“I can tell, brother. How long has it been going on?” It’s a credit to Joe that he doesn’t even blink at the word “cock.” Oliver can’t wait to abuse this shamelessly in the future.
“With him? Not that long. For me, though, like, always. But, Joe, listen—I am…completely spent, emotionally. I want to talk about this stuff. I don’t ever want to keep a secret from you again. But I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”
“There’s lots of time for us to talk,” Joe says evenly, standing to go like it’s as easy as that. “There’s no rush, Oliver. I’ll be here. Starting with tomorrow, hey?”
When Oliver turns back toward the rest of the house, Leo is crouched on the second-floor landing, still making a guilty face. “Sneak,” Oliver greets him. “At least I don’t have to debrief you.”
Leo scampers down and tentatively touches Oliver’s wrist with two fingers, halfway to holding hands.
“Well, that went better than I expected,” Leo says, totally lacking in remorse for someone who was eavesdropping on a personal conversation. “Not that I expected anything bad from Joe, like. But it’s nice. If anyone tries anything next season, he’ll pop their Achilles tendon with the power of his mind.”
“Don’t give him any ideas,” Oliver warns, taking Leo’s hand properly and interlacing their fingers.
“Hmmm,” Leo says, squeezing their knuckles together tightly. “I think we should order two large pizzas and not look at the internet again until July. You in?”
“But what willyoueat?”
“You are not even a little bit funny,” Leo replies, but cheerfully, peppering Oliver’s face with kisses, loud, smacking ones. “Get the good stuff, would you? Not Pizza Express.”
Oliver has his marching orders: two margherita pizzas and a side of halloumi, panna cotta for dessert, more dairy than the human body should be able to tolerate—they’re on vacation.
It’s been a spell since he’s walked for takeaway, saving his legs for the pitch, and when Oliver reaches the restaurant’s red awning, dotted with flower boxes, he sees that the great brick wall over the ceiling up toward the roof is the home of the same mural Leo took a photo of so many months ago, that beautiful portrait of Oliver himself. It’s still there now, only it’s been recently defaced.
Pizza Express will have to do. Sorry, Leo,he thinks, turning to head back the way he came and immediately bumping right into a teenager who yelps and almost tips over a bucket of paint.
“Sorry, mate, sorry,” Oliver says, wishing he’d thought to wear something with a hood or at least put on a hat.
“It’s you,” the paint holder says, sounding surprised and pleased, rubbing his shirt hem at his glasses’ lens to get a better look at Oliver.
“Kind of embarrassing, to be honest. I just fancied a pizza. Though I suppose I might have known something like that might happen,” he says, gesturing at the bigFat the start of the graffiti.
“It’s my uncle’s place,” the kid explains. “He hit the fucker with a broom when he caught him at it.”
Oliver can’t help but laugh, picturing a mustachioed old man in a sauce-stained apron chasing off the vandal, screaming in Italian.
“It’s really beautiful,” Oliver tells him sincerely. “Davito—er, Leo—sent it to me, months ago. I’m glad you wanted to keep it up, after all this.”
“After all what?” the gangly youth asks, fumbling around his pocket for a cigarette, like it’s nothing. “Oh, Harris got us back into the Champions League for the first time in decades, let’s tear down his mural because he might like blokes! Who wouldn’t fancy Leonardo Davies-Villanueva, after the season he’s had? Come off it. I’m going to fix it and then paint him too.”
“Well, thank you, then,” Oliver stammers, bewildered. “I’vealways thought you did a great job on it. Glad I got to tell you in person.”
“Cheers, mate. Thankyoufor scoring all those goals.” They laugh and Oliver starts to be on his way, waving awkwardly, before the kid calls back to him. “Say, do you, actually?”
“Actually?”
“Fancy blokes. Him, Leo.”
“I really, really do.” Oliver’s voice shakes, but he doesn’t lower it.
“Right on, Harris. Good luck next season.”
• • •
In the morning, all the cheese they eventually got around to scarfing, after several more phone conversations and many more missed calls, threatens to make a reappearance—Oliver doesn’t think he could keep down water, much less coffee. Leo is, predictably, dolloping jam into his yogurt on top of half a bag of muesli like it’s nothing. If Oliver offered to cook, Leo could probably put away a dozen eggs, no problem.
“Aren’t you nervous?” Oliver asks, straightening Leo’s shirt collar for the fifteenth time.
“Of course I am,” Leo says, batting him away. “That’s why I’m stress eating.”
