Dietre + Oliver ; diner times
A year ago, Oliver would have been nervous. He would have been in hiding, enshrouded, angst-overdrive Oliver. He would have been nervous, but indifferent because of it. If you don't care, it doesn't have to feel so bad, and definitely some of that emotional upbringing learned over the last twenty years remained - how could it not? However, if last fall's borderline suicidal Oliver was a shooting star, today he was a supernova. In the good way... if there was a good way to be a star on the way to self-destruct. Whatever, he didn't know much about science, so the allegories were mismatched and who cared?
A random meeting would have been unheard of last year. Last year, the sharp knuckled spindle-tips of his fingers would have stank of turpentine(okay, so they still kind of did, despite washing his hands twice in lemon Dawn at Sonrisa) and Oliver probably would have been tucked away in some hidey-hole corner booth with his posture as low as it could go in the seat with his hands shaky as they clutched a mug of steaming Lipton. A year ago, Oliver might not have shown up at all. In fact, if memory served, he could pretty much swear that total abandonment of any hang-out that wasn't completely oriented around his brother or his boyfriend at the time, Misha, would have been ditched all too willingly.
Today, Oliver didn't have a boyfriend. He wasn't even sure that he had a brother anymore, seeing as how Jude had yet to secure the date of their foodfest. But whatever, Oliver didn't care. If he cried at night in the basement of Sonrisa, he still didn't care. He did not care. The way last Spring had bled into Summer, it'd left Oliver with only one real conclusion: the only thing he really had was himself. He was the only thing that he needed to care about... despite caring major about Cris and Sam, who had moved him in like a welcome member of the family and not the shitty impression of an artist that he was.
But yeah, the diner meet-up was happening, and Oliver was running late in his starry night sneakers when he skidded into the front door of the diner. He wore corduroy pants of bright goldenrod, which sadly matched the most horrible dye job on his head of unbrushed curls and their grow-out roots of deep brown which seemed almost black against the bleach-dye contrast on the rest of his head. On the top portion of his body, he wore a double layer of longsleeves, a black thermal over a white one - maybe he was approaching the gray days faster than he thought.
Oliver had the upper-hand in trying to scout out this new kid. He'd seen enough of the regulars over the years to sketch their profiles by freaking memory, so the guy standing awkward and quiet near the entrance was farmer's market fresh. At least, enough to approach.
"Die?" That was a weird declaration, and Oliver tried again while slinging his messenger back a little better onto his shoulder. He'd meant it as a shortening of the guy's nickname, but still... probably not good for a mental patient. "You meeting somebody?" The guy didn't look like he belonged here... which was more compliment than offense.