she’s having to keep watch for a grenade about to be launched her way.

Farleigh knows exactly what he’s doing by extending the silence longer than needed. “I’m here about you.” He tells her eventually.

If Venetia’s mood was sour before, it positively curdles at hearing that. “Is this an intervention?”

“Do our interventions normally include mimosas?” Tall glasses of tropical sunshiny liquid, garnished with some scarce fruit likely exported from Hawaii.

That amongst any other assortment of alcohol beverages that they have to hand. Last time she’s sure it was tins of gin and tonic and some spare bottles of Kopparberg. “Yes.”

Farleigh at least looks thrown at that. “Damn – okay, well.”

“Good lord,” Venetia notes, sitting back, drinking in Farleigh’s attempt at getting whatever this is back on track. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

Farleigh’s next words have Venetia bristling, sharp barbed like spikes on her suit of armour erect, ready to slice open anything that brushes against her even feather light. “Oliver told me about Duck Face offering you a job.”

f*cking Oliver, always Oliver sticking his big nose in where he is not welcome. Sneaky little moth managing to slip his way through the narrowest of cracks, nibbling on things he shouldn’t. “I’m going to kill him.” Venetia decides.

“Don’t blame Oliver—”

She doesn’t want to listen to Farleigh’s excuses, his attempts to defend Oliver. Pretty sure she’s got whiplash from how hot and cold these two are on each other. “Thinks just because he’s been kicked in his nut sack by Felix a few times that gives him the right to stick his nose into my sh*t.”

“He’s just looking out for you.” Farleigh maintains.

“Riiight,” Venetia retorts sarcastically, “well I didn’t f*cking ask him and let’s not pretend that every ‘favour’ Oliver does, he doesn’t do without one clear agenda in mind.”

Seeing this is a losing battle Farleigh quickly redirects things. “Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was, you’d be absolutely mad to not—”

Maybe it’s a combination of what’s been a f*cked week suddenly getting to her, in addition to the wound that has been festering that Farleigh is currently so effectively picking at. But Venetia is very quite suddenly done, done with this f*cking bullsh*t.

“Did you take Felix out for a boozy brunch and drone on about duty and what he should do till he stabbed you with a steak knife?”

The smile that gives way on Farleigh’s face is not kind, it’s not friendly or good humoured. It’s a twisted thing, full of challenge and perceptiveness. It’s the kind of smile that Farleigh has on when he knows he’s already won.

“Yeah, f*cking Felix.” Farleigh says snidely, letting out a frustrated breath. Felix, he holds so much space in their lives, larger than life itself and he doesn’t even realise it. How they can love and loath him, yet the idea of life without Felix is like the possibility of living on this earth without the sun. Unimaginable and impossible. “Let’s talk about Felix then.”

“Here’s the thing Venetia, Felix will be fine, he’ll be absolutely f*cking swell, you know why?” Farleigh asks, all rhetorical, any tact he’d initially planned to employ over the course of this brunch farse abandoned. “Because Felix has Oliver, okay not all the f*cking ‘noblesse oblige’ bullsh*t but Oliver, he has that. Because you and I both know, the only way Felix will navigate this world in way that is remotely safe with his sanity intact is if he has someone watching out for him. Felix has always needed someone.”

Begrudgingly Venetia let’s Farleigh have that point. She’s not going to waste her time arguing with something that is so blatantly true, just because she’s thinking of her own pride.

“You need something— not someone, something, okay.” Farleigh states. “No matter how hard you try, you can’t be anything but yourself Vee, and you’ve done the aimless ‘gap yah’ thing, the Made in Chelsea vapid brunch girl extra, you’ve even tried at being someone you think your mother might actually stomach.”

Farleigh leans across the table toward her, making the effort to get closer with the hope that this will result in his words having more of an impact. He need not go to the effort; Venetia can feel the force of them as if he’s beating a drum against her chest. “You’re not getting anywhere and this act of f*cking burying your head in the sand and feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping. You aren’t made to be some, one note ditzy trust fund brat, and as someone who knows you the idea is f*cking insulting, you’re whip-smart, more f*cking sense than all those dumb as doorknob ‘friends’ of yours, really a spitfire when you actually get out of your own way.”

He sits back then, circulating his mimosa with a jaded expression. It makes him look like more of a pretentious asshole than usual. “And yes, you’ve used up all your compliments, don’t expect to hear me saying anything nice or remotely praising of you again till next July.”

The laughter bursts out of Venetia, sounding like some kind of maniacal giggle that likely draws some attention to her. “You’re a real dickhe*d.” She tells him when she gets herself under control.

Farleigh looks downright disappointed. “No, see this is the part where you compliment me on my sage wisdom.”

It’s Venetia’s turn to lean across the table, Farleigh’s words have sparked a fire in her belly. She can feel the flames licking at her insides, fuelling the burning heat in her heart. “I don’t need you to give me a f*cking pep talk, honestly f*cking condescending sh*t Farleigh.” It is f*cking condescending sh*t, like Venetia needs to be spoken to about this, like she isn’t fully aware of the choices she has made and how she got here. Like she needs anyone to guide her through this. She’s Venetia Catton, she’s never needed anyone but herself. She knows exactly what she needs to do, exactly what she wants, the idea that she needs someone to point it out to her is laughable. “You should really consider firing your therapist because clearly, they are feeding you complete Dr. Phil bullsh*t. I don’t need anyone to tell me what to do, least of all you or Oliver.”

Farleigh… relaxes. Body suddenly becoming pliant, expression blithe. “No.” He utters as regards her.

Venetia scoffs in disbelief, he’s such little f*cker. “Whatever.” She dismisses, grabbing her mimosa, gulping down the lot in a long drink.

Farleigh’s now got the biggest sh*t eating grin on his face. The jovial look of someone who’s just sniffed up poppers, dosed to the f*cking eyeballs and ready to party.

“Another?” He asks nodding to her now empty glass.

Yeah, they are for sure getting drunk at one pm. “What do you f*cking think?”

Farleigh’s tongue peaks between his lips, wide open-mouthed grin, so damn pleased with himself. Mission f*cking accomplished.

Venetia only just manages to push down the impulse to launch her fork at his forehead. “Wipe that smug f*cking grin off your face, Start.” She won’t give him the satisfaction of her own gratitude at the fire she feels ignited in her core. The imperishable fire burning true and immortalised. As it radiates through her, she finds herself growing in strength. Like the fire she feels is impenetrable, adaptive. Maybe like a phoenix from the ashes she can finally rise.

It's a beautiful thought really.

~

It’s been tradition, if you could call it that, since Felix graduated Oxford and the two of them both started living in London, that on every last Sunday of the month, they spend it at Saltburn.

It’s very much to keep up appearances, ever since her and Felix officially moved out of the estate. Had it not been for their father enforcing this, like it was one of the ten commandments that if disobeyed would result in them being plagued on by a swarm of locusts and rained down on by fire, they likely would have gone several months at a time without returning to Saltburn, let alone seeing their parents.

Funnily, it was a routine everyone was used to while her and Felix were at boarding school. Going practically whole terms without hearing their parents’ voices, not even a phone call or a bloody telegram delivered by carrier pigeon. However, it seems in their older age the two have been softened by sentimentality, as Felix likes to believe.

Venetia sees the more relevant truth. That these dinners are her parents’ way of continuing to have them in a chokehold, reminding them of their influence and relevancy. The idea that they hold less relevancy in their children’s lives than Felix and Venetia do in theirs is just unthinkable.

As the years have gone on, particularly when Venetia and Felix reached their mid-twenties, the somewhat problematic family dynamics have come more to the surface. Harder to ignore in the face of rising tensions, her and Felix’s growing autonomy and independence as they transitioned into adulthood. You’d think as indifferent as their parents are, with their classic stiff upper lip British upper class neglectful parenting style, they’d be pleased to finally have less to do with their children. But strangely, they only seem to be more threatened by it, the possibility of irrelevance.

Venetia knows for a fact it’s not just her that despises going to these dinners. Felix, especially these days, would rather join her in descending into the fiery pits of hell, undergoing all sorts of creative and excruciating forms of torture, because not even that can touch the level of suffering that comes with attending these mandatory family dinners.

Farleigh, the absolute lucky bugger, isn’t forced to join in on the bimonthly, Sunday Saltburn swaray. Both mother and father citing that they wish to reserve this time for only the four of them as a family. Clearly Farleigh did something in a past life that Venetia and Felix didn’t, and she’s dead set on figuring out what the hell that is, in hopes of avoiding anything as horrific as this again upon her reincarnation. She can’t stand this level of cosmic karma that forces her to sit down once a month, to listen and watch dead eyed over the honey roasted ham as her mother resights stale, three-week-old gossip to the whole table. While Felix sits next to her silent as the grave, steadily making his way through the cellar of rare vintage wines at an alarming rate for one person in one sitting. But then she can talk, because she’s right there along with him.

Despite it being such a reoccurring event in her life, that Venetia could and has dissociated through the whole thing and that no one would ever notice, she’s feeling a bit more fraught about the idea of tonight’s family dinner. So much so she’s whipped her make up clean off her face twice, currently redone it a third time and still isn’t happy. It’s taken her three hours to decide on a dress and shoes. She’s also convinced that her hair despite multiple attempts at styling it, has her looking like Lord Farquaad.

So, when she hears someone knock on the bathroom door, she’s hoping it’s Felix to suggest that they patch the whole evening and make an excuse they’ve come down with a highly contagious virus that has them firing out at both ends.

She’s left a tad disappointed when it’s Oliver’s sheepish looking face. “You look nice.” He comments when he sees her, entering into Felix’s bathroom and closing the door behind himself.

She glances at him, her attention mainly on trying to get more body into her hair, in an effort to look chic and f*ckable, rather than pharisaic and frigid. “Hm thanks, nice to hear someone think so. I imagine I’ll be hearing quite the opposite from my mother.”

Oliver doesn’t say anything, just continues to stand there, awkward as hell. That has Venetia wondering if it’s to do with the fact they are in Felix’s bathroom, and Oliver feels like he’s stepping onto territory he’s been barred from. “Sure, you don’t want to join in on the family fun?” She jokes lightly.

Oliver cracks a weak smile, more out of obligation than genuine reaction, seems to be all he’s capable of these days. “Maybe next time.”

“Well, your extended absence has been noted.” Mainly by Elspeth, sometimes father gives the impression he doesn’t even recall Oliver’s name despite Venetia knowing the contrary. Especially with how often Felix sings his praises, like Oliver’s an eligible maiden with a sizable dowery and Felix is looking for father’s permission to court his hand in marriage. “You avoiding them or something?”

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Oliver isn’t quite looking at her, eye contact on her right ear, if she were not looking as closely, she might not notice it. But she does. “Honestly?” Oliver mumbles. “Being there brings up a lot of sh*t I’d rather not think about right now.”

“Yeah?” Venetia responds, as she put in her earrings, convinced her hair is a lost cause.

“Hm, sort of a person I’d rather forget.”

They can all relate to that when it comes to Saltburn.

Despite it being Venetia’s home, she can remember a time when it felt like a prison, a sanctuary, an insane asylum, a museum, a mausoleum. It’s never felt like just home, always so loaded, so restrictive, busy yet isolating. Being there sometimes makes her long for the experience of what a normal home should feel like. But then Felix is her home she supposes, that’s maybe why it doesn’t get to her as much these days. That and she’s accepted Saltburn for what it is. A shiny antique jewel of opulence – that despite its grand and gleaming exterior, holds a rotting and decaying core. A palace of flaws, oxymorons, happiness can only exist if melancholy does to.

So, she gets why it represents that for Oliver, yet can’t quite help but be affronted by the notion that he could even get it, to the level of her, or Felix who have lived in its constricting shadow their whole lives.

“I know Felix would like it if you visited with us.”

Oliver doesn’t buy that platitude for a second. “Ha, I think that would be the last thing he wants at the moment.” It’s quietly quite a gut-wrenching statement, and had her mother been here she would have winced at the ugliness of the whole moment, the level of self-pity and defeatism. “But if he does, thing is I’ll do it, I’ll fold as soon as he asks me.” Oliver says, laughs hollow. The way he believes such a thing is almost fanciful, like it’s a far off, unachievable dream yet still manages to be a hundred percent serious that it would be a done deal if the option was on the table. Venetia doesn’t quite know what to do with it, the level of loyalty and dedication that’s so bare, that Oliver is still showing Felix despite everything. It seems like Oliver has no autonomy in the decision.

It has her looking away from him, as if her eyes were caught by the sun, temporarily blinded. “That fickle, are you?” Because what else it she supposed to say to that.

“Oh yeah.” Oliver says with a sad looking smile on his face, God he’s just so f*cking sad. Like he’s sewn it into every inch of his skin, needle sharp and bleeding for all to see. Had he been this bad after his and Felix’s fight back during their Oxford days? She never knew, never saw him during that time till he turned up at Saltburnagain everything between him and Felix right as rain, back to being best mates again. And she knows she’ll never know for sure now, but she can’t help but wonder, was it as bad for him as this, or is this worse?

Oliver shifts on his feet, a boxer always use to shifting his weight, keeping himself on his toes. “Can we talk?” He asks her.

“Sounds ominous.” She replies.

“It’s not—” Oliver starts frustrated about where to go with this, “just we’ve not had the chance to speak you know, after… everything.”

Hmm, she supposes he’s right, they’ve never had the reason to before but then this time was different than all the others, wasn’t it. “Do we normally need to?”

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t avoiding it. And Oliver’s eyes meet hers then, solid like hard packed ice, impenetrable and the fire inside her shudders at the challenge. He’s standing firm on his feet now, stock still, unwilling to back down.

Venetia sighs.

“Alright, sit the f*ck down then.”

Oliver complies, sitting down on the closed toilet lid next to her, gaze down to his hands, shoulders practically up to his ears. For a split second the image of being in the exact same position with Felix, with a similar emotionally draining and heavy conversation flickers into the forefront of her mind. “Well?” Venetia urges him impatiently.

But Oliver doesn’t respond, just continues to be silent.

Venetia, seeing no alternative makes the first move, lest they be stuck at some sort of impasse forever. “We need to stop ending up back here.” She tells him.

Oliver doesn’t look at her, but she can see his head nodding. “Agreed.” He rasps.

Venetia pushes forward, like rowing against the tide, with gale force winds, kind of feels like she’s fighting for her life. But she can feel the momentum riding through her, helping her to keep going. “I mean I know why I do. You’re a nice guy Ollie, you’re convenient – not in a c*nty way. And I trust you the most out of every other guy who’s dick I’ve ever let near me.”

Oliver’s looking at her now, genuine surprise on his face.

It’s good, because it means she can see his face when she speaks next. “Why do you keep ending up back here Oliver?”

That hard packed ice in Oliver’s eyes seems to shatter and the rest of him along with it. Burying his face in his hands, she hears the strangled f*ck that he lets out on an exhale. She gives him a moment, worried that her next words might actually break him for real.

It’s uncharted territory for both of them, but the thing is it’s always been there, always. And she knows it’s not just her that’s noticed it. And it needs to be said now, the massive elephant in the room when it comes to them needs to be named. Because only then can there be finality in this, only then can they both start to move on. “I can see how much you want him.”

She’s not being coy; she knows he knows exactly who she’s talking about. She doesn’t need to name Felix. It’s funny he’s almost like God to them, in so many ways. And just one is when referring to him in this way, it feels more like a title than just a pronoun, that they never need to clarify, it’s always Felix, always.

Oliver manages to pull himself together, uncurling himself. He rests himself back, body language open, not out of trust or security but in sheer defeat at having been called out, it’s like he knows there is nowhere left to hide so why bother keeping up the charade. “It’s more than that Vee, so much more.”

Venetia feels her mouth fall open, feels like her heart slows. She looks at him, this sad, broken-down man before her and she feels like she’s seeing him for the first time, really seeing him. With everything stripped away. “Oh Oliver.” She gets out, almost surprised by the natural compassion and caring that flows effortlessly into her own voice.

She crouches down, just like she had for Felix when she was comforting him when he needed her. f*ck, if it creases her couture gown, she’ll take her mother’s criticisms for this. She reaches out, hand practically wrapping the whole way round the circumference of Oliver’s wrist. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She asks him desperately.

Oliver’s eyes are violently blue as they gaze at her. “Would’ve been a sh*tty f*cking thing to do Venetia.”

“Yeah maybe, but” she shakes her head, giving a one shouldered shrug. “It’s not like it would have come as much of a surprise.” Because in the face of this Venetia can comfortably say it wouldn’t have mattered. Not like on some level she hasn’t always known, suspected this, but hearing it actually confirmed by him – that makes it real.

Oliver’s gaze breaks from her and he’s back to staring at his hands, now balled up into fists. “Yeah,” he comments, “Farleigh said a similar thing when I told him.”

Venetia’s eyes trace over him as she fights with the urge to come clean, to reveal that Felix is aware that they hooked up. That it’s likely what is contributing to the majority of his anger right now. But she can’t, she made Felix a promise and as much as it pains her, she can’t break her word when it comes to him. She’s not been the best sister of late, she can’t help but feel this is the one way she’s going to make it up to him. And knowing how much Farleigh is mixed up in this as well, what a mess, what a mess the four of them are, caught up and tangled.

“It’s probably really weird and massively f*cked up.” She says into the quiet of the bathroom, just them.

“Tell me.” Oliver prompts instantly and Venetia can’t help but smile at that.

“You’re probably the one person I trust with him the most.”

A shuddering exhale comes from Oliver next, weighing up the words. She can tell they physically pain him to hear for some reason. He’s wallowing in self-doubt, infected with diffidence, convinced she’s wrong, maybe believing he’s unworthy of her trust. “You shouldn’t.” He insists firmly, jaw locked and eyes unflinching – it’s so resolute, his sudden intensity and hardness slightly terrifying, that she almost goes along with him without thinking.

Letting go of him, Venetia does her best to try and find her feet. Interacting with Felix this way had been child’s play by comparison, from checkers to being locked in a war room having to decide on the fate of the world in order to avoid full on mass nuclear war.

She takes a moment to think, then: “I see how much you,” she pauses again – struggling to find the right word. Not because there isn’t one, but she’s just never been very good at being able to describe this stuff. It always sounds so much better in her head, but she can never quite get it to match up in reality. “Care for him, that has to come from somewhere.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know where it comes from.” He tells her honestly, looking at her like she wouldn’t get it. “But it doesn’t always come from a good place. And it f*ckin’ scares me, Vee.” Oliver blows a gust of air out from between his lips, lazily. “But then I think, how can I not love him, you know?” He says the words like they aren’t some monumental revelation, recites them the same way he would his full name, mobile number or the name of the first school he went to. It’s insane to Venetia.

“Isn’t that what it is supposed to be like though?” She quizzes, feeling slightly self-conscious that she can’t infer from her own past experiences with such a thing. Because when she thinks about it, she’s not experienced anything on the level that Oliver is talking about, unless you count her own relationship with Felix. But it’s not quite the same, is it.

The corner of Oliver’s lips twitch. “Not for normal people I don’t think.”

“f*ck being normal then.” Venetia determines.

Oliver’s smile broadens, his eyes scrunching up the way he does when he smiles good and proper. Venetia finds herself smiling back, can’t help herself. Then Oliver nudges her gently with his foot, catching her eye. She accepts his thanks with a nod of her head.

She feels it, a door in her mind that has long been ajar, letting in the most ghastly draft, closing shut. It’s a nice feeling, if a little sad and strange. But Venetia can get used to it, besides she knows what they say about doors. And she’s plenty of open doors in her mind that are long overdue a kicking shut, she’s not quite sure if some of them ever will. But at least she’s got this one done.

Getting up to her feet, she smooths down her dress, quickly checking her make-up, happy to see that her hair seems to have fluffed up. Turning back to Oliver who is gazing up at her. “He’ll probably be in a mood when he gets back.” Venetia warns him.

Oliver shrugs, expression remaining the same. “S’alright I’ll watch out for him.”

I know you will, Venetia thinks but she reckons Oliver hears it, sees it on her face.

“Hey Vee,” Oliver says suddenly, expression open, marvelling softly. “You look really beautiful.”

Venetia’s lips curl up, impish and playful. “I know.”

His wrinkled-up expression is back, despite how tired and defeated he still looks he at least looks a little less sad for a moment. Venetia can take that as a win.

Then she rolls her eyes, starting to gather her make up off of Felix’s sink. I mean, by God how many deodorants does one man need, and by the way he smells half the time he for sure doesn’t use them. Bathes himself in sandalwood and pine as an alternative. “I swear if I have to have one more heart to heart conversation this month, I might actually move to Shetland.”

Venetia doesn’t get a chance to see his reaction, before there is a knock at the door breaking the sweet moment they were having together. Venetia collects her bag, all ready to go.

Opening the door, taking up the whole doorway is Felix dressed to the nines in one of his many tuxes, embracing him like a second skin. He meets her eyes briefly, the contact flickers down and away like a wrestling flame. She watches as he shifts from foot to foot, seems unaware that he’s totally blocking her way.

She watches as he clears his throat, hands flexing, looking like he’s about to start saying something then giving up.

Venetia knows he’s trying his hardest not to look at Oliver but sees the way his eyes come up halfway, likely in line with where Oliver’s legs are splayed out, but coming no higher.

Felix seems strangely stalled, like his brain has short circuited, yet to come back online. This whole brief interaction is taking too long to be considered normal. Venetia is also feeling awkward, Oliver’s not so little revelation now has her feeling self-conscious. Like she has the words ‘Oliver is in total love with you’ stamped across her forehead for Felix to see, which is ludicrous.

Felix is… twitching, trying and failing to figure out what to say. For a moment Venetia thinks he might actually snap, whether or not out of anger or an honest attempt at reconciliation, maybe even start accusing them of something, she’s absolutely no clue. But there is something in Felix that looks quite shell-shocked.

“Car’s here.” He finally mumbles to her then turning on his heels and walks out into the hall without another word, not even a backward glance.

Venetia gives a sigh, turning back to glance at Oliver ready to make a show of rolling her eyes in exasperation, like can you believe this guy? Only to see Oliver isn’t looking at her, resigned expression gazing longingly at the door Felix just walked out of, like a piece of him just went out the door with him.

It seems no matter how much her and Farleigh try and put Oliver back together, there is only one person that holds the power to do that. She gives Oliver one last fleeting look, mixed up apology, sympathy and solidarity before she follows in Felix’s footsteps.

~

Venetia is feeling weird. She can’t quite put her finger on why, but she’s sure it has something to do with the bizarre car ride over. Felix hadn’t said a single word during the whole journey, hadn’t even looked at her, just gazed totally lost in thought out the window. Venetia hadn’t tried to engage him, slightly concerned that Felix is jumping to assumptions that her and Oliver were continuing to shag behind his back.

There’s that and then there is the building anticipation in her belly, like corrosive stomach acid, eroding at her insides, burning as it ascends her oesophagus, thick like a sliding snake. Threatening to upchuck all over mother’s impeccably palatial set table. Venetia doesn’t know how much longer she can stand it, how much longer she can hold down the need to purge. To get out what she’s holding.

She’s not sure how much longer she can take it, listening to her mother’s vapid chattering accompanied by her father’s crass chortles, which are few and far between with how long it takes him to noticeably catch his breath from the effort. Listening to Elspeth mid-gossip about the Viscount of Cobham continuing to dip his co*ck into his ever-high turnover of fresh and young footmen, believing that he’s still managing to keep the whole thing under wraps. Which is hardly the case, Elspeth muses, seems only the Viscountess is practically breaking her neck with the force in which she is turning a blind eye.

Opposite her, Felix sits with his back abnormally stiff and straight, his eyes cast down to his plate where he’s picking at his barely touched meal. Mouth still chewing slowly from a bite he took minutes ago. He seems so flat, any light that he normally exudes diminished. Like a delicate wallflower, he’s slowly succumbing to the winter darkness and frost. So, unlike himself, hollowed out by what he's been forced to give to others of late, from what others have taken of him.

She hopes he can forgive her; she prays he doesn’t think she’s abandoning him.

“I have some news actually.” Venetia announces cutting through her mother’s ramblings.

Elspeth pauses, seemingly not quite processing what Venetia said at first, too busy caught up in her own musings. “Oh darling, what’s that?” She asks half-heartedly, looking slightly miffed at being interrupted at what she likely thought was the story of the century, next to her father hasn’t even looked up from his compote. Felix is looking at her at least, jaw still moving sluggishly as he chews, blinking owlishly.

It’s now or never, she supposes.

Taking a breath, she readies herself. “I got offered a job.” Projecting the words out into the dining room, to her family, sitting abnormally far apart around the massive dining table, as well as to the service staff decorating the room like insignificant ornaments in the backdrop. Then she waits, armed and ready for the onslaught.

Elspeth’s eyelashes flutter, taken aback by the news. Sir James has finally looked up from his dinner plate, dull grey-blue eyes on her. “A job? Whatever for?” Elspeth’s tone leaving no need for further interpretation of how preposterous she finds the idea. Then she’s moving onto the next pressing question in her head, in an instant. “How on earth did this happen?”

Sir James is frowning, looking dubious. “What sort of… job?” Saying the word as if it is some sort of contagious disease.

“Congratulations.” Felix offers dully, gaze now fixed down on his plate again.

Venetia just tries to keep a hold of that fire inside of her, does her best in letting her family’s words and actions feed it rather than husk it out.

The drawn down shape of her mother’s mouth is only more exaggerated by her displeasure. “Suppose we should be glad it’s not another pregnancy announcement at least – small miracles.” Muttering the last words under her breath but still within earshot. “But really darling, who on earth is offering you a job?”

The fire in Venetia burns at that, hotter than molten lava. “What is that supposed to mean?” Not bothering to keep the growing indignation out of her voice.

“Darling really, don’t start getting worked up.” Her mother dismisses off handedly, Venetia can see it in the way that she bats her hand in her direction, the shadow of an almost there but not quite executed side eye, the subtle signs that she’s getting riled. “I’m thinking of you! I would just hate to see you embarrassed by the whole ordeal.”

Venetia white-knuckles her fists, where they laid-on top of the napkin in her lap, hidden by the table. She can feel the stinging crescent marks from where her nails are currently pressing into her palms. “Why because I’d fail?”

Now her mother does give her a scorned looking side eye, one of her hands comes up to fiddle with her dangly twenty-four karat gold earrings. It’s one of her tells, that she’s getting worked up and trying her best to distract herself, to not make a scene. “Now you’re doing it on purpose, putting words in my mouth.”

Then she leans in Venetia’s direction, lowering her voice slightly as if to only speak to her despite knowing full well everyone in the room can still hear. “Are you sure this isn’t about something else, darling?” She enquires leadingly.

“What?” Venetia grounds out, staring her down.

“Well, I hear things,” she drawls. “I know you must be feeling left out what with so many of your friends pursuing exciting career paths or walking down the aisle. It’s understandable if it’s getting under your skin a tinsey bit, to feel a touch left out.” And then to make it worse, she speaks her next words without a hint of irony, completely believing that she is bestowing them on Venetia like some priceless gift. “Your time will come, darling. And when it does, it will be the right thing for you.”

Venetia can’t believe her. The audacity of her seems to reach new heights every time she sees her, and the annoying thing is Venetia expects it, knows it’s coming. But f*ck, it still gets to her every time. Cuts her right into her core.

“Mummy, I,” she stops, brain too scrambled by her to think on how to proceed. She glances at Felix to silently communicate; can you f*cking believe this!? Only to see that he’s firmly checked out.

“You know I don’t give a—” She tries, then has to pause in an effort to gather herself, to not let over to the need to just tear into her. “I don’t care what you have to say,” stopping herself again in frustration.

With great effort she takes a deep breath then addresses her father. “Daddy, this is something I know I’d be good at; it’s being offered to me, and I want to do it.”

Sir James seems to be listening, despite the growing frailty to his body, sickly slim and skin normally sun-kissed by the south English sun is devoid of colour, sallow. She watches as her father’s eyes dart to mother, calculating.

“Well, I think it’s a tremendous idea.” He says eventually, the enthusiasm growing in his voice. “Gives you the opportunity to really apply yourself, and if it’s work that will allow you to give back, all the better I say.” The idea seems to give him added vitality, the fervour putting a twinkle in his eye that he’s been lacking. “I’ve been thinking about bringing Felix to the next foundation meeting, they’re doing something with the British Red Cross it’s very right on these days, civilised charity work.”

Then his attention switches from her to Felix. “What do you think of that, darling boy?”

Felix just slurps at his spoonful of berry soup, shrugging his shoulders, knowing his opinion matters little at the end of the day. Venetia does her best not to be sidetracked by the misdirected anger she wants so badly to hurl in her callous brother’s direction.

“Well, don’t come crying to me when this fit of entrepreneurship, if it can even be called that, is completely shambolic.” Elspeth adds, not satisfied that the conversation has shifted away from the original topic before she managed to say her piece.

“Not like I’m asking you for any money.” Flinging as much vitriol as humanly possible back at her in the muttered statement, meant to be heard.

The alcohol certainly is only adding to things escalating, all of them past the point of level-headed with enough in them to lower their inhibitions, making them quicker to anger and eviscerating any brain to mouth filter. Perhaps if she was less inebriated Elspeth would have steered things firmly away from this topic with the grip force of a strongman and nothing further than “that’s nice, darling”. But that would have been just as bad, Venetia thinks.

But instead, “ohh,” mocking amusem*nt, dismissive cruelty – her mother’s specialties. “Now that would be a first.”

Venetia can feel the temperature rising with the steam they are both creating just from how they fuel each other’s ire. Any moment the dining room in Saltburn will turn into the scorching surface of the f*cking sun. “If I’m that much of a hardship then by all means cut me off.” Meaning every word of it when it leaves her mouth.

One of her mother’s eyelids twitches. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You know normal parents would be proud.”

“Oh, have mercy, this again.”

Frowning at the head of the table, Sir Jame’s lips curl in displeasure. “Pride is earned.” He states.

At this Venetia grabs her wine and starts downing it, which just goes to show how livid she is because she f*cking hates chugging wine.

Her mother gives a complacent sigh, addressing just outside of the table. “Duncan, I think we’ll move onto cheese and port, as soon as possible please. Perhaps a change of the setting will let us all move off of this absurd conversation.”

“Feel free to add a pint of rum to mine.” Venetia calls after Duncan’s retreating back. Venetia bets, if Duncan had a pound for every dinner he’d seen go down this way he’d be able to buy this whole estate.

“Really darling,” Elspeth tuts, eyes cutting down her icy disappointment. “I thought you long outgrew this adolescent need to have the last word in everything.”

Hypocritical c*nt, Venetia thinks. “f*cking hell, you’re impossible.”

“Don’t speak to your mother that way.” Sir James barks at her. Once such vocalisations from him would have Venetia jumping out of her skin, shrinking to obey. Now she doubts the level of decibels coming from him could nudge a candle flame.

It only has Venetia doubling down, a craving to lash out, to hack at and mutilate, to even the score. “You know you aren’t clever; I know exactly what your real problem is with the whole thing.”

She sees the minute flex of her mother’s hand and her heart soars with gratification. She knows she is edging around dangerous territory, but Venetia couldn’t give less of a f*ck. She’s no longer contented to remain her mother’s punching bag, to allow herself to continue to be dragged down into blackening, icy waters by the weight chained around her ankle. “Please Venetia, you really are beating a dead horse with this conversation.”

“Well, tough! I’m not moving on from this conversation till you listen, both of you.” Desperate in her needs to have them listen, to finally actually do what she needs. She’s not even asking for their blessing, just their indifference because at least in their lack of caring and lack of action, comes compliance.

Quite suddenly, Venetia hears the scrape of chair legs against wooden floor. Felix is on his feet, large and looming over the broken family table. He looks unsteady on his feet for a moment, chest rising and falling noticeably, flattened eyes far off, purposeful in their lack of looking at any of them. He looks tired, resigned and completely over this.

“Felix, everything alright darling?” Mother enquires, in total shock at such behaviour coming from her son.

“Hm? I’m,” Felix acknowledges half heartily, almost like he doesn’t quite hear her at first. Then, finally, “just think the wine might have gone to my head, might call it a night.” Pressing a hand to his forehead, to sell it.

“Darling, we’re still dining.” Elspeth comments clearly upset.

“No, I know, mummy I just,” Felix attempts to placate. “I’m just not feeling so good.” He’s putting it on, Venetia can tell. But he’s always been good at turning on the adorably sad baby creature eyes with a pouting pink lip that has everyone melting and bending to his will. He’s currently got the whole thing directed at their mother.

“Oh, darling I knew it,” Elspeth exclaims, Venetia concealing her snort because no she f*cking didn’t. “You barely touched your brisket, normally your favourite.”

Sir James eyes Felix curtly, not an ounce of sympathy in his expression. “You have an appointment early in the morning.” He reminds Felix.

“I know, so with that in mind I think it’s best I go up early. Sleep off whatever this is.” Felix is already moving, not waiting for further permission to take his leave. Addressing both their parents: “Thank you for dinner.” Then dipping down to plant a quick peck on mother’s cheek. “Night.”

“Night darling.” Elspeth says, softening just for her son. Venetia knows she’s doing it more to get under her nerves than anything else. Likely easing her lamenting that at least she has one worthy child that meets her expectations.

“Goodnight daddy.” Felix says, bidding their father night in the same manner, kiss to his cheek and squeezing his pointed shoulder delicately, like he’s worried the brittle bones might break apart like sawdust under his fingers.

“How unlike him.” Elspeth muses once Felix has left. “Whatever is the matter?” She ponders curiously, an edge of hunger to her words that have no place in the tone of a mother enquiring after the well-being of child.

“How should I know.” Venetia snaps, mad that Felix as per usual managed to make it all about him again, with hardly any effort. While equally bristling at her mother’s carnivorous need to always be in the know, her own protective instincts towards Felix activated.

Mother addresses her, unimpressed. “It wouldn’t hurt to be more perceptive Venetia; he is your brother after all.”

Venetia’s quite proud of the fierce smile that she can feel spread across her face. “I’m plenty perceptive, just not aiming it where you’d prefer it to go.”

Mother’s firmly ignoring her now, and there is little Venetia can do in the face of that, short of coming at her with a broken bottle. “Maybe I’ll have someone take up some brie and crackers to him.”

A torturous hour later, Venetia finally makes it up to her room. Making plenty of noise as she goes, kicking off her heels violently. She’s somewhat surprised to see Felix perched on the end of her bed when she enters. But maybe the dinner got to him more than she realised and he too like her couldn’t wait till morning to have a good venting session, to purge himself of that f*cked up episode of Jeremy Kyle Upper Classes edition.

“She’s such a f*cking bitch.” Venetia fumes as she paces like a discontent, caged tiger. Hungry for the true meal that she has been denied. “I mean, can you believe her?” She demands, like anyone on this earth would have an answer to such a question. “Is it so hard to just let me be?”

“Vee.”

“It’s not like I want her seal of approval or god forbid she actually be happy for me.” Venetia bites down, wishing she had something to skin her teeth into, to feel the satisfaction of causing some damage to get this awful energy out of herself. “I just need her to not be a sour faced f*cking cow!”

“Vee.”

“She’s gotten worse right? It’s not just me?” She asks him. “What is her f*cking damage? Bet she’s heading into early menopause. God, that would be rich, serves her f*cking right.” Venetia suddenly feels manic, righteous. “I can’t wait to prove her wrong, both of them.” She will, God, she will, if it’s that last thing she does.

“Venetia.”

Hearing him say her full name, so unexpectedly is enough to startle her out of her rant. “What?” She asks, turning her attention to him.

The person she finds looking back at her, is so unlike the Felix that sat opposite her across the dining table tonight. Her brother looks at her now, unflinchingly, expression solemn. There’s nothing shrinking about the way he’s fixed on her from across the room, in the way he holds himself in a way that she can only describe as quiet, so quiet, silent as the grave – calm and collected. For a moment she feels like they’ve switched, like he’s momentarily become the older twin all of a sudden, Venetia’s never experienced something like this before between them.

Venetia suddenly feels like she’s been dowsed. Mouth dry, frozen up with growing dread in the pit of her stomach she realises, she knows exactly what this is. “Oh god,” she utters, “did they finally say something? Was it,” she swallows, her mouth like a pit of sand. “Did they finally say what’s wrong with dad?”

Felix doesn’t answer her, straight away, just stares with that disconcertingly blank expression. “Felix?” She prompts, feeling a bit like he’s holding onto her lifeline while she’s casted out into thrashing waters and he’s yet to start pulling her into safety.

Because the way Felix looks at her, right at her, like he’s never looked at her before. In fact, she doesn’t think he’s been so present with her now as he has in months.

“Venetia,” Felix says carefully, seems to be weighing up the gravity of his words before deciding to speak them out loud, “is” his eyes not faltering once, the impact of the words in this room just the two of them coming down like a lead balloon, reverberating, shocking the very foundations of Saltburn.

“Is Oliver in love with me?”