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
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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.
AU: Connor really does have a drug problem, and he might need help, if he can ever admit it. First part here. Second part here.
Oliver flushes the pills. Connor can’t bring himself to do it himself.
His hands eventually stop shaking. He gains back the 23 pounds he lost. He goes to therapy sessions. The empty, haunted look leaves his eyes, and it’s replaced by a soft sparkle when he looks at Oliver. Or thinks about Oliver. Or texts Oliver.
Slowly, the pit of anxiety eases away, and he can breathe again.
He still screws up sometimes. He loses cases. He finds a stray pill, once, in his jacket lining, and in a moment of weakness, five weeks clean, he takes it. He fights with the other interns. He fights with Oliver.
They take things slow. They watch movies on the couch. (“This isn’t a date,” Oliver reminds him. Connor holds up his hands in surrender.) They order takeout. (“Do you want pizza tonight?” Connor asks, holding out the menus that have culminated in a pile on the counter.) They go grocery shopping together. (“We can’t have takeout every night, Connor.” Oliver sighs. “And you practically live here anyway.”) They don’t kiss. They don’t go out on dates. They don’t have sex. But as time wears on, boundaries are slowly shed, and Connor finds himself slowly decreasing the space between them on movie nights, until his head is in Oliver’s lap (“I’m just sleepy.” he insists), or grabbing his hand to pull him over to the wall of cookie butter at Trader Joe’s (“This is pure sugar.” Oliver says, horrified. “But it’s so good.” Connor pleads.)
Oliver’s teaching Connor how to bake one Saturday night when it hits him, and Connor feels the anxiety building in his chest again when he realizes how domestic this was. It felt too easy. Too normal.
“…so then you break the eggs into the bowl, and– Connor?” Oliver looked over, and saw Connor crossing his arms over his chest tightly, like he was trying to hold himself together. “What is it?”
“This. Us.” Connor bit his lip, hard enough that a sharp metallic taste flooded his mouth.
“What about us? You don’t want to bake?” Oliver asked, confused. There was a smear of flour in his hair, where he’d gotten frustrated and run his hands through it after Connor had asked what the difference between baking soda and baking powder was. (“Jesus, Connor, how would I know?”) He wore an apron, and he was so beautiful he made Connor’s heart ache.
“I just… I don’t do this. Domestic stuff.” He clarified, taking a deep breath. “But we are.”
“And?” Oliver prompted, setting down his whisk.
“And… I’m not, like, bursting into flames. Or running away screaming.”
“You’re scared.” Oliver guessed. Connor shrugged a little. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Instinct?” Connor didn’t really feel like going into the whole backstory of his irrational fear of intimacy, or whatever his therapist called it. “But I’m not scared with you. Which makes it scarier, somehow.”
“But what are you scared of?” asked Oliver, stepping closer to him. He took Connor’s hands, unwinding them from his chest, but he didn’t drop them.
“Losing you.” Connor whispered. “Nothing this good every lasts with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Oliver squeezed his hands. They look at each other for a long time, and he’s not sure who leans in first, but suddenly they’re kissing, soft and tender and sweet. Oliver backed Connor into the refrigerator, one hand tangled in his hair and the other steady on the small of his back. They broke apart when the oven beeped, letting them know that it’s finished preheating.
“Oliver, I–”
“Shh.” Oliver kissed him again. “We have to finish the cupcakes.”
Oliver makes Connor do the rest of the work, if not to teach him the proper way to homemake chocolate buttercream frosting, then to stand behind him, chest to back, while Connor mixes. He puts one hand over Connor’s and the other on the bowl, guiding them both slowly. “The key to a good buttercream,” Oliver murmurs, “is to take your time.”
Connor finally shuts off the hand mixer after a torturous ten minutes, and takes one of the frosting covered whisks, licking it slowly.
“That’s unsanitary.” Oliver remarks, resting his chin on Connor’s shoulder.
“I’m not going to put it back in there.” Connor huffs. He takes the other whisk and sticks it in Oliver’s mouth, who shrieks in surprise and stumbles backwards.
Connor laughs and turns around, catching Oliver by his loose apron strings and tugging him forward. Oliver blinks at him as Connor pulls the whisk out of his mouth, tossing it in the sink. “Hey,” he protests weakly. “That’s my cookware.”
“I’m very sorry.” Connor says, his voice low.
“No, you’re not.” Oliver narrows his eyes but steps closer.
“No, I’m not.” He agrees. Connor looks at him closely, unsure, and Oliver flushes under his gaze. “What?”
“Can I kiss you?” Connor whispers. Oliver doesn’t reply, instead leaning in to press a chocolaty kiss to the tip of Connor’s nose.
“No.”
Connor looked disappointed. “What? Why?”
The oven beeped. “Because the cupcakes are ready.”
“Screw the cupcakes.” Connor growled, trailing kisses up Oliver’s neck, who squirmed in his grip. “Connor, I did not spend almost two hours teaching you how to bake to let these burn.” Oliver laughed, pulling away.
They frosted the cupcakes together, bumping hips and elbows, and ended up flinging the remnants of frosting at each other.
Oliver shrieked as Connor launched a spoonful at his face. It hit his cheek and splattered, and Connor snickered. “Who knew you looked so good in brown?”
“Oh my god, I hate you!” Oliver yelled, throwing the contents of the half full bowl of cupcake batter at Connor. He gets drenched, and looked up with fire in his eyes. “You are going to pay for that.” He promises, wiping cake batter off his cheeks and rushing Oliver, pushing him into a wall. He rubs his pastry covered face against Oliver’s, who squirms, laughing.
The cupcakes ended up forgotten in their haste to shower together, and they emerged only when they’d rinsed chocolate from their hair and the water had begun to run cold.
The first time he says it, they’re fighting. Nothing malevolent, something stupid about Connor forgetting to tell Oliver he was visiting his parents that weekend.
“Why wouldn’t you let me know?” Oliver insisted, his frown deepening those worry lines Connor notices when he’s stressed.
“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.” Connor said, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you said you had to work.”
“I do, but…” Oliver’s voice faltered, and he looked down.
“You have an important project. You told me you would be busy.”
“Not that busy.” Oliver muttered, turning away. “Just forget it.”
Connor got up and followed him into the bedroom, where Oliver’s sitting down. “No, wait, what did I do wrong?”
“Nothing, Connor.”
Connor sighed. “Ollie. Ollie, talk to me.” He tries to catch his eye, but Oliver refuses to look up.
“I just thought you might want to finally introduce me to your family.” He said, grabbing his laptop.
“I did!” Connor said, exasperated. “I love you, but I swear, you are so dense sometimes. I wanted my mom to meet my boyfriend.”
Oliver looked up from under his glasses, his eyes wide. “W-what?”
“Yes, Oliver, you’re my boyfriend. What did you think?” He rolled his eyes and starts to go back to the kitchen, but a hand on his wrist stopped him. “If you want to drop your work, you can still come, but- mmph.” He was cut off by a pair of warm lips pressing fiercely to his, and his annoyance melted away as his hands automatically went to tangle in Oliver’s hair. Glasses are pressing uncomfortably against his face, but he doesn’t mind, because Connor didn’t really think they were fighting, but make-up sex is always nice.
“I love you too, you idiot.” Oliver gasped, clutching Connor’s shirt hard, and fuck, Connor’s eyes widened as he realized what they’d both said.
“So what’s next? We change our relationship status on Facebook?” Connor joked, breathless from Oliver’s lips and Oliver’s hands and Oliver’s love, and it hits him with such a dizzying force, he has to grab Oliver’s waist to stay upright.
He loves this man.
“Yeah,” Oliver whispers, kissing up his neck to his ear. “Yeah, we do.”
AU: Connor really does have a drug problem, and he might need help, if he can ever admit it. First part here.
“You have a what?” Oliver blinked. It somehow hadn't crossed his mind.
Connor sighed, trying to smooth down wet hair with trembling palms. Coming down from something that intense was an absolute bitch, and he sat carefully on the bed. After a moment, Oliver sat next to him, tentative and anxious.
“I know it's stupid and reckless and horrible, and I should have a million excuses. I really should.” Connor shrugged, his voice rough. “But I... I don't.”
Oliver sat beside him quietly, absorbing this, while Connor studied his now clean scrubbed hands.
“Why didn't you tell me?” he whispered after a moment.
“I'm sorry.” Connor whispered back. And then he's crying, and it's stupid, and ugly, but he finds himself wrapped in Oliver's arms and it's okay, at least for that minute.
Eventually, though, he has to pry himself away, and remind himself that they aren't dating, and that he doesn't do boyfriends, and this is really unfair to Oliver. Oliver, who does not need to mixed up in any of this mess that his life is right now. Oliver, who is sweet and funny and beautiful and everything that is good. Oliver, who's shirt is now soaked with tears and snot and, oh, gross. Connor pulled back, and grabbed a tissue from the bedside table. “Sorry.” he said again, wiping at his blotchy, tear-stained face.
“It's fine.” Oliver said, that same strange note of something more hiding on the edge of his voice. He stood, stretching, and Connor realized with a jolt that the sun had come up. It had still been dark when he got out of the shower. Oliver changed his shirt, and Connor tried (and failed) to avert his eyes.
“Do you need anything?”
Connor shrugged, hugging the pillow he hadn't realized he picked up close to his chest. “I don't think so. I should probably go home.”
“What, so you can get all cranked out again and freak out in front of someone else's house? No.” Oliver fixed him with a hard look, softened a bit by the tiny smile on his lips. “You're staying here.”
“But–”
“Connor. You're staying here.”
Connor quirked an eyebrow, but didn't protest further. Everything from last night had started to creep back into his mind, the weight sinking back onto his chest, heavier than before. He wanted his pills. He needed them. It was a solid, aching burn that spread slowly through his veins and right down into the deepest parts of his soul, and it made him tremble. Oliver saw, and mistook it for something else. “When was the last time you ate?” He asked.
“I don't... I haven't been very hungry.”
“Of course not.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “I'll go cook something.”
Connor followed him, dropping the pillow on the bed, and stood in the doorway, watching the IT geek flit around quietly. “Can I help?” He offered, leaning one shoulder into the frame.
“And burn down my kitchen? Not a chance.” Oliver replied without looking up. “I'd never get my deposit back.”
“I can cook!” Connor protested. “A few things...”
“What, pray tell?”
“Eggs.” Connor mumbled, and Oliver laughed. “And cereal.”
“Yeah, no.” Oliver slid the French toast onto the plates. “You can pour the orange juice, if you want.”
Connor rolled his eyes but complied, reaching up into the cabinets for two glasses. He met Oliver at his table, where he's slicing bananas over one of the plates. He noticed Connor watching him, and he looked up. “Only one?” Connor asked, setting down the glasses and sitting down.
Oliver slid the banana free plate toward him. “You're allergic, right?”
Connor blinked, taking a sip of juice to cover his surprise. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I am.” He'd told Oliver this exactly once, in passing, in reference to a story he'd been telling about a guy in a banana suit.
Oliver sat across from him, and he began to eat, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. He really couldn't remember the last time he ate anything substantial, and even though he hadn't had much of an appetite, he'd been trying to snack on little things to keep him from completely starving.
“So, what was it? Heroin? Pills? Coke?” Oliver asked, finally breaking the tense silence between them.
“Do you really think I would do coke, Oliver?” Connor replied, his mouth still half full.
“I don't know what to think anymore. You just told me you were a drug addict.” Ouch. Connor swallowed hard, not really tasting the food as it slid down his throat.
“No, I said I had a drug problem.”
“What the hell is the difference, Connor?” Oliver sounded exasperated.
Connor sighed and pushed his mostly empty plate away from him. “I don't get addicted to things. I'm not that weak.”
“You're sure shaking like an addict.” Oliver spat viciously. “You show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, having a breakdown, and you smell like smoke and alcohol and God knows what else, and you just expect me to welcome you in with open arms after you cheated on me and might have given me any type of diseases from a guy that killed himself shortly after, so please tell me, Connor. What exactly am I supposed to think?” Oliver's almost yelling by the end of it.
And Connor just sat there, with a sort of half-smirk settled on the left side of his mouth, and he looked up with such a painful look in his eyes, Oliver immediately wanted to take everything back, if only to make it stop. “Kick me out, then. I'll go home.” Connor said, trying and failing to land a glare on Oliver. “You hate me, I get it. But at least let me get my stuff first.”
“I'm not going to kick you out, Connor.” Oliver sighed.
“Then what? You're going to babysit me? Hold my hand and tell me everything is going to be alright? It doesn't work like that.” Connor sneered. “I fucked you over. Royally. You should hate me.”
“Well, I don't.”
“Why not?” They were both standing, now, and Oliver took a step toward Connor, who stepped back, looking around wildly like a cornered animal. “You should. You just said it yourself. I cheated on you. I fucked you over. I fucked this up just like I fuck up everything else good that ever happens in my life.” Connor backed himself into a wall, sinking down to his knees in a parody of last night's breakdown. This time, though, instead of being so cranked out of his mind he could barely breathe, he now craved it, like a hollow burn in his veins. “What do you want from me?” He cried.
Oliver knelt next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Connor flinched. “I want to help.” Oliver pleaded. “I do still care about you.”
Connor laughed, shaky and sarcastic.
“I do.” Oliver said. “You fucked up, okay? And you hurt me. But I care about you.”
Connor sniffled, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Don't.”
“What?”
“Don't care about me. I'll fuck it up again.” Connor's breath came in gasps. “I don't deserve it.” His lungs burned.
“Connor. Connor. Breathe.” Oliver took his hands, clasping them to his chest.
“I can't,” Connor's eyes were huge, glittering, and completely transfixed on Oliver's face, even as his lungs screamed for air.
“Yes, you can.” Oliver's voice is even. “Take a deep breath.”
Connor sucked in a breath, and the weight in his chest lessened just a little. Dark spots clouded his vision as he tried to slowly breathe back out, and it was a few minutes until he realized Oliver had released his hands and was now rubbing circles into the middle of his back, murmuring soothing nonsense.
“Adderall.” He said.
Startled, Oliver dropped his hand. “What?”
“Adderall. And Ritalin. That's what I was on. But my dealer gave me something else, I don't know what, and I mixed them, and that's why I freaked out. Probably.” Connor's shoulders sagged without the burden of one his secret. “And you... you were the only thing I could think about. So I ended up here.”
He's not sure when he started crying, but he welcomes the arms that wrap around him once more. “I'm sorry,” Connor sobs. “I'm not usually this much of a mess.”
“I tested positive.” Oliver flinches internally as the wordsleave his mouth, and he sits, waiting for the other shoe to fall.Connor will leave. And he'll wake up in an empty bed, and he'll haveto get used to it alone.
Connorlooked shocked, to put it mildly. His mouth hangs open for a fewseconds, and then snaps closed. Oliver shut his eyes, and tenses forthe inevitable “I can't do this.”
Instead, he feels arms wrap around him, warm and solid. “It's goingto be okay.” Connor whispered, scooting closer.
It's at that moment Oliver starts to cry. “No, it's not.”
Connor rubs small circles into his back. “Yes, it is. You're goingto live a long, happy, healthy life. We're going to go to the doctortomorrow, okay? Together.”
Oliver sniffles. “But you're going to get fed up and leave. Youmight as well do it now.” he adds bitterly, pulling away. “Saveyourself the trouble.”
“What makes you think I'm going anywhere?” Connor says, puzzled.“I told you, Oliver, I really care about you. Hey, no, none ofthat.” He adds as Oliver turns away, crying harder. Connor handshim a tissue. “I almost lost you once. It was horrible. Why would Ido it again?”
Oliver blows his nose loudly. “Because you can do better.”
Connor lets out a frustrated groan. “Stop! Stop saying things likethat. You're amazing.”
“Connor–”
“Oliver, stop.”Oliver's mouth clamps shut. “I'm not going anywhere until you getsick of me and kick me out, okay?”
AU: Connor really does have a drug problem, and he might need help, if he can ever admit it.
thank you thecoateskids for the prompt and I'm sorry it took me forever to fill it. This was originally supposed to be a short little thing and now it's turned into a 3000+ word monstrosity.
It was just supposed to be a one time thing.
He wasn't absorbing the material, and his exam was in eight hours, for Christ's sake. Connor snapped another pencil in his grip, sending it a disgusted look as it joined four others in the wastebasket next to the desk.
“Jesus, Connor.” his coworker snapped at the desk behind him. “Chill out.”
Connor ran a hand through his already messed up hair, fighting the urge to shove the next pencil up his coworker's- “Asher! If you're not going to help me, shut the hell up.” Connor huffed, pulling the sleeves of his shirt down over his palms. His head dropped and he folded his hands over the back of his neck. The other three interns had gone home hours ago, and why Asher of all people decided to help Connor pull an all-nighter was beyond him.
“Calm down.” Without looking up, Connor could almost feel the stupid face Asher made, and flipped him off accordingly. “It's only Professor Keating's class. And it's not even the final.”
“A class that I'm paying for, jackass. A class that I need to graduate, and if I fail this, I'm screwed.” Connor groaned and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. A quick glance at the clock on the coffee table showed it was 1:35 AM, and he groaned again. The knot of anxiety in his chest only tightened, and his fingertips were growing numb.
“Yeah, says the 4.0 on the Dean's List.” Asher snarked.
“Asher, either say something helpful or go download your porn in the library.” Connor said, looking over his hastily scribbled notes. He could barely make out every other word, and he couldn't borrow Michaela's, because she wrote in this weird mix of cursive and manuscript, alternating with the beginning of every word.
“They're closed, broski. Do you want something?” Asher swirled around in his chair, a misplaced smile in his voice.
“I'm not hungry.” Connor muttered. And of course his computer had to break down last week, so he had to take notes by hand, like some kind of savage.
“No, I mean, to help you study.” There was the sound of a briefcase being pulled open, some rustling, and a bottle opening.
“I get my coffee from Starbucks, but thanks.”
“Dude.” Something in his tone made Connor look up wildly, his hair falling into his eyes. Asher held out his hand, where two orange pills sat in his palm. “These will help, I swear. And stop you from having the meltdown I can see already happening.”
“Why would you want to help me? You don't even like me.” Connor frowned, studying his coworker's face.
“As hilarious as it would be to see you freak out, I don't want to be known as the guy who's coworker covered himself in chocolate sauce and ran, naked and screaming, out of Professor Keating's exam. Hurts my playboy rep.” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Dude, they're just Adderall. Prescription.”
“Why do you even have these?”
“Emergencies. Like this one.” He nodded to them, then thought about it, and offered him the rest of the bottle. It was half full. “You'll probably need these too.”
“I won't.”
Asher raised his eyebrows knowingly.
Connor rolled his eyes, but, with a moment's hesitation, took the pills.“It's no big deal.” he told himself. “Do you want to fail?”
He doesn't fail, and the high that chases the resulting 98% is almost as good as the high that helped him study.
Almost.
And then he meets Oliver, and he knows this high is much better. He leaves the pills inside his coat jacket for a week and a half, all but forgetting.
And then he does forget. “My boss called us into work last minute.” He sounds pathetic, and he knows it. “I'll take you to dinner this weekend instead.”
Click.
“Hello? Oliver..” He sighs and hits END.
“Boyfriend drama?” Michaela asks, smirking.
“I don't do boyfriends.” Connor snaps, and the weight is back in his stomach is back like it never left.
When he gets home, it's still there, and he wants, he needs something to take the edge off. A glance in his fridge shows a half empty box of takeout and some probably expired milk. No alcohol. Great.
And he remembers the pills.
“Just one or two won't hurt.” That small voice tells him again. “What, like you don't deserve something nice?”
An hour later, they kick in, and he can't sit still, his brain trying desperately to find something to latch onto, but his homework is done and his apartment is clean. He should sleep, but he can't, and-- Oliver! It pops into his head. Dinner. Why not now?
He almost sprints to the Thai carryout place down the street before remembering, oh yeah, he has a car.
30 minutes later, he knocks on the door, trying the calm the racing heartbeat that has nothing to do with nerves.
Oliver opens the door, takes one look at him, and shakes his head. “No. I don't care what your boss needs.”
He laughs a little, and god, it feels good to laugh for once. Why is he always frowning? Or smirking? Laughing feels better. “No, I'm.. here fore dinner.”
Oliver smiles too, but not happily. “You really think I'm that desperate? That you can buy me some takeout and bat your eyes and I'll get down on my knees like some sad twink?”
Connor raises his eyebrows. “You're too old to be a twink.” And, fuck, that was the wrong thing to say, because the smile slips off Oliver's face and he slams the door in his face.
He turns away after a moment. “Fuck.”
The door opens again, and he turns back. “Okay.” Oliver says. “But tonight, I do you.”
He grins widely and almost runs inside. The takeout is dropped to the floor, forgotten, which is fine. He wasn't hungry anyway.
They practically rip each other's clothes off, and it's the best sex Connor's ever had.
And the worst crash when he goes home hours later, collapsing into bed and sleeping for nearly twelve hours.
“Thank god it's the weekend.” He thinks blearily when he finally wakes up, achy and sore.
Next week, it doesn't take anything major to set him off. Just boredom. “You don't have anything better to do.” The small voice (that steadily grew louder in between hits) said.
And he didn't. No Wednesday classes, no new cases for Annalise, and no new boys to play with. His mom hadn't called in days, and he was bored.
He took three.
The next thing Connor knew, he was in front of apartment 303, knocking.
The door opened. “Take off your clothes.” he said. When did he get so sweaty? His hair hung in his face, and he was out of breath.
“D-did you run over here?” Oliver asked, taking a step back at the wild look in Connor's eyes.
Oh. He did do that. “Yeah.” He walked in, grinning. “Now take off your clothes.”
Oliver was saying something about being addicted to sex, but he wasn't hearing his words, and he was looking at him, and everything felt good, and he looked so delicious in that grey suit it should be illegal, and why would you go to work looking that devastating?
“We're young, red-blooded American males.” Connor said, cutting Oliver off in the middle of a sentence. He looked him up and down as he strode toward him, grinning. “Let's not turn sex into a bad thing.” He tried to grab at Oliver's hips, but he skittered backwards out of his grip.
“I-I'm just saying, why don't we do something normal for once?” Oliver said. “That is not sex. Like have breakfast, or do the crosswords, or whatever it is that actual couples... do.”
Connor raised his eyebrows at the word. “Couples.”
Oliver looks mortified, like he wants to take it back, but he couldn't shut up now. “What's next? We change our relationship status on Facebook? I meet your mom?”
“T-that's not what I meant.” Oliver stammered, as Connor stepped closer. He flushed an adorable shade of pink. “I-I know we're not... You know what, I'll just take off my clothes, a-and we'll have sex, as long as you ignore everything I just said–”
“No, no, watching you freak out is way more fun.” Almost as fun as the high.
“Stop looking at me!” Oliver protested, and Connor's grin widened.
They were both late for work that day.
And then he fucks it up. He fucks up everything, he always fucks up everything, why the fuck does he always fuck up like this?
“Get out.”
And, despite his protests, he finds himself out in the hallway in a tank and boxers.
He goes home, tries to convince himself that it's not a big deal, that Oliver was just another guy, but the tight ball of anxiety that settled back into that familiar spot in the pit of his stomach, the traitorous tears that pricked and stung behind his eyes, the numbness in his fingers, the tight binding of his chest that crushed his lungs and cracked his ribs, begged to differ.
He takes four, and a part of him panics because there are only six left in the bottle, but he squashes that deep down inside of himself, because he's Connor Walsh, goddammit, and he doesn't have a problem, and this is the last time.
It isn't the last time.
When he runs out of the Adderall, he goes to Rebecca, careful not to run into Wes. He doesn't have to say much, she already knows after one look at him, his shaking hands, his bleary eyes. “What do you need?” she asks after a moment, leaning on her apartment door frame. He starts to protest, he doesn't need it, but she cuts him off. “You're too pretty for crank, too strung out for weed, and too preppy for dust. What is it, Ritalin?”
“Close enough.” Connor mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets and refusing to meet her eyes. The door shuts, and the noise makes him flinch, looking around. If Wes catches him...
Rebecca reappears a few moments later, a Ziploc baggie half-full of various chalky white pills in one hand and a prescription bottle of orange capsules in the other. “How much do you have on you?”
“How much do you want?” Connor replied, digging in his back pocket for his wallet.
“Well, usually, the first taste is free, but since you've already gotten yours, sixty for the bottle, ninety for the bag.” Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “And that is with the family and friends discount.”
“Just fuck me up.” Connor thought. He peeled off two bills, a fifty and a hundred, and handed them to her. She pockets them and he turns to go, stuffing everything into an inner jacket pocket.
“See you later.”
He spins around, suddenly pissed. “No. No, you won't, because this didn't happen, and it definitely won't happen again.”
Rebecca snorts. “Sure.” Like she knew him. Connor fights off the urge to shove her into the door, and grinds his teeth down as he walks back to his car.
It's a joke, really. The whole thing is. He's Connor Walsh. He doesn't need things. He doesn't need the pills, and he certainly doesn't need Oliver, despite the buzzing, static pull that fills his head whenever he thinks about either one.
Only an idiot would let himself get addicted to something, right? He was stronger than that. That's what he kept telling himself. There were plenty of guys out there, plenty of hot guys on Humpr to hook up with, so this nerdy IT guy didn't even matter.
Somehow, it doesn't stop Connor from stalking at Oliver's Facebook, or texting him to no reply when he's high and can't think straight. Still, that soft, soothing voice tells him it's alright. His apartment stays spotless, his grades skyrocket, and he is all but immune to the blows of daily life when he's this fucked up. Nothing can touch him up here; not pain, not guilt, not shame, not Annalise's biting words, not even the loneliness that lurked just below the surface.
But coming down, it hit him like a point blank bullet to the head. Out on a case with Wes and Asher, he can't run back to his apartment to crash there, so he opts for the next best thing: alcohol. They're in a bar, after all, and he knows he should be getting information from this girl, but it all comes out like biblical flood waters. “So I know that I should apologize, but is there anything I can actually say that would fix it?” Connor finds himself saying. “I-I mean, I screwed up big time.”
His words are slurring, and the girl's voice pierces the fog that his mind has become. “What about flowers?”
Flowers. Yes. Those are great. Oliver would love those.
So he buys flowers. And knocks on that familiar door. And some shirtless guy comes out, holding a spatula, and his brain shuts down.
He sulks off, humiliated, a lump in his throat, with something strangely akin to guilt or grief stuck in his chest. When he gets home, he downs five orange pills. He thinks they're Adderall, or maybe Ritalin, but he's too far gone to care.
He scrubs his hands until they're raw, and his heart takes off like helicopter blades in a city sky. Everything seems to tint lavender, which should be soothing, and it's only when he can't find his breath that Connor realizes this might not have been the best idea.
At least, he took the wrong pills.
He doesn't want to be wide awake. Alert, shaking, and unable to sleep, where all he can think about was how much he fucked up. He needed a haze, he needed to go down, he needed something to fuck him up more than he's fucked up, which doesn't seem possible.
When he finally crashes, hours later, the only word on his lips, and his mind, is “Oliver”.
He knows he can't keep this up too much longer without someone finding out. He's going to lose this internship. The bags under his eyes have developed to the point where they looked like he had been punched out by a prize fighter. His hands are constantly shaking. Even Wes, the puppy who seems to slowly be developing a bite, noticed something at this study group they pulled together.
“Are you okay?” he asked one day, after he saw Connor's hand shake as he passed him the notes for the last lecture.
“Fine,” Connor muttered, running off to the bathroom before anyone can ask anymore questions. He splashes cold water on his face, and, looking up in the mirror, he's startled at how sunken his cheeks seem, and how his cheekbones jut out, skeletal and unhealthy. He knows he hasn't been eating much, since the pills steal away most of his appetite, but he didn't think it was this bad.
He didn't think any of it would get this bad. Aside from the stray cigarette snuck behind the quad in his high school, Connor had never done any kind of drugs. He'd heard all the lectures, attended all the assemblies, scoffed and rolled his eyes and thought “That will never happen to me.”
And now it had. His reflection regarded him with too-wide dark eyes, appraising his neat hair, his tidy scruff lining his jaw, his trembling lip. And he turned away, turned to the pills in his pocket, figuring the grounding feeling in the white downers would negate the uppers he was already peaking at, right? A small part of him recognized how stupid that sounded, but the lion's roar that had grown from that tiny voice overpowered it, and he swallowed them dry.
Just when he thinks things couldn't get any worse, they do. Rebecca runs out, and everything spirals out of the control that Connor worked to hard to maintain a tenacious grip on.
Sam falls over the balcony, and the resulting crack resonates through him like it was his own skull hitting the ground.
He panics. He wants to run. But that is nothing compared to the ice cold dread that seems to drench him when the trophy hits bone. It wakes him up out of his drugged stupor and he is unable to process anything except how cold he was, yet how warm the blood that splattered him was.
He is blind with terror, and he pushes it down, and starts making stupid, sarcastic jokes. He puts the body in his car, wrapped up in the rug. He goes to the bonfire and nearly strangles Michaela to take a selfie. And somehow, inexplicably, he ends up in from of apartment 303, even though every part of him screams to go. But he knocks on the door anyways.
And freaks out. That weight builds and builds on his chest, and he paces back and forth, beginning to leave, when the door opens.
“I screwed up,” Connor finds himself sinking to the ground, and he's gasping, and he can't make out anything but those words. “I screwed up, Oliver. I screwed up.” He says it until his throat is raw and hoarse, not helped by all the smoke he inhaled that night, from both bonfires.
Oliver coaxes him slowly inside, and the non-panicking part of his brain wonders why, after everything he's done. He's led into a hot shower, and he can wash the lingering smell of smoke and ash out out his hair, his skin, his soul. But there wasn't enough hot water in the world to wash out the memories of what he had done that night.
He steps out to find a pile of clean clothes, sweatpants and a t-shirt with Oliver's undergrad college printed on the front. The shame hits him full force and he stumbles a little. He doesn't deserve to wear Oliver's clothes. He doesn't deserve any of this; he deserves jail. Or hell.
He puts the sweats on anyway, and a tidal wave of exhaustion crashes over him. He stumbles out, and snaps his mouth closed mid-yawn when he catches sight of Oliver's expression: worry, with knitted eyebrows and a touch of something else Connor's fried brain couldn't quite place at the moment.
“What the hell was that?” Oliver blurted, standing from the bed.
Connor looked down, speechless.
“I mean, you can't just show up on my doorstep like that, freaking out. What the hell, Connor? What happened?”
Connor bit his lip. What did he say? Did he lie? Claim a nervous breakdown from stress? From finals? He obviously couldn't just say, “Oliver, I had to help burn and dismember the body of my boss's husband because I helped kill him. Oh, yeah, and I have a drug problem, so that might explain why I completely flipped my shit about an hour ago.”
But he did have a drug problem. Maybe. And he might need help or something. Probably.
Connor coughed awkwardly, cleared his throat, and tried to get the words out. “Oliver, I... I have... I have a drug problem.”
I was thinking about continuing, but please let me know what you guys think and if you want more!
