The last time Oliver sees his father it isn't Halloween but the evidence of it still litters the street as he walks home from school. Pumpkins sitting on stoops, their half-eaten carvings now rendered unrecognizable by squirrels, and the occasional ghost haunting the windows of those slow to remove their decorations. The corner house, however, notes the season only with its untidy lawn being spotted with the fallen leaves. Oliver was supposed to have raked them weeks ago, just as he was supposed to mow the slightly too tall grass beneath it even even more weeks ago, but it's not the state of the lawn that causes him to pause. It's the car in the driveway.

The grey Ford Escort is in shabbier condition than when he had seen it last but its presence is still unmistakable. A war of conflicting emotions roars through him as he fights his instinct to flee. This is Oliver's home and he isn't about to abandon it for someone who's made it very clear they have no desire to be there. So he allows himself one frustrated kick to the front tire before stomping his way up to the front door.

There's safety in the noise of his arrival, a brazen show of the fearlessness he too desperately wants to convey to his dad. It's contrived and manufactured but Oliver knows it doesn't matter - more than likely his dad won't even notice it. He slams the door shut behind him and drops his backpack where it falls to the floor with an unsatisfying softness. For once he wishes he had taken his textbooks out of his locker.

"What are you doing here?" His dad asks from the hallway leading into the kitchen. It's been over a year since he's heard that voice, almost two since he's heard it in person, but Oliver avoids looking at him all the same. He is calm, he is unaffected, and he most certainly does not care.

Besides, it's a fair question. It's barely past twelve on a Tuesday and Oliver's supposed to be in school. But the irony is not lost on him.

"I could ask you the same thing." He's still pointedly looking at anywhere but his dad, even as he brushes past him a little too roughly as he storms into the kitchen.

When he had ditched class he had been looking forward to the empty house, his mom at work and his sister safely tucked away at school in the city. It's weird for him to wish they were here now, selfish too, because while he wishes for backup he's also looking for someone to shoulder the blame with him when this visit eventually sours.

The fridge provides the perfect stall, and Oliver pulls open the door and tries to figure out why his dad would come. Not to see him, naturally, even if Oliver had been naive enough to hope for it the time of the day definitively states otherwise. His mom is at work, but would he know that? Probably not. Oliver's not sure where his dad lives now, what he's doing, but he's pretty positive he's not in close contact with his wife. He grabs a carton of orange juice from the shelf and takes a swig from it, a carefully constructed picture of nonchalance as he turns around to finally face his dad.

He looks the same - A fact that hits his gut harder than he expects. The same hard jaw, the familiar crinkle around his eyes, the way a smirk tugs at his lips even as he folds his arms across his chest - for a second it's easy for Oliver to imagine this is normal. His dad here and disappointed in him for cutting class. But it's not normal and his dad doesn't just show up out of nowhere hoping to insert himself back into the Cobb household and Oliver needs to know the real reason why.

Money is what he expects, his dad's done that before, but the fact that his mom is missing digs uncertainty into him. She's the one he'd be asking, and if she's not here that means he must have been hoping not to run into her. Oliver's dad is not one to waste time.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and raises his eyebrows at his dad expectantly. When his father mimics the expression back, Oliver pretends like it doesn't bother him. They're too similar, something that had Oliver worshiping the ground his dad walked on when he was little and left him resenting him even more when he was older. It hurts in a different way now. Less raw than the pain of a missing piece and edged more with the fear of seeing his future laid out before him.

The similarity means they're both too stubborn to answer first and Oliver wants nothing more than to leave. The satisfaction of being the one to ditch his father for once is within his grasp but he falls short. No matter how much he might convince himself he doesn't care, Oliver still fucking cares. Instead he throws himself into a kitchen chair, about to prop his feet up on the table, when he realizes for the first time there's something on it.

He shoots a sidelong glance at his dad and immediately reaches for the thick yellow envelope when the expression he sees is concealed guilt. No matter how good Victor Cobb is good at hiding truths, Oliver's seen this one too many times to not recognize it.

When Oliver's dad first left, Oliver was young enough to believe he'd come back. He'd hear nothing else from Janie, especially not when they got older and she became convinced he had a new family. He had hated the idea of it, he still does, and he doesn't know which is worse - the notion that he has a new set of kids to disappoint or the prospect that he's a better father to them. It was easier, safer, to refuse to even think about it. But when he opens the envelope and his eyes scan over the papers enough to see what they are, divorce papers, he can so visibly see Janie's 'I told you so' face that the papers blur.

He drops the stack and does his best to look uninterested, regret racing through him for ever even coming inside once he saw his dad's car. "Is that all, then?" Oliver asks, silently cursing himself as his voice lets out the tiniest of wavers. This time he does prop his feet on the table, does his best to mark his territory in the house his father doesn't want. Just leave, he thinks, but he won't say it.

Victor opens his mouth and Oliver's breath catches, something in his father's eyes convincing him that's not all. Good or bad, there's something coming and Oliver braces himself. But nothing ever comes, the moment passes, and Victor shakes his head, his gaze dropping. "Just make sure your mom gets it, alright?"

"Sure," He says, nodding tersely, "whatever."

Victor crosses the kitchen and pats Oliver on the shoulder, just once. The touch is unexpected and he tenses under it. What should be a sign of hope only confirms the finality of it all. The tug on the ear that follows stings even more, leaving his throat burning as Oliver fights to keep his composure, allowing himself only a small shrug in response. And then just like that it's over, and Oliver can hear the Ford Escort pulling out of the driveway before his feet are even back on the floor.

Stupid, he's fucking stupid. When his mom asks him about the envelope later, he pretends he doesn't know.