Our Summer Rhapsody - 7. "Death Of The Disco Dancer"

The house in Sag Harbor was cloaked in the soft tints of twilight, the last remnants of daylight casting long shadows through the open windows. The quiet hum of the evening was broken only by the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore, a familiar lullaby that had always brought Oliver a sense of peace. But tonight, peace was elusive, slipping through his fingers like sand.

In his bedroom, he moved with a practiced rhythm, his body entwined with a stranger whose name he hadn't bothered to remember. The connection was purely physical, an attempt to fill the void that had grown within him over the years. The stranger's touches were urgent, seeking, but they barely registered in Oliver's mind, which drifted aimlessly, detached from the moment.

"Fuck, dude..." the young man groaned with his beautiful jock build and tanned body on all fours as Oliver pounded his ass mercilessly. The blonde's sweat trickled down his forehead, hitting the jock's muscular back. "You're such...a good fucker," he tried to convey amidst the shoving his body was being subjected to.

Oliver didn't speak, his eyes closed shut as his hands held firmly to the young man's hips, the blonde hunk's pelvis slapping against his bubble peach, occasionally punching the young stud's lower back, teeth biting on his lips.

"You like that?" Oliver rasped between heavy breaths, his tone belligerent yet sexually heightened.

He had aged like fine wine, his body more muscular and developed from all those hours spent inside his gym. And he had become quite the top, his 7.5-inch, rock-hard dick having been inside the most gorgeous men over the years. The one today wasn't any different.

"Dude... you're fucking me so good!" the stranger whimpered, his face falling, burying itself inside the pillow, muffling the loud, uninhibited whimpers that fled his mouth.

The slapping noises were disturbingly erotic, the musky scent inside the room enveloping Oliver's mind and numbing his senses. Suddenly, he slowed down while still shoving his cock deep inside the guy's pucker. He opened his eyes, looking down momentarily. His turquoise gaze wandered idly along the young man's back. Broad, muscular, and tanned, giving it a cinnamon tone that seemed to fuel Oliver's lustful disposition. He exhaled and let his body fall over his partner, the blonde's sweaty chest gliding into his back. As he did, he pushed his pelvis down, forcing his cock to brush against the young hunk's sweet spot, oaring him to release a luscious gasp.

"That's it..." Oliver groaned into the stud's ear, sliding his tongue inside it. "Right there," he whispered, continuing to tease the guy's prostate, slowly speeding up his movements. And soon, he was drilling his cock inside, his ass lifting in the air with a precision only years of experience would allow.

Under him, the muscular young jock wailed with delight as Oliver's hand covered his mouth. As they reached the peak of their intimacy, Oliver's eyes wandered to the framed photographs on his dresser. Pictures of him in his younger years, during happier times, and family gatherings that seemed like distant memories now. His gaze lingered on a particularly cherished photo Uncle Nate took at the airport before the trip to Paros, his blue eyes looking soulful, full of the youth and promise that had once inhabited his heart.

"Oh God..." the stranger whimpered, his lips moving under Oliver's hand.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come," Oliver announced, his eyes closing. He began to shove his dick deeper inside the jock's hole, his thrusts following the long strings of cum that spewed from his throbbing cock. He could feel it bloating inside the crevice, the young man's warm walls closing around it. So, he let himself linger there, his mind numbed to his partner's presence as he recalled a time when his pleasure came layered with genuine feeling.

With a final, indifferent gasp, Oliver disentangled himself from the stranger, who lay back on the bed, catching his breath. As his cock popped out, already sagging, Oliver sat up, running a hand through his blonde hair, his mind already elsewhere. The stranger propped himself up on an elbow, watching him inquisitively.

"Are you okay?" the guy asked tentatively, sensing the distance in the blonde hunk's demeanor. Oliver nodded absently, reaching for his undies on the floor.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, his tone flat and devoid of any real emotion. He was already feeling an urgent need to reclaim his solitude. The stranger shifted uncomfortably, clearly hoping for some form of connection or conversation.

"So, do you wanna talk?" he asked.

Oliver sighed inwardly, adjusting his cock and walking to the coffee table, grabbing a joint and lighting it. He walked to the couch, slanting over it with one arm raised, showing no desire to prolong the encounter.

"Actually, I'm expecting company soon, so...you should leave," he stated coldly.

The stranger's face fell, disappointment evident in his eyes. He nodded slowly, sat up, and reached for his clothes scattered around the floor.

"I see. Well, thanks for being honest, I guess," the jock muttered, visibly uncomfortable.

Oliver offered a weak smile, trying to muster some semblance of politeness. As the stranger dressed and gathered his things, Oliver wandered to the window, staring at the darkening sky. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions, guilt mingling with relief. He knew he was using these encounters to escape, to numb the ache that had settled in his heart.

The truth was that Oliver was a changed man.

The door clicked shut behind the stranger, leaving him alone in his room's silence. He stood there momentarily, taking in the quietness, then walked over to the dresser. He opened a drawer and pulled out one of Niko's sketches he had stolen from the stud's room the morning he left Paros, brushing his finger gently over it, tracing the drawing's outlines. He sank onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. Memories of his past flooded his mind, each a bittersweet reminder of what he had relinquished. Losing Niko and Rafaella had left a void that no amount of fleeting physical encounters could ever fill. He had tried desperately to heed his mother's words. But life had become like a toxic companion, constantly bringing Oliver to his knees and preventing him from getting closure.

He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The detachment he felt wasn't merely from the stranger who had just left but from life itself. He felt like he was drifting through the days, going through the motions but never truly living. The only thing that kept him tethered to reality was Elijah, his son, who had inherited his stunning features and indomitable spirit. The boy had become his grace and blessing, a reminder that love could endure despite so much loss. But Oliver knew that he had been failing as a father lately, his grief and detachment creating a barrier between them. He wanted to be there for Elijah, to guide and support him, but he felt himself drown in his woe.

The lights fanning on the main house shuddered Oliver out of his thoughts. He sat up, listening to his son's familiar footsteps coming down the garden steps. As expected, Elijah knocked on his door sometime later, and soon, as it happened more often than not, the boy was nestled inside his chest.

"There are different kinds of love...and...you don't love everyone the same way," Oliver stated, trying to juggle his son's tricky query.

"Yeah, I know...but I'm talking about that crazy, out-of-body, over-the-top kinda feeling..." Elijah described, his voice lagging as he tried to find the words. "...the butterflies on your stomach, the... "fuck everything" kinda love, you know?" he asked. "Man, I wanna feel that," the boy exclaimed, exhaling deeply with relief. There was a brief silence before a soft, endeared chuckle broke from Oliver's mouth.

"You will, someday," the blonde stud stated with conviction.

"Did you ever feel that?" Elijah challenged, prompting a deep silence to take hold. "Dad...?" the boy pressed, his neck bending as he glanced up at his father, whose eyes were latched on the large window before them, a profound melancholy taking them hostage.

A stillness anchored the room, with only Oliver's resounding breaths filling the space.

"I did, once," Oliver's voice finally replied. "A long time ago..." he whispered, his words suddenly whisked away by deep-seated memories.

The boy's head immediately turned, his eyes gaping with curiosity.

"Was it Tony?" Elijah questioned.

Tony was Oliver's only long-term relationship. He had met Anthony in college, and their romance flourished despite Oliver's constant pushback. However, with Rafaella's condition progressively worsening, Tony became Oliver's source of comfort and strength, the only man able to bring stability and love into his life during a period of great turmoil.

Oliver's mind suddenly wandered, remembering the first time he met Anthony. Tony, as he had affectionately called him. It was during their sophomore year of college, at a party thrown by mutual friends. Tony was outgoing and confident, and his infectious laugh and easy charm drew people in. Oliver was immediately captivated. From that day on, their bond grew and flourished. Tony was patient and understanding, qualities that Oliver desperately craved after the emotional roller coaster of his younger years. And their relationship slowly blossomed into something beautiful and profound, a partnership that felt destined to withstand the tests of time.

But then, Rafaella's condition worsened, and on the 8th of December, 1999, the spirited, loving woman who had been a pillar of resilience in Oliver's life passed away. Tony was there through it all, offering unwavering support as Oliver grappled with his loss.

But Rafaella's death left an unconquerable gaping void in Oliver's heart, a wound that seemed impossible to heal. Yet Tony, propelled by his compassionate nature and empathy, helped him navigate the stormy seas of grief and loss. They had moved in together, creating a home filled with warmth and understanding, a sanctuary from the world's harsh realities. But as Rafaella's wisdom would prove, life had a will of its own, and during their senior year, Oliver had a one-night stand with a girl he barely knew. It was a moment of frailty, a desperate attempt to escape the pain of his mother's death and the unresolved grief over John's progressively prejudiced behavior.

That night, Elijah was conceived.

Tony's reaction to the news was miraculous, showing the grace to forgive Oliver's transgression and supporting Oliver's decision to keep the baby. As for Elijah's mother, who seemed less drawn to motherhood and more to the Preston's name and wealth, she ended up negotiating a suitable settlement and disappeared, never to be seen again. Oliver and Tony ended up raising Elijah together, Tony stepping into the role of father with elegance and dedication. Through the years, he treated Elijah as his own, never letting the circumstances of his birth create a rift between them. Their little family had thrived, and for a while, Oliver had allowed himself to believe that happiness was possible.

But the ghost of Niko had never truly left him. The memories of that summer in Paros, the love they had shared, and the choices he had made lingered in the back of his mind. It was an unspoken presence that slowly began to erode the foundation of his relationship with Tony, who tried to be understanding, but the strain of competing with Niko's memory eventually took its toll. The arguments became more frequent, and the silences became more profound. Tony's forbearance wore thin, and Oliver's inability to move on from the past became an insurmountable barrier between them.

Finally, after years of trying to make it work, Tony made the painful decision to leave. The breakup was a devastating blow for everyone, a stark reminder of how Oliver's unresolved emotions had the power to destroy the things he cherished most. Tony moved away, and though they stayed in touch for Elijah's sake, the closeness they once shared was lost. He missed Tony's steady presence, his unconditional love, and the sense of family they had built together.

But he also knew that Tony had made the right choice.

As he traveled through his memories, Oliver was suddenly interrupted by Elijah's muffled voice poking him in the distance, his big, bright, beautiful blue eyes frowning at him. "Dad!" he hollered. "Are you even listening to me?" he questioned.

"Sorry, bud," Oliver replied, his mind still jolted by Elijah's question.

"You're smoking too much weed," the boy commented, unconvinced by Oliver's elusive reply. But he let it go, knowing that pressing his father wouldn't get him anywhere. Oliver grinned and dove his mouth playfully inside his son's neck, blowing loudly into the boy's skin, prompting him to wiggle his body, giggling.

"Scoot," Oliver said as he pulled away, nudging his head and signaling the boy to get off him, which he did, albeit reluctantly. The blonde hunk stood up and yanked his undies out, kicking them to the side. He cornered the couch and strolled naked into the large bathroom beside the bed. A few seconds later, Elijah heard the shower running.

The boy's eyes followed his father's every move, his chin coasting on the sofa before shifting his attention to the bed. He stood up and walked over, slowly leaning into the sheets, nose sniffing them.

"Hmm...I knew it," the boy whispered with a disapproving look before pulling up and walking to the bathroom. Oliver was inside the shower, standing under the cold water, his head dunked between his shoulders. Elijah started pacing around nervously between the sink and the toilet before finally closing the toilet's lid and sitting on it. After a while, Oliver lifted his head.

"Spit it out," the blonde hunk uttered.

"I invited Tony..." Elijah mumbled, expecting his father to react negatively.

"Okay," Oliver replied. Elijah was startled by his father's calm reaction. He glanced up, watching Oliver scrub his entire body with soap. "Is he coming?" Oliver questioned.

"I don't know," Elijah replied, eyes scouring his father's body language. "Are you mad?" the boy stuttered.

"No. I know you love to have him around," he immediately countered, easing his son's apprehension.

"I mean... it's your party...I didn't want to..." the boy stuttered, only to be interrupted by Oliver's gentleness.

"Hey, look at me," Oliver said authoritatively, his voice deepening. But as Elijah faced his gaze, he found it soft and welcoming. "It's okay, I'm not mad," Oliver appeased. "As long as you're happy, I'm happy," the blonde hunk conveyed.

Elijah's face lit up, his love for his father beaming from within.

"I'm gonna get ready!" the boy hollered enthusiastically, bouncing his gorgeous smooth ass off the toilet seat and rushing out of the room, slamming the door on his way out. Under the running cold water, Oliver smiled.

After showering, he returned to his bedroom, the stillness pressing down on him like a physical force. He sat on the bed, staring at a picture of Elijah and Tony inside a tiny raft when the boy was nine. On a conscious level, Oliver knew he couldn't keep living like this, trapped in a cycle of meaningless encounters and emotional detachment. The room remained silent, with only the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore keeping the hunk's thoughts company. Was there a road to healing, Oliver thought? Or was he bound to keep driving down this treacherous path of self-destruction? For the sake of his son, for the promise he had made Rafaella all those years ago, and for himself, Oliver had to find a way to move forward. He had to find a way to open his heart and learn to live again.

That evening, the house in Sag Harbor was humming with the sounds of revelry. The dining room table was laden with appetizers, the kitchen bustling with activity from the catering company Sophia had hired, and the garden lit up with twinkling sprite lights glowed over the gathering. Outside, the garden's atmosphere was vibrant, loaded with laughter and the clinking of glasses.

Inside, Elijah was in his room, chatting animatedly with his cousins, Alex and Charlotte. The trio had always been close, their bond strengthened by years of shared intimacy.

"So," Alex began, a mischievous glint in his eye, "why did you break up with Austin?"

Elijah sighed, turning his head. "I caught another guy blowing him inside a bathroom stall at Mikey's," Elijah revealed. Charlotte, scrolling through her phone, looked up, one eyebrow lifted.

"He was a fucking douchebag anyway. You deserve better," she stated. Elijah shrugged, his expression turning thoughtful.

"That's what they told Tony, probably..." Elijah muttered. Alex glanced at Charlotte, their faces sharing a complicit look.

"Do you even know why they broke up?" the long, dark-haired jock questioned. Immediately, the tone around the room shifted. You could tell this was a hot topic, the source of many hours exchanging conspiracy theories.

"He never talks about it," Elijah replied, visibly frustrated. He took pride in his close relationship with his father but felt like an entire section of his life was missing, one Oliver vehemently refused to talk about.

"I mean, whatever it was, it must have been juicy," Charlotte theorized, her eyes on her phone the entire time. "Tony worshiped Uncle Ollie," she added. "And I know for a fact..." she kept going, her eyes unlocking from the screen, eager to gossip. "...cause I randomly heard Mom and Dad talking," she whispered.

"Randomly, pfff..." Alex mocked, prompting Charlotte's eyes to lock on him, bothered.

"...that their fight was about another guy," she said.

"You never told me that!" Elijah exclaimed, straightening himself on the bed, his blue eyes burning a hole through Charlotte's forehead.

"Relax. This was like yesterday," she casually explained, falling back on her chair, eyes returning to her phone screen.

"Who is he?" Elijah questioned, blazing with curiosity.

"I can't remember...but his name sounded funny. Definitely foreign," Charlotte pondered, glancing at Elijah, whose gaped gaze begged her to recall. "Nigel...no...Ni...ko. Yeah, that's it! Niko!" she uttered, visibly proud that her clueless mind had managed to remember.

Elijah froze, his gaze twinkling.

"Don't go down that rabbit hole, Eli," Alex warned. But it was too late. Elijah's mind was already chewing, utterly spellbound by this small, shallow clue hiding a more profound riddle.

Could this be him? Could this be the love his father mentioned? The boy's body fell back on the bed, his hands crossed over his stomach and his eyes on the ceiling.

"Niko..." he whispered.

Meanwhile, outside on the patio, Oliver sat with Sophia and Jason, enjoying the cool evening air, clinking their glasses together, toasting another year of life, and, in Oliver's case, unwavering resilience.

"How do you feel?" Sophia said warmly, her words filled with affection.

"Older," Oliver replied, his smile genuine but tinged with melancholy.

Jason leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink. "I say you still look..." Jason uttered, purposely pausing for dramatic effect. "Okay," he mocked, prompting Oliver to beam. His melancholic gaze drifted toward the garden. He started observing all the people wandering around, his eyes frowning.

"I don't know half of these people. Who the fuck are they?" he questioned, surprised.

"They're...my friends. I invited them," Sophia admitted, only to be met by Oliver's judgmental look. "It's not my fault you've become a recluse," she argued. "And there's nothing more depressing than a birthday party with no guests..." she razzed, trying to manage Oliver's apparent disdain for having his house stormed by strangers.

"Jesus Christ," the blonde stud groaned, letting his head fall back. As he did, the scent of a familiar perfume brushed his nostrils, and these soft lips planted a kiss on his forehead. "Hey, Aunt Chi," Oliver whispered, a smooth, understated smile on his lips.

"You kids don't mind if we retire for the night, do you?" Chiara questioned, her much older figure cornering Oliver's chair.

"We're not the "kids" anymore," Jason joked.

"Well, you'll always be kids to us, right Nathan?" Chiara asked, her head turning back. Nate walked behind her, his back hunched over, hand holding a walking stick. Oliver rose from his chair, opening his arms and wrapping them around his uncle.

"Hey, old man," the blonde hunk whispered. Nathan's eyes twinkled from under him. "Elijah set up your room just the way you like it. But if you need anything, just text him," Oliver informed as he pulled away, the old man's eyes following him. They seemed to linger, lost, his judgment slightly impaired.

"You should visit your father, Ollie. He keeps asking about you," Nate exclaimed, exhaling deeply as if the mere act of speaking took a toll on him. Immediately, the group's eyes locked on each other.

"Sometimes he..." Chiara whispered, an embarrassment in her tone.

"It's fine," Oliver eased, turning his attention back to his uncle. "I'll be sure to visit him soon, don't worry," the blonde promised. Nathan's eyes glanced up, and his lips stretched.

"Alright, let's go to bed," Chiara gently voiced, sliding one arm under her husband's and carefully walking him inside the house.

After a few minutes of silence, their eyes watching the old couple walk away, Sophia leaned forward on her chair.

"It's been getting worse lately," she mumbled. "Hopefully, the new medication will help," she added as the air around them settled. "But now that he mentioned it, you should deal with your Dad's house," she cautiously suggested.

"Let the mold take care of it," Oliver replied, his words fleeing his clenched jaw. Jason flared his eyes at Sophia.

"What about the letters?" she insisted. But Oliver just sat quietly, his gaze suddenly aloof, fingers digging into his pants. Jason glanced at Sophia, signaling her to change the subject. "Don't you want to hold on to those...?" she asked, knowing she was stepping into a mind field.

"Jesus Christ, Sophia. That's enough," Jason scolded, chugging his drink.

"It's been two years and the house is just sitting there." she continued, fueled by Oliver's apparent apathy towards her. "Sell the fucking place and get it over with," she advised.

"You know, not all of us were blessed with loving parents," Oliver retorted, his eyes facing the garden's perimeter.

"Oh boy, here we go," Jason whispered, his body sinking into his chair.

"Excuse me if I can't forget the fact that the mother fucker made my life a living hell," Oliver continued, his voice catching fire.

"Well, he's dead now, so..." Sophia mumbled, immediately regretting her words.

"And the world's a better place for it," Oliver reacted. "Excuse me," he added, pulling himself off his chair and disappearing inside the house.

Oliver sprinted through the house, the sounds of the party fading into the background as he entered the quiet hallway. In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The man who looked back at him was older, weathered by time and experience, but there was still a spark in his eyes, a glimmer of the young man he once was. Minutes passed, and Oliver found himself lost in thought. The weight of the years, the memories, and the losses he had endured all pressed down on him. So he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as the emotions barged with overwhelming force.

Suddenly, a soft knock on the door woke him from his stupor.

"I'll be right out," Oliver uttered, punching the water on the sink, trying to bury the sound of his heavy breathing. But, to his surprise, the door slowly flared, and his eyes rose, watching through the mirror as the most stunning man walked inside. He was 6 feet tall, with dark brown hair and a matching thick beard. He had a preppy style, with glasses and a bright, gold watch on his wrist, yet underneath it, one could tell he was extremely fit.

"Are you okay?" the stunning man questioned. There was a brief silence before Oliver responded, his voice strained.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he brushed off, his eyes fleeing down.

The man frowned, his concern growing. He pushed the door closed and walked over. Oliver leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the edges tightly.

"Here," the man said softly, touching Oliver's shirt and adjusting his crooked collar. The blonde stud looked up, their eyes meeting. The vulnerability in his gaze was stark, contrasting with the confident, carefree persona he often projected.

"Hey, Tony..." Oliver whispered, his shell suddenly breaking. The dark-haired hunk stepped closer, their bodies inches apart.

"Hey, Ollie," he whispered, spewing his deep, scented breath, coating the small space between them.

The proximity, the warmth of Tony's body, and the unspoken understanding between them stirred something deep within Oliver. He felt a rush of emotions, a desperate need for connection and solace. Before he could think it through, he lunged forward, kissing Tony's mouth passionately, a mix of longing and pain fueling the moment's intensity. Tony was taken aback at first, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he responded, matching Oliver's appetite with his own. Their kiss deepened, years of implicit emotions and stifled desires surfacing in a torrent of passion. They moved together, their bodies pressed against each other in the small bathroom. Tony's thick hands grabbed Oliver's waste yanking his body up with ease and setting his ass gently over the marble sink. The urgency of their actions was driven by mutual comfort, a momentary escape from their personal burdens. The strains of their history blurred, and for a brief moment, nothing else seemed to matter.

As they pulled back, breathless, Oliver's eyes widened with desire.

"Fuck, I missed you..." Oliver mumbled, his tongue still stretched out as Tony's hands caressed his waist.

They stood there, holding each other, the reality of what had just happened sinking in. It was a line they had crossed, a mutual moment of vulnerability that had led to an unexpected yet not entirely unwelcome moment of weakness. After a few seconds, Jason stepped back, his expression severe but understanding.

"We need a restraining order against each other," Tony quipped. Oliver chuckled, his forehead falling into the hunk's massive chest. He rubbed it over Tony's shirt, his nose delighting in the dark-haired hunk's familiar scent. Oliver nodded, his emotions still raw.

"Yeah, you're probably right," he whispered. "Elijah is gonna be so happy to see you," the blonde said as he raised his eyes, diving inside Tony's chestnut gaze. It was soft, warm, and accommodating. Everything Oliver needed and everything he had been missing.

"You know he still calls me every day, right?" Tony razzed.

"He misses you..." Oliver stammered, his voice lingering. "I miss you, too..." he moaned, his mouth diving back for another kiss. But this time, Tony pulled back, his expression doubtful.

"We shouldn't," Tony stated objectively, forcing Oliver to break from his sexual haze.

"Come back," the blonde begged, sounding submissive and anguished as he desperately caged his emotions.

"We've been through this," Tony stated, pulling away. Oliver could see his partner's hard cock pushing through his denim pants. "I love you, but..." he tried to explain, but Oliver cut him off.

"I love you too, so what's the fucking problem!?" Oliver replied, his voice building with frustration.

"The problem, Ollie, is I can't be in a relationship with you and that ghost you carry around everywhere, dammit!" Tony suddenly yelled. Silence sank inside the tiny bathroom like a bomb, and their bodies suddenly froze. Oliver slowly slid his ass down the marble sink, his shoes landing gently on the ground.

"I can't just brush him off to make room for you, you fucking selfish prick!" Oliver yelled back, his eyes raging.

"No. You can't..." Tony interjected before Oliver's wrath cut him off.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" The blonde vocifered, his words souring through the house, reverberating like painful wails. Tony stared at Oliver, the blonde's pain burning like a skin rash.

"Congratulations, Oliver..." Tony uttered, his manner low and surgical. "You spent your whole life trying so hard not to be like your father that you ended up becoming him," he stated, watching his harsh words drill into Oliver, murdering him. "I'm sorry," Tony apologized, immediately regretting it.

"That was...fucking cruel," Oliver muttered, defeated.

Suddenly, they heard a knock on the door.

"Dad...?" Elijah's soft voice called from the other side.

Oliver composed himself and left the bathroom, rushing past his son and returning to the party. The night continued, a complex layer now festering the staged joy Oliver had been able to maintain so far. And he raged in silence, lingering on Tony's words, the only man in Oliver's life capable of punching through his thick layers and bringing out the darkest truths. But was he right, Oliver thought? Had he become his father's son? Had Niko's warning been vain, and had he allowed himself to become that bird trapped inside a golden cage?

As the evening wound down and guests began to leave, Oliver stood alone in the garden, the night's events swirling in his mind as the faint smell of candle wax and flowers brushed his nose. He stood there, staring at the empty driveway, the weight he had learned to live with pressing heavily on his shoulders. Elijah was asleep inside, the day's excitement taking its toll. Oliver felt a pang of guilt as he looked at his son's closed bedroom window. He knew he should be there, present and engaged. But tonight, the wraiths of the past seemed to hover closely, pulling him into a vortex of memories and remorses.

Needing to escape, Oliver grabbed his car keys and slipped out of the house, the cool night air hitting him like a wake-up call. He climbed into his car, the leather seat cradling him as he started the engine. The hum was a soothing background to his chaotic thoughts. He drove aimlessly through the quiet roads of Sag Harbor, the town bathed in the soft glow of streetlights and the occasional flicker of passing cars. As he navigated the winding roadways, his mind drifted back to the moments that had shaped his life, each a brushstroke on the canvas of his existence.

He thought about Rafaella, her benevolent, inviting smile, and her love-filled heart. She had been his rock, the one person who had always understood him. Her illness had come like a thief in the night, stealing her away piece by piece, and the day she passed was etched into his memory, a day of unbearable sorrow and profound loss.

His convoluted relationship with John, whose fervent opposition to Oliver's nature worsened after Rafaella's passing, caused irreparable damage to their fragile relationship. They had fought countless battles, words thrown like daggers, each leaving a scar more profound than the one before. Even now, Oliver could feel the sting of his father's disapproval, a wound that had never fully healed.

And then there was Niko. Meeting him had been a whirlwind, a collision of souls that had set his life on a new trajectory and opened his spirit, their love a beacon in the darkness. Losing Niko felt like losing a part of himself, a loss that thundered even after all these years.

Propelled by his drunk state and post-birthday party depression, Oliver was now parked outside his old home, John's house—the place where he had grown up and where his life had been shaped. It loomed before him, its familiar facade stirring a blend of emotions. He walked up the path, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound in the still evening air. Pushing open the front door, he stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of dust and age.

Oliver wandered through the rooms, each one a silent witness to the years of his life spent there. He found himself in his father's study, a room he had avoided for so long. It was cluttered with papers and books, the detritus of a life lived in quiet contemplation. He began to rummage through the drawers, driven by a compulsion he couldn't quite explain.

He finally found them in a locked drawer at the bottom of the desk—letters yellowed with age and tied together with a faded leather stripe. His heartbeat sped, blood rushing as he gazed at the handwriting on the envelopes. He carefully untied the ribbon, his hands trembling, and began to read.

The letters spanned over fifteen years, starting a month after they parted. Each was a snapshot of Niko's thoughts and feelings, and his adoration for Oliver was unmistakable in every word. There were letters filled with joy and hope, sorrow and longing. It was as if Niko had poured his heart onto the pages, a testament to a love that had weathered despite the odds.

Oliver sat there for hours, lost in the words of the man he still loved deeply. They brought back vivid and rugged memories, each a reminder of what they had shared. He could almost hear Niko's voice, see his smile, feel his touch, and smell his breath. But there was also a deep, aching sorrow, a realization of how much he had lost, how much time he had allowed to slip through his fingers.

He gathered the letters and carried them into his old room. Outside, the evening air was cold, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the old oak tree that stood watchful outside his bedroom window. He tossed the letters over his dusty bedsheets and went straight to an old dresser near his bathroom, carelessly rummaging through it as he looked for something.

"Where the fuck is it?" he mumbled nervously, tossing stuff indiscriminately over the room's carpet before he finally stopped, his fingers pulling an old Vinyl record out.

His lips stretched into a relieved smile as if he had found something precious after years of searching. He stood and walked over to the old record player beside his bed, gently pulling the record out of the case. He slid the needle over it, closing the lid and turning the volume to the highest frequency. He stood there, eyes closed until the music finally began to play.

(Music blasting in the background)
"The death of a disco dancer
Well, it happens a lot 'round here
And if you think peace is a common goal
That goes to show how little you know

The death of a disco dancer
Well, I'd rather not get involved
I never talk to my neighbour
I'd rather not get involved

Love, peace and harmony?
Love, peace and harmony?
Oh, very nice, very nice, very nice, very nice
But maybe in the next world."

Oliver walked over to one of the drawers on his nightstand and pulled out a lighter. He picked up the stack of letters and lit a fire on them.

(Music blasting in the background)
"Love, peace and harmony?
Love, peace and harmony?
Oh, very nice, very nice
Very nice, very nice, very nice
But maybe in the next world
Maybe in the next world
Maybe in the next world

Love, peace and harmony?
Love, peace and harmony?
Oh, very nice, very nice, very nice
Maybe in the next world
Maybe in the next world

The next world, the next world, oh"

The flames quickly consumed the paper, Niko's words slowly turning into ash and smoke. Oliver watched as the fire burned, a symbolic cleansing of the past, a way to let go of the pain and guilt that had haunted him for so long. But as he watched the flames, something inside him snapped. The anger, grief, and frustration of years of unresolved emotions boiled over. He stormed back into John's study, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. He grabbed more papers, books, and anything that would burn and piled them in the center of his bedroom.

The fire spread quickly, the old wood and paper catching and feeding the flames. Oliver wandered the house, dancing, his body emulating his vibrancy of yore. The heat was intense, the crackle of burning wood and the acrid smell of smoke filling the air. Eventually, fleeing the flames, he stumbled outside, body swagging in a drunken dance as the glow of the fire lit up the night. He watched the flames devour the house, a maelstrom of destruction and rebirth.

The blonde hunk returned to the car, hearing the fire department sirens wailing in the distance. But it was too late. The house was an inferno that could not be tamed when they arrived. As the firefighters worked to contain the blaze, Oliver stood at a distance, the heat of the flames warming his face. There was a strange sense of liberation in the defacement he had committed, a feeling that he was finally free of some strange force that had held him captive for so long. The letters were gone, but their words and all the hours he had spent reading them, over and over again, were engraved in his heart like an indelible mark.

Watching the glow of the dying embers in the rearview mirror as he pulled away, Oliver couldn't help but grin at his fiendish enjoyment. And with the adrenaline of what he had just done still swirling inside, he kept driving. A tapestry of joy and pain, love and loss, nudging his foot down on the gas pedal. The roads blurred before his eyes, tears mingling with the alcohol in his system, their presence meant to numb the pain, now impairing his judgment. The night seemed endless, the route stretching before him like a never-ending path. He turned onto a narrow, winding street that led to the outskirts of town, the familiar path back to his house offering a semblance of comfort.

Suddenly, the headlights of an oncoming car erupted before him, jolting him back. He swerved to avoid it, the tires screeching as he lost control. The vehicle spun, the world outside the windows a dizzying blur of lights and shadows. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity. The car careened off the road, crashing through a wooden fence and against a tree. The impact was jarring, a cacophony of metal crunching and glass shattering. Oliver's head slammed against an airbag that burst from inside the steering wheel, pain exploding behind his eyes.

The air thickened with the smell of gasoline and smoke, and his vision blurred, head throbbing with pain. He tried to move, but his body protested, every muscle roaring. Blood trickled down his forehead, the warm, sticky sensation a stark contrast to the cold night air. Oliver groaned, forcing himself to focus. He needed to get out of the car, so he began fumbling with the seatbelt, his fingers clumsy and weak. After what felt like an eternity, he freed himself and pushed the door open, stumbling out onto the grass. The blonde collapsed to the ground, quivering with shock. He could see the faint glow of the town in the distance, but it felt impossibly far away. His mind was a fog of disarray, the surreal reality of the situation slowly sinking in.

As he lay there, the memories came rushing back, more precise and vivid than ever: his mother's temperate touch, his father's scathing words, and Niko's caring smile. They played out before him like a movie, each scene a reminder of the life he had lived and the choices he had made. Tears streamed down his face as he thought of Elijah, his darling son who was at home, probably worried sick about him. The weight of his guilt and regret was strangling, pressing down on him like a vice. He had to get back home, back to his son.

With a monumental effort, Oliver forced himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily. He began to stagger towards the road, his vision darkening at the edges. Each step was a battle, his body pleading to stop and rest. But he couldn't. He had to keep going. The sound of an approaching police car gave Oliver a glimmer of hope. He waved his arms weakly, hoping to catch its attention. The car slowed to a stop, its headlights illuminating Oliver's shape as the siren echoed violently inside his head.

A policeman stepped out, his face etched with judgment. "Sir...are you all right?" the cop questioned.

Oliver tried to speak, but his voice was barely noticeable, his groans slowly shifting into a soft giggle. It wasn't long before he was laughing hysterically, his bruised body lying on the cold ground. The officer stared down at him, shaking his head slowly as he rolled his eyes. Seconds later, he pulled out his radio.

"I got a 10-51 here. I'm bringing him in..." the young cop stated.

As Oliver lay there, the world around him fading into darkness, he clung to the thought of his son, his love for Elijah a lifeline in an ocean of pain and regret.

Hours later, the sterile chill of the jail cell was a stark contrast to the roaring flames that had engulfed John's house the night before. Oliver sat on the hard bench, head in his hands, the pungent smell of smoke still clinging to his clothes. His mind was a chaotic whirl of remembrances, and the realization that his grief-fueled frenzy had destroyed the last physical ties to John and the shadow he cast over his life. He looked up as the heavy door creaked open, and a guard walked in, gesturing for him to follow.

"Someone bailed you out," the guard said, his tone indifferent.

Oliver's heart pounded as he followed the guard, unsure who could be there for him. As he rounded the corner, he stopped short, his breath catching in his throat. Tony stood there, the same warmth and steadiness covering his eyes, that look that had drawn Oliver to him years ago. His expression was a mix of concern and relief.

"Tony…" Oliver's voice was a broken whisper. He felt a rush of conflicting emotions—gratitude, shame, and longing.

They completed the necessary paperwork, but the atmosphere was heavy with unspoken, tacit remarks. Once outside, the bright morning sun made the blonde's eyes squint. Tony turned to him, filled with nothing but compassion.

"What happened?" Tony asked gently.

Oliver sighed, rubbing his temples. "I may have...burned down my father's house," the blonde stammered, shrugging. Despite the odd revelation, Tony didn't seem surprised. Their understanding of each other's nature brought levity to the worst situations, something Oliver desperately needed and that Tony had always been able to provide.

They walked to Tony's car, a familiar comfort in the strange chaos of the morning. As they drove, a silence settled between them, punctuated only by the engine's hum. The blonde leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes as Tony drove, his hands steady on the wheel. During the ride, Oliver would scour his friend's face, his past decisions heavy in his gaze. It wasn't long before they arrived at Tony's apartment, a place that had once been a second home to Oliver. Tony led him inside, and they sat on the couch, the comfortable silence of old friends settling around them.

"I didn't mean what I said," Tony began, his voice careful. "Back at the party," he added. Oliver felt a lump form in his throat, followed by an unanticipated acceptance.

"Yes, you did," Oliver replied, sighing. "And you're probably right," he said. "There's a part of me that understands why he did it. My dad, I mean," Oliver admitted, his confession causing Tony to squint his eyes with surprise. "Crazy, right?' he uttered, chuckling sarcastically before leaning back on the couch. "Watching your child grow away from you...knowing he will eventually get hurt...might just be the scariest fucking thing in the world," Oliver stated, his blue gaze trembling slightly. Tony reached out, taking Oliver's hand in his.

"It still doesn't excuse what he did to you," Tony gently stated, relieving Oliver of his sudden compassion for his father's transgressions. The blonde squeezed his eyes shut, tears threatening to spill.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, feeling Tony's grip tightening. "For hurting you," he finally apologized.

"I know," Tony whispered back. Oliver looked into Tony's chestnut eyes, seeing the genuine love and care still concealed in them.

"I wish..." Oliver stammered, hope crawling out of his skin. Tony shook his head, a hopeful smile breaking through the gloom.

"Let's take it one step at a time. We'll figure it out," the tall hunk stated, prompting the most sincere smile on Oliver's lips in years.

They talked for hours about Elijah, their shared good times, and confronting their painful memories. Oliver felt a sense of catharsis, a tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find his way into a future with Tony.

"Get some rest," the tall hunk suggested, standing up and stretching. Oliver bobbed his head slowly, feeling the exhaustion settle into his bones. Tony threw Oliver a warm, reassuring wink before leaving for work.

That afternoon, as Oliver lay in Tony's guest room, he felt a sense of peace he hadn't felt in years. He could yet see ahead. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope.

The destruction of John's home brought a strange, liberating clarity. Yet he knew that with that came the moment he knew was inevitable.

It was time for Elijah to know the whole truth.

The following day, Oliver arrived to an eerily quiet house. He approached Elijah's room, the dark, electric blue mantle of the early morning still besmearing the house. He knocked gently on the door before pushing it open, his eyes frowning at seeing the boy's bed still made and empty.

He walked out and descended the garden into the annex. Legs stumbling inside the room, Oliver yanked off his clothes, stripping to his undies. He reached his bed and stopped, a smile brewing on his lips. Elijah slept peacefully on it. The blonde hunk crawled over the mattress, laying next to his son, his eyes peeking at the young man who began to move, his husky moans surfacing.

"You're on my side..." Oliver whispered.

"It's softer..." Elijah mumbled. Oliver beamed, his eyes embracing Elijah. The depth of emotion in his gaze forced his son to roll over.

"Aren't you a little old to be sleeping in my bed?" Oliver continued, his voice melting into the peacefulness Elijah exuded.

"Dad?" the boy called.

"Yeah?" Oliver whispered. The silence between their breaths was heavy with words that yearned to be spoken. Oliver inhaled, gathering his thoughts, knowing that this conversation was long overdue. But as his mouth opened, Elijah's voice interrupted him.

"Tell me about Niko?" the boy asked, his question finally flaring the floodgates of Oliver's history.

"Niko...he was..." Oliver began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. "...my out-of-body, over-the-top..." Oliver described, repeating the beautiful words spoken by his son days earlier. "Butterflies in my stomach...my "fuck everything" kinda love," the blonde hunk continued, his eyes welling up. Elijah listened intently, his blue gaze drawn to Oliver's memories.

"What happened?" Elijah questioned, lifting his body with his elbows, eyes still sleepy. Oliver sighed, his gaze drifting back to the window as he began to speak.

"Like my mother would say...life happened," he whispered, pausing as vivid and poignant memories barraged back. "I met him when I was your age. On one of our family trips," he explained, his eyes suddenly vibrant. "He was my first," he finally revealed. Elijah's eyes widened in surprise. This was a part of his father's life he had never heard of. "And you never really get over your first. You never really forget," Oliver whispered.

"Did you love him?" Elijah asked. Oliver nodded, his expression gaining vitality.

"Fuck, yes," Oliver declared, the answer brewing with certainty. Elijah smiled, enamored by this side of his father's spirit. "He...made me feel invincible. And for a while, I was," he added before his expression changed. "But then, my mother got sick. I couldn't leave her, so...I made a choice," the blonde hunk uttered.

"That must have been hard..." Elijah mumbled, his empathy now bound to Oliver's pain.

"It was the hardest decision of my life," the blonde stud confirmed.

"And you never spoke to him again?" Elijah questioned, eyes scouring for his father's, a tamed hope attached to them.

But Oliver's head shook slowly as he lay there in silence.

"My father...disapproved. And took it upon himself to do everything he could to keep me from going back..." Oliver recounted, his tone still sprinkled with outrage. "So...he hid the letters Niko sent me over the years. He made me believe he had forgotten..." he stammered, his voice cracking. Elijah sat there in stunned silence, trying to process his father's revelation.

Oliver's eyes filled with tears, and he shrugged, overwhelmed by his vulnerability, a part of him he had so desperately suppressed. Elijah's blue eyes gazed at him in a new light. His father's heart harbored pain and loss but also a deep, abiding love for that young man he had met briefly and for the love they had shared.

"What happened to Niko?" Elijah challenged his question, enveloping the room in a deafening silence.

Oliver's voice stumbled, his throat closing.

"He passed away. About five years ago," Oliver whispered, the overwhelming weight of his words slipping through the cracks of his voice. Elijah's mind raced, the sadness of his father's tragedy sinking in. He could sense the longing in Oliver's heart yet saw the fear this broken man harbored inside him. A fear of moving on.

"Dad..." Elijah muttered, unable to find words befitting of the comfort Oliver required.

"After my father died and I found out about the letters, I went looking for anything on Niko," Oliver explained. "I didn't find much. Just a local newspaper clipping..." he stammered, his words breaking.

"Is that why Tony left?" the boy questioned, eyes glistening in the dark. Oliver paused, his son's raw questions exposing everything.

"Tony left because...I pushed him away," Oliver answered.

"Why?" Elijah softly whispered.

"I suppose...I was hurting," Oliver voiced, his pain being unearthed. Elijah's fingers teased the pillowcase, his eyes lingering in thought.

"What now?" he questioned.

"I don't know," Oliver reacted, his response truthful. "I feel like I've spent my whole life trying to figure out what to do with all this...love I still feel inside," he conveyed, finally allowing himself to face the truth. "I think I need to let it go...but I don't know how," he acknowledged.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," the boy whispered, his voice drifting gently into his father's heart, caressing it.

"Me too," Oliver replied, a soft, understated smile escorting it. Even though the sorrow was still latent, he was beginning to find solace inside Elijah's gaze. The boy's eyes flickered unhurriedly, tired. He leaned forward and kissed Oliver's cheek, turning around and dropping his body over the bed.

"You should go back there," Elijah mumbled as he adjusted his head on the pillow, his unexpected, youthful, contagious hopefulness pouring into his father's restless spirit.

Oliver fell back on the bed, his eyes blinking at the ceiling, floored by his son's words.

Maybe the boy was right, he wondered.

Maybe it was time to go back.

(To be concluded...)