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intertwincd · 7 years

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hope is a terminal, featureless smoke.

part 2 of the handle with care trilogy

hope is a terminal, featureless smoke

Too much. It was all too much.

The more you have to give, the more you have to lose—the cycle is an endless, tireless one; until you run out of things to give, out of cards to play.

Oliver never knew what missing someone was supposed to feel like until Connor happened. Until he left. It was the sudden realization that he had given too much that made him pull out.

What does missing someone feel like?

It is…a clench in your gut that you just couldn’t let go. If you, like Oliver, tried to bury the tugging sensation with workload on top of workload, you will later find out that it did no good in muting the part of you that wailed for you to go back.

Oliver hasn’t realized that yet, or at least he is pretending not to.

He goes to work day after day until it no longer feels real anymore, and day after day he insists to himself that eventually he’ll get over it. It never felt real in the first place, no, too good to be true would be the most accurate way to put it.

The days go by like clockwork: the same colleagues, the same job, the same miserable office. It’s all the same. Routine is tiring but it’s really the only refuge you have when your thoughts won’t shut up. Today it seems that it isn’t going so well for Oliver.

His mind buzzes relentlessly, ruthlessly. And Ollie has it bad because he can’t douse it out with a warm beverage like coffee—it fuels his thoughts.

Oliver puts up a fight, he types on, determined to think of anything but Connor. Needless to say, he fights on the losing side of the battle and eventually, he gives in to his flood of thoughts.

And they come as an entanglement of emotion and fragments of memories, all of which are too much to comprehend. Oliver’s mind has always operated in system and codes, line and order. He isn’t quite familiar with jumbled up thoughts.

As he brews himself a cup of coffee—defeated, a man needs his coffee—he picks every detail apart. It’s protocol: analyze, identify problem and solve.

Part i: how

To say that Connor hitting on him was a miracle would be understating it. Of course, there was always an ulterior motive; but unlike so many others that had come and went previously, Connor had chosen to stay. And it was supposed to be a good thing, except it wasn’t.

it was cancer, every moment of it. Sickeningly good was the time they had spent together, but not good enough to stop Oliver from second-guessing what everything was supposed to lead to, like he always did. (his mind was always two steps ahead, strategizing his next most rational move.)

being the person he was, he knew most good things in his life had a tendency to leave the moment he started latching on. Things like love, happiness and above all, Connor.

Oliver was smart though, he had a way of dealing with it, the inevitable separation and loss of Good Things. He would see it coming and he would weigh out the risks, calculating the amount of effort to put in, finding a way to make sure it wouldn’t hurt quite as much when the Good Thing left.

The problem with Connor was that Oliver didn’t see him coming. He was caught off-guard, unprepared. He didn’t know how much effort to put in, so he gave it his all; that is, until he knew he’d given too much.

He’d forgiven Connor in hopes of making things work again. He tried, he really did try to save what they had, but it was too much.

The frail relationship he had woven with his bare hands was not enough, and even the strongest vessels break under pressure. He’d given in to Connor’s charm again and again just to see the relationship last another day. He would’ve done anything.

Oliver’s fingers glide over the black keys. Typing the same codes, thinking the same thoughts.

He takes an occasional sip of coffee and he hates it, he hates that it tastes like Connor and he hates that everything seems to find a way to remind him of Connor, he hates that it was, he hates it all.

But what is there left to do other than to reminisce and grief?

Part ii: why

In between lines of JavaScript, Oliver’s mind wanders to places his body cannot reach nor go to. It went to the empty apartment, the diner they’d always buy takeout from, the bar where they met…And he would wonder if Connor thought of him too.

And then there is the question his mind can never run from: why?

If you were looking for the simplest answer then this is it: he was confused.

Where Connor was so sure of himself, Oliver just felt like he wasn’t enough for anyone; which led to him falling victim and caving in to Connor’s charm. Everything was about Connor, and maybe that was what love was supposed to feel like—reckless infatuation—but the longer it went on, the emptier Oliver felt.

He’d gotten his self-worth all mixed up with Connor and the validation and…The sex. That was all the relationship was built on: spur of the moment decisions and the rush.

It was nice to an extent, but when he started to feel incomplete without Connor it felt wrong. The sappy romance novels he’d read didn’t have anything on dependence and the almighty insecurity.

People in love talk about pouring out their souls into someone else, but they don’t mention the feeling of being hollow in the middle—when you’ve given up too much.

Surely that has its consequences too. If it did, then this would be it. Feeling like you are nothing without another wasn’t so much romantic, let alone normal.

If you’d ask Oliver about the part of himself he loved the most then, he would’ve said Connor without a second of doubt; and that’s why it was wrong. So he left. He wanted to be complete again. He wanted to build his self-worth on something that was a little more concrete—to be his own person.

Oliver’s workplace is a quiet one, so his thoughts got much louder, putting the crunch and click of keyboards to shame.

It all felt like a big time out. Some time to think clearly again, without the distraction of heart. A deep breath out of water. It was hard—there’s no denying it—but it was by all means necessary.

Part iii: when

When will it stop?

This broken faucet of thoughts, when will it stop? It has only been a day and yet Oliver feels like he’s been floating in his ocean of thoughts for a whole eternity.

The same questions circle him and at this point he didn’t know if this was what he had in mind when he decided to take a break.

When they were together, every day felt like the last good day to Oliver. The entire course of the relationship felt like treading on a tightrope, every move was to be gone over countless times—it had to be perfect or everything could end in a matter of seconds.

For a while it was okay, it was love, Oliver had to remind himself.

The fact was that there was too much at stake, things at stake included: 1 heart.

Oliver loved with all his heart and so did Connor, but Oliver found himself at the waiting end of the line far too often. Waiting…For Connor. For his love to be reciprocated, for his effort to be acknowledged.

Most of the time Connor loved back as well; in slow waves of affection and crashing tides of lust and want. He gave Oliver the occasional dose of validation and appreciation he needed and Oliver let himself be consumed by it.

If Oliver could pinpoint the moment he was aware of how much he needed Connor it would be the night Connor had called dinner off because of a case he was working on. Oliver had went the extra mile to conjure up a four course meal that night, only to get a text message from Connor letting him know how sorry he was.

The worst part was that Oliver wasn’t mad at all, not one bit. He’d made up enough reasons to justify Connor missing dinner for the fourth time before his conscience even had the chance to put the blame on him.

At the dining table Oliver ate silently, his thoughts lingering not too far from wherever Connor would’ve been, and as he looked across the table at the empty seat he felt it. Terrible, horrible familiarity; he’d gotten used to having his promises broken.

That was the exact moment he felt all of it slip away from him, all at once.

He stayed for a few more days, hoping to see a silver lining, but it never came. In its place stood realization, cold as ever.

Hope was what kept him going; hope was what got him into this mess from the start. Hope was the feeble foundation their relationship was built on, but it was all they had, really.

And then as if it wasn’t already bad enough, Connor went and fucked another man.

Part iv: who

It took a little getting used to, being his own person again.

It was more like the calm after the storm. He'd gotten used to the turbulence, and now that it was all well again part of him wanted it back.

Maybe it’s because being in a relationship distracts him from himself—it’s hard to constantly have to give yourself pep talks (that don’t go anywhere).

As a person, Oliver has never felt complete. Like, he always felt as if he was missing a piece somewhere. Almost enough but just not. Poetic garbage aside it would be the crude term of having low self-esteem.

Maybe it isn’t as bad as it seems, maybe the fact that it happens to everyone is supposed to mean it matters less (it doesn’t) but to Oliver it felt like a manifesting disease, and the more he thought about it the worse it would get.

Who was he, anyway?

The only things he could describe himself with were the traits he lacked. In a way Oliver became the person Connor wanted to love, became that person who never got angry, who said all the right things and steered far from the wrong, became the boyfriend that waited past midnight, and it was all his own fault.

Oliver stares at the computer screen and the dark blue glow it emits, and the lines of code are no longer lines of code; they’re text messages from Connor, missed calls from Connor, voicemails from Connor; Connor, Connor, Connor.

Could he really forgive him? Connor knew the type of man that Oliver was. He knew how to reel him right back even if he fucked him over a million times, and he did.

Forgiving him would mean walking back into a trap, forgiving him would mean letting himself feel vulnerable and weak—not enough. It would mean that he’d admitted that he was nothing without Connor.

The computer whirrs and buzzes, the firewalls and servers demanding to be fixed all at once and it becomes a montage of wails and of course it isn’t that simple—it’s a computer for christ’s sake.

The wailing derived from his head, more specifically his own voice, begs and pleas for him to just go back to whatever or whoever home was, it is too tired of fighting this urge.

Naturally, Oliver shuts the laptop and makes his way back to 303.

That night, he barely gets any sleep, with his mind elsewhere as it always is. The pandemonium in his mind fades off into a distant static, letting him off the hook.

Slumber doesn’t come without a price though, nothing does. The phone rings at 3 and doesn’t stop until 4, when Oliver tears himself away from his bed. The amount of misery left from the night before it weighs him down along with fatigue.

The phone rings again, the pesky little electrical monster.

Squinting, Oliver sees a familiar number on the screen, and he sighs because every ounce of pain from the day before is back at full force.

Connor’s name flashes above the number, and Oliver loses another battle in his mind as he answers the call. The phone call is a short one but it wakes him up. The things Connor could say…

Someway and somehow, Oliver finds himself in Connor’s apartment and his mind is perplexed to find itself back at square one.

The bitter smell of beer is strong in the air as Oliver pushes the door open.

It smells like defeat and it seems that Oliver isn’t the only one having a tough time alone. Connor looks defeated, with the amount of cans around him he did not look at the slightest okay.

At this point it’s almost satirical that Oliver feels nothing but hopeless. His feet stay rooted to the ground and he stares at Connor as all his walls come down in one single instant. Connor had said that he had ‘figured it out’ and was apologizing profusely on the phone.

Granted, Oliver had expected to see much more than a drunk man in his apartment, fast asleep. There isn’t any anger left in Oliver for now, so he settles for some peace and quiet.

For a few minutes he actually convinces himself to clean up the mess Connor made of himself, he even changes Connor out of his button-down and into an old tee shirt, tucking him into bed.

Part v: what (the following morning)

The pavements gleam in the sunlight. Every step he takes in the direction home corresponds with the steps he took away from Connor.

So what was it that held him back?

When Connor had cheated, it felt like Connor had taken pieces of Oliver and had given them to another man just like that. Still he heard himself defending Connor for something so awful, so foul. He didn’t want to forgive him because to do that he had to first forgive himself.

He was an IT expert, he specialized in fixing things; yet the only thing he could not seem to mend was himself. It would be unbelievably inconsiderate to let Connor carry two burdens, not to mention himself. Trying to mend Connor would only mean doubling the casualties.

He couldn’t fix himself so he went from lover to lover, finding the missing piece, expecting them to make everything alright again.

He’d been searching in all the wrong places. The missing parts of himself resided in him. They were his love and the way he loved—with passion, with pride. Didn’t he see? The only person who could complete him was himself.

And the whole time he’d thought Connor was taking his love from him…He was only learning to open up. Oliver was so preoccupied that he hadn’t taken anything in from Connor’s point of view—the fact that this exclusive relationship was something still fairly new to him.

Insecurity wasn’t his tragic flaw—his pride was. God, he’d been so fucking selfish.

The briefcase stays clutched in Oliver’s hand, but his knuckles have gone white and his mind is blank. His conscience is clear as he closes his door behind him.

He had all his answers in his two hands and for now he’s stunned.

The water from the showerhead pounds the man’s chest and under the steady splash of cold water is the sound of a heart waking up. The emotions that wash over him is a cocktail mixture of a heavy sense of guilt with an overflowing relief.

This could all still work out if both of them were willing to try. This could still work.

Getting into bed seems to be the hardest thing when your head is just starting to rev up again, intrigued by its want to right all the wrongs there are.

He falls asleep at long last with the bedside lamp still turned on, eyes getting the rest they’ve been deprived of.

It was the right decision, ollie had decided. Leaving (both Connor and his apartment this morning) was the best thing he could have done. He was in no place to fix Connor given the circumstances. They both aren’t thinking straight right now, in each other’s presence it was too great a distraction.

Some time apart would suffice, hopefully.

The next day at work is a breeze. The lines of codes are no longer blurring together or doing anything they shouldn’t be. He sees things with a new light now and everything feels new.

Even his coworkers give him double takes as he walks in—must be the freshly laundered suit—and everyone seems shocked, even Oliver himself, when he accepts an invitation to lunch with his colleagues.

Everyday Oliver learns to forgive Connor more, even if he hasn’t formally apologized, ollie likes to believe that he will soon.

Oliver thinks of Connor still, but in his head it seems a lot more like a virtual checking-up-on than longing, for the most part.

Part vi: where (2 weeks later)

Oliver had all his missing pieces back and his life in order again. It feels good.

On a Saturday afternoon Oliver decides to treat himself to some ice cream he had been craving the whole week, and at the little parlor everything is nice and quiet as always, until the owner of the shop asks him about Connor.

The ice cream melts against the metal spoon and what was meant to be a chocolate triple deluxe looks like a chocolate avalanche.

At the mention of Connor’s name, Oliver is brought back into the memory of his first time visiting this parlor. Connor had insisted that ice cream was the best dessert and Oliver had given in, half unwillingly tagging along to the little unsuspecting ice cream parlor.

They had made countless trips there since, every time they failed to pick a proper place to eat.

The chocolate ice cream lacks taste without Connor around. Oliver looks around and everywhere he sees himself and Connor—laughing in a booth, arguing about the best tacos, talking about anything and everything.

Oliver takes his paper cup of ice cream and leaves the shop, intending to look for someplace quieter.

He takes a stroll around a park and walks past shop windows, but everywhere he goes, he sees Connor. On benches, in restaurants and bars…The chocolate ice cream ends up in the garbage and Oliver stays lost in thought.

It’s impossible to escape the pull in his stomach that is back and strong as ever; and this time Oliver doesn’t doubt it anymore. He’s certain of it—he misses him.

He’s everywhere. Oliver sees him everywhere, because his subconscious wants to.

Is it time yet? To go back to Connor and bask in everything that is him? Is it time yet to go back and finally, finally make the amendments he’s been meaning to make?

Is it time yet to go…Home?

Miraculously, Oliver has ended up in front of Connor’s apartment again. His feet are starting to make his decisions for him now, it seems.

This is it then, he supposes. It must be time.

It has to be.

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intertwincd · 7 years

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i just need someone to break this wall of bricks i’ve built (coliver angst)

part 1/3 of the handle with care trilogy

hello, chelsea here. this is a lil something i wrote in attempts to give myself closure and to help myself reminisce of the times everyone in htgawm wasn’t pulling bullshit stunts (aka season 1) and i hope you enjoy it! huge, enormous thank you to @colormayfade for editing and beta-ing too

oh also i forgot to mention that the title of this part is borrowed from Yuna’s Places to Go

▪ ▪ ▪

i just need someone to break this wall of bricks i’ve built

It wasn’t as if he was scared, right?

Wrong. Of course he was scared, petrified even. Connor never knew what it was like to be brought back into a memory again and again every night; but that was before he and the other 4 of the k-5 killed Annalise Keating’s husband with their very own hands. He woke up drenched in cold sweat some nights; knuckles always bleach white and clutching at his sheets, trying to find some comfort, some security. This, ladies and gentlemen, was one of those nights.

He took lengthy breaths, in and out, trying to wash out the discomfort, fear and most of all—guilt.

In his head, Connor had long stopped trying to forgive himself for what he had done, because it was wrong in every sick disgusting way. Can you imagine killing your lecturer’s husband, cutting him up into sizable chunks and then pouring gasoline over it before proceeding to burn it? They might as well had tied a pink ribbon around the body and left a thank-you card with it at her doorstep.

As Connor raked his fingers through his wet hair, he laughed bitterly at what a mess he was. Even he couldn’t give himself the consolation he needed.

What he did the other night seemed to have created a black hole in him, a vacuum that sucked at whatever dignity or feelings he once had.

“Connor, I know this is hard on you, but you have to try— ” W es had tried to make him feel better, offering empty words of comfort that echoed around the house of Annalise Keating.

“And then what? Forget? We killed a man, Wes. ” Connor had stormed out of the house, unable to sustain another minute being suffocated by the air in the Keating house. God knew how many times he had to put himself through those memories until they’d stop resurfacing.

He sat in his car, letting his head rest against the steering wheel while the steady hum of the engine calmed him. The night in retrospect started its loop again, a broken VCR, a reminder that he had a debt to pay.

He wanted to be punished for what he had done wrong, he wanted to face the consequences of his crimes; but he just couldn’t find the bravery in him to own up.

Although Connor feels the things he does and claims to already accept that he himself had actually done something so unthinkable, he knows there is some part of him that is still in disbelief, too scared to come out of his forged armor and be true to himself for once.

The drive home was painful. Being alone was always an open invitation to the voices and the flashbacks, the silence a game of fill-in-the-blanks for the screaming and wailing.

He turned his music all the way up, and yet all he could hear was a mixture of his own screaming and the voices in his head going on and on and on. Thank God his subconscious self could still drive him home safely.

A whole week after, and Connor still hadn’t made any progress , unless the increasing number of beers he could finish within an hour passed as‘progress’.

He always liked living in the city. He found comfort in the fact that it was never completely asleep, and that he could fall into sweet slumber to the whirring of the city coming alive. Like it was a life form on its own, made up of a million others. Despite how people always call him vain and conceited, it was ironic how afraid he was of the idea of solitude.

Every night he turned on the TV, and weirdly enough, the static buzzing and monotone voices between the constant flickering of channels provided c onnor all the company he needed.

And, of course, there would be alcohol. Beer, usually, but occasionally, a fancy bottle of Jack as a congratulatory award for putting up with himself for yet another day. But surely we all know that wasn’t the only reason Connor had such a knack for drinking.

He was pathetic, lonely, and empty–just like the barren apartment he owned.

Connor would fall asleep with the windows open, television still on, surrounded by a pity party of beer cans scattered everywhere: the coffee table, the floor and even one still half full in his hand.

The other hand would hold a cell phone more often than not, and if you were lucky, his thumb would still hover over that number even his drunk self couldn’t bring to call. On other nights he would lie in the dead center of his bed, arms hugging his knees together, boxing himself in feeble attempts of covering up that gaping hole in his chest called Oliver.

Who would’ve known Connor Walsh had feelings after all?

When the dreams came, every single detail—especially the ones he tried hardest to blur out or dilute with the uncanny amounts of beers he consumed—would remain untouched; sometimes even clearer and sharper. It was as if the alcohol he doused himself in was never enough to erase the memories, like the blood on his hands that would always make him feel dirty, inside and out no matter how many times he washed them.

The reason Connor took so much alcohol was to knock himself out to the extent that the hangover he’d wake up to could distract him for everything he feared: the truth.

He hated it when he was sober and awake, because even though he’d be one step further from the voices in his head, he would see his life laid out in front of him (like a PowerPoint presentation of his life—“Look, this is how much of a failure you are!”) and, as the people in the streets partied their lives away, he would feel every second passing, every tick of the clock a reminder that this was his life.

Staring at the ceiling, he learns this really is it. The hope and courage and kindness he had accumulated his whole life seemed to lessen every time he replayed that night in his head. He had his one shot in making his life one to be proud of, loving someone and letting them love him back and he blew it. He fucking blew it.

And then as the sky would turn another shade brighter outside the window of Connor Walsh’s apartment, he’d wonder about Oliver.

He’d piece everything together, every fray memory, every single second shared between them—trying so hard to find that one stray thread; the one thing he did or didn’t do—the single moment where he went wrong, the first symptoms of a splintering relationship.

He would go on for hours, just looking at the peeling cream-colored plaster until his vision doubled over. Sometimes, he’d even take out the old shirt Ollie left at his place ages ago and will himself not to call him, even if it meant just being sent to voicemail—at least he could hear his voice.

That’s when he would realize he no longer had the luxury of calling Ollie. He hurt him, and that was reason enough to cut all ties between them.

Do you ever do it? Sift through all the times you’ve had with someone you once held so closely, replaying them in your head again and again, looking for that one happy memory you can hold onto without all the pain that came with it, and then realize there aren’t any and everything is just one meaningless mess? You are down to your hands and knees, trying to clean up the stain of your mistakes that would just never quite disappear. The more you try to mend yourself, the bigger of a mess you make.

And yet, Connor did it repeatedly despite knowing there was nothing left to savor from that fractured relationship between him and Oliver. It hurt him to reminisce, but there was little he wouldn’t do to just hang on to some reminder of the latter.

In summation, it was beyond-words-woeful. But there was something about that one night that was different, because Connor figured it out.

He had found the missing puzzle piece, the answer to his one aching question; he knew where he went wrong. It was all his fault, all him.

He was scared of hurting others, so he never committed and instead gave away parts of himself to people who called him names and moan that ”God, they loved him,” and yet… it was only sex, nothing more.

The thought of commitment and exclusivity scared him enough to never settle down with anyone, enough for him to disappear before they could get his last name, enough for him to only leave empty white sheets in their wake.

He pushed people away when they got emotionally involved—he pushed Ollie away.

For years he had lived in the mindset that he was trying to protect others from getting hurt by him, but all this damned time the only person he was protecting was himself. The more distance he put between himself and all the people who cared for him (or who cared, in general), the safer he felt.

He was a liar. He lied to his parents when he said he was doing fine, he lied to Ollie when he said his charm wasn’t a weapon he used oh so often, but most of all he had been lying to himself: convincing himself that he was only lessening the casualties by doing what he did. He lied and he lied, telling himself he was over it, telling himself he was an independent, capable young man as he would pull out another beer. One sip for taste, two for company and three to forget everything completely.

So much for capability.

▪

There is only one thing worse than waking up smelling like a bar itself on a Tuesday morning with your apartment looking like an aftermath of World War II—having a witness.

In this case, it was Oliver Hampton; IT wizard, hacker, and the newly discovered love of Connor’s life. While you go on to wonder why on earth he was here, Connor’s attention was snatched by that feeling in his stomach whenever he…

“Fuck, I called you, didn’t I?”

Oliver looked up from his tablet, feet propped onto the coffee table that still had empty cans of beer that reeked of misery, despondency and the night before. He looked nothing short of as tired as Connor, and he definitely had been up till late.

For starters, Ollie was always a light sleeper; but his phone had been ringing off the hook; the caller ID flashing like a warning as he pondered on whether he should pick up or block the number. Naturally and eventually, Oliver picked up (he could never delete c onnor’s number anyway, he memorized it by heart); with his sweaty hands while he paced the floor in his slippers.

“Ollie? I know you really don’t want to talk to me right now, and it’s four in the morning…but I just, I figured it all out. I’m so broken and messed up and so fucking stupid, but I figured it all out. I hurt you a lot, and I lied even when the truth was out in the open.”

Oliver stared at the carpet some more, hearing his heart beat in his ear. “And I just need you to know that I’m sorry, and I miss you, I miss you so much. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ollie, I really didn’t.”

The line went dead and the man on the receiving end heard his heart shake and shatter just a little.

That is how he ended up in the depressing apartment of Connor Walsh. With a soft heart like his, Oliver couldn’t have kept away for long even if his life depended on it; he just wasn’t the type to walk away and stay away. He’d known both of them would cross paths sooner or later, but he didn’t expect it to be this soon.

When Oliver had let himself into the apartment (Connor never changed his lock, and he had a spare key—“For emergencies,” Connor had said) the whole place emitted the foul smell of alcohol, and his eyes carried out a panoramic sweep of the area, landing on the subject—a man presumably wearing clothes from the day before, a shirt with its sleeves folded and its collar unbuttoned and a cell phone lying next to his ear.

He did what he had to; changed Connor into one of his old tees and carried him to his bed. He found a trash bag and started to clean up, but stopped halfway. He had to stop picking up after Connor and let him learn his own lessons, or nothing was ever going to work for both of them.

Now, Connor lay in his bed, sitting against the headboard in the fresh set of clothes courtesy of Ollie. “I…What did I say to you?” He looked down, studying the creases on the sheets.

Oliver had so much he’d wanted tell him, so much anger and frustration he hadn’t been able to voice all this time. There were days where he felt he could punch Connor square in the face, but then and there he couldn’t seem to summon that anger because his heart ached in longing for this man that was staring at him, bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair.

“Something along the lines of I really miss you…or some really needy drunk talk?” Connor tried to probe some memory of him calling Ollie, but nothing would come. He chuckled nervously, still struggling to hold a steady gaze.

The bespectacled boy sighed. “You really don’t remember? Not even a little?” A crease formed between his eyebrows, suggesting that the phone call meant so much more than just some “really needy drunk talk” as Connor had put it.

Connor bit his lip, equally frustrated. “I…really don’t remember.”

The other man reached for his briefcase, putting his tablet inside and getting ready to leave. “Well, then I guess it’s about time I get going.”

He didn’t sound like Oliver at all. There was something cold in his voice that made Connor feel even more helpless than before.

“Wait, no. Don’t go. Stay.”

Oliver took one look at Connor who held onto the fabric of his shirt, trying to find some part of himself that didn’t feel forlorn.

“Fuck, why do you keep doing this to me?”

“You always do this. You bat your eyes, and everything goes your way; you tell me to stay and I always do.” Oliver wasn’t thinking anymore. Every word he had vested in himself for so long… they were all pouring out.

“You made me watch you tear my heart to shreds, you cheat on me; and when you turn up again I just fall helpless to your charm, always crawling back to you.” Months and months of words gushed out—a broken dam.

“It’s not fair that I have to go through all of this. Sometimes, I just feel so damn vulnerable, you know? When you use that charm of yours and you get anything you want, I can’t help but feel like I’m just one of those ‘things’ to you. I feel so worthless. You do it repeatedly and you keep hurting me. And when I finally find the courage in me to actually leave you, this is what I get?” Sleepless nights, a thousand and one texts begging to be answered, and tears leaked from his shattered heart.

Connor sat cross-legged on his duvet, startled. Oliver was still …Oliver. The first and last person he had ever truly loved, and everything he said made sense: Connor pushed people away when the only thing he had wanted was to get closer.

“Look around you. You have a drinking problem, and you can’t take care of yourself. I told myself I had to stop cleaning up after your mistakes, because you will never learn if all everyone ever did was cover up your dirty work.”

Oliver held up an empty can. “Can after can, you are drinking your whole life away, and you don’t seem to care about how you are hurting yourself, but can’t you have a little compassion and see how much this hurts the people around you? How much this hurts me?” Raised voice, pounding head.

“You broke me, Con. You broke me and now that I’ve left you, can’t you at least give me some comfort in knowing we are both better off apart? Not to have you call me four in the morning and see you destroying everything you are? Don’t you think I deserve at least that much?”

Connor kept silent, lost in his own turbulence.

“I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have come looking for some kind of…explanation.” Oliver wiped at his face which was now tear stained. “Look at you.” he laughed bitterly. “You’re not even trying. And those words you said to me, I really thought you figured it out.”

The law student stared at his palms, trying to grasp at any memory of the night before—anything at all.

“You’re right,” Connor started. “I’m a tragedy and I hate it just as much as you do…but I can fix this, I can fix us.”

Oliver scoffed. “God! Get over yourself, Connor. You fucked up, big time and you aren’t going to be able to fix us if you don’t start working on yourself.”

Even in crucial moments like this, Oliver’s heart still ached for what they once shared, but he knew it in his conscience that this was the right thing to do. He handed Connor some freshly laundered clothing and the black garbage bag he found earlier, not making eye contact the entire time.

“Here,” his voice softened, “Clean up this mess. Wash yourself of this self-pity and try to get yourself together.”

At this point, Connor had long surrendered, so he took the towel and went into the shower.

In the small cubicle the water rained down Connor’s lean physique, washing off the feeling of exhaustion, clearing his mind of the haze it had been caught in layer by layer as he lathered his body with soap and rinsed himself clean.

His skin grew red at the heat of the water, and he remembered. He remembered everything—from the beer to calling Ollie—he remembered it all.

Most importantly, he remembered that he did, in fact, figure it out.

He put two and two together and realized that the only reason Oliver would’ve turned up with that light in his eyes only barely lit was because Ollie had chosen to believe him when he said he had an explanation.

With his heart finally revving up again after what seemed like weeks of stagnancy, Connor hastily wrapped his towel around his waist. There was still time. He could still explain himself and convince Ollie he could find a way to mend himself and their relationship—light up that fire in Oliver’s eyes again.

“Ollie?” Connor called out as he stood before his apartment, only to be greeted by the quiet Ollie-less air of the living hall.

What lay before him was a whole new arrangement, a few novels stacked neatly on the coffee table replacing the beer cans that had been there for weeks on end, a laundry bag of clean clothing and the shades opened to let the light in.

Connor looked around for any sign that Ollie might return afterwards only to find a spare key—laid next to a bag of Chinese takeout.

The steam from the food was wafting out in slow spirals—warm, just like the spot on Connor’s temple that tingled; remnants of the kiss Oliver had left when Connor was tucked in bed, his calloused fingers clutching Oliver’s hand.

Connor probably didn’t realize, but that was the first time his nightmares kept quiet through the night.

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