It’s simple. Or at least it should be. Walk down the aisle. Say the I Do’s.
A fifteen minute ceremony. A marriage. No honeymoon yet. They’ll be home by midnight, curled up on the couch together in their pajamas to watch those final two episodes on Netflix they’ve putting off.
Fifteen minutes. A ring. A kiss. The rest of their lives.
“I don’t deserve you,” Connor whispered into Oliver’s jaw the night before. “I don’t deserve this,” into Oliver’s cheek this morning.
Always, Oliver replies, “You do. You do.”
At the end of the aisle, Connor stands beside Oliver, his hand clasped to Oliver’s. A lifeline. An anchor.
“You don’t understand, Ollie,” Connor had argued when Oliver proposed. Months ago. Down on one knee. Smile and eyes bright, shining - open. Happy. “I don’t get to have this.”
Always, “You do.”
The ring on Connor’s finger adds years to his life.
Love. Life. Happiness. He wishes, hopes. Wants. More than anything, wants.
Connor holds Oliver’s eyes. Oliver holds Connor’s heart.
The officiant reads through the standard lines, the vows.
Softly, Oliver says, “You deserve this. You get to have this.”
Connor can’t quite believe it, but with Oliver, he’s desperate to.
“I do,” Connor says, first steps toward the rest of his life.
Oliver smiles, brilliant and beautiful and blinding. “You do.”
Oliver didn’t even open his eyes at Connor’s soft question but did offer up his honest answer, “No.”
Because he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to open up the mess of it right now. The mess of Thomas and them and this latest, naked turn in their relationship. Oliver just wanted to lay here for a moment more. Just lay here with sweat cooling on his lower back and his calf brushing Connor’s. Just lay here with Connor’s taste still on his tongue and their fingers loosely linked. Oliver just wanted to lay here and be for the foreseeable future.
He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to think. He wanted to turn and curl around Connor, wrap their bodies close and burrow together under these borrowed sheets. He wanted to sleep, drift off with Connor’s skin under his cheek and the man’s heartbeat as his lullaby.
Plus, Oliver had a feeling he really could now—sleep that is. Something had unhinged inside him before, something he hadn’t realized he was holding close had loosened and resettled in him, and Oliver knew in his gut that he could sleep tonight, long and deep and untroubled for the first time in weeks. There wouldn’t be any waking in this bed. He wouldn’t bolt up in a few hours to find himself reaching out, searching for something, someone who wasn’t there because the person Oliver sought, Connor, would be right there, sleeping long and deep beside him.
“Not now,” Oliver whispered to Connor with his eyes still closed. “I don’t want to talk about it yet.” He waited a moment, took one final breath in — savoring the glorious weight of Connor’s leg and hip pressed against his own, skin to skin — before he opened his eyes and turned his head. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Realizing he’d been caught staring, Connor’s head whipped up, eyes quickly pulling away from Oliver’s profile to focus on Michaela’s ceiling. “No,” he answered but it was hesitant, clearly a lie. “We don’t have to—”
Oliver tightened his fingers around Connor’s. “Con,” he said, voicing lifting just a bit at the end to make it a question and a statement all in one.
The other man shook his head and looked around. “We should get up. Get dressed.” He caught Oliver’s eyes and gave a weak smile. “I’m not sure how long they’ll be and…”
“Right. Good idea.” Reluctantly breaking the contact between them, Oliver sat up and reached for his clothes.
They dressed in silence and, after everything was buttoned and zipped and back in place, Connor dug fresh sheets out of Michaela’s closet while Oliver stripped the bed. They remade it in silence too. Oliver was struck how surreal it felt to be doing something so utterly domestic and mundane together, falling back into their old, established routine. Them each wrapping corners of the fitted sheet around the mattress and tucking the flat sheet under, brushing a hand over it so it lay smooth, Connor settling the duvet back on while Oliver slipped on new pillow cases, and finally the both of them arranging throw pillows.
“That looks right…doesn’t it?” Connor asked, tilting his head slightly to one side.
“Yeah.” Oliver shrugged. He hadn’t really been focused on what it looked like before but… “Looks good to me.”
Chore complete, they both hesitated on either side of Michaela’s bed.
“I…I should probably—” Oliver began, gesturing towards the door.
“No,” Connor protested. “Just—we can watch something on TV. Just chill for a while. Anything you want.”
Oliver considered. “Anything?”
His ex snorted and led the way out into the living room. “Anything within reason.”
Settling on the couch, Connor picked up the remote and flipped until he found TV Land and a Golden Girls marathon. He tossed the remote back on the coffee table and sat back. “Good?” he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
Oliver just smiled and shook his head. “You know me so well,” he murmured with a hint of awe.
“Yeah.” Connor turned to glance at Oliver’s profile. “I do.”
They were quiet then. The silence interrupted by an occasional laugh or chuckle from one or other other. By the time the show broke for commercial, Connor had worked up the nerve to breech the silence.
“Hey Ollie?”
Oliver tilted his head to the side but didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah.”
“What happened with Thomas?” When he felt Oliver stiffen on the couch beside him, Connor was quick to add, “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I just—it’s just if we’re trying to be friends, friends usually—”
“I know,” Oliver said, his voice both soft as a whisper and hard as steel. “I get it.”
“Just thought, if you want to talk about it…” Connor trailed off and turned back to the TV, fully expecting Oliver to ignore his attempt at offering an olive branch.
They watched two more commercials — one for cell phones and the other a political ad — before Oliver slowly began. “We had just finished dinner when I invited him back to my place for…for a ‘nightcap’.”
Connor snorted. “Really?”
Oliver whipped a throw pillow at him, which Connor clutched to this chest. “Shut up. I’m trying to be considerate of your—”
“Just tell the story Olls,” he said dismissively. This whole conversation felt strange enough without Oliver trying to censor himself.
So Oliver did just ‘tell the story.’ He left out some of the more graphic details, sparing them both the awkwardness of it all, but he made sure to keep all the important parts in place.
“So, anyway, he’s pulling away and I’m standing there, rambling on about how I’m undetectable and he doesn’t—”
The hand on his shoulder was instant. “You’re what?”
Resting his head back on the couch, Oliver turned it so he could look Connor in the eye. “I’m undetectable.”
“Ollie.” Connor’s hand tightened on Oliver’s shoulder and his smile was one of joy. “You are? When?”
“Last week,” Oliver said, unable to keep the smile out of his voice, the joy of it, the relief, the pride. “Went to the clinic and…” At a loss for words, he just shrugged.
“Oliver. That’s…that’s…” Struggling with his own loss of words, Connor squeezed his ex’s shoulder again. He wanted to touch more, pull Oliver in, kiss him, celebrate with him, do everything that he wasn’t allowed to anymore. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah. I wanted to call you after but…” He stumbled with how to end that sentence. But we weren’t friends last week. But I wasn’t sure you’d answer the call. But I didn’t think you’d care.
With one final squeeze, Connor pulled his hand back. He hugged the throw pillow tight to his chest and prompted, “So what happened next? With Thomas?”
Oliver looked down, picking at a hangnail. “He left. Said something about how it changed his plans and…and he was gone.” He blew out a long breath. “I texted him this morning. Just…just saying I had a nice time at dinner last night and when he was ready to talk I was here…”
Connor was afraid to ask. “Has he—?”
Oliver shook his head. “Nope. Nada.” He glanced up to watch a screen play out on the TV screen and absently chuckled at the antics of Blanche and Rose then, “It’s my own fault really.”
“What is?”
“That he left,” Oliver explained. “I sprang it on him. Freaked him out.”
Connor’s snort was dismissive. “It’s not your fault he acted like an asshole.”
“Yeah but…but I should have figured out a better way—a better time to—”
“It’s not your fault,” Connor repeated, harsher this time. “His reaction is not on you. His reaction’s all him.”
Oliver sighed. “I know,” he told Connor and he really did. But knowing it was true didn’t make anything feel less like his fault. “I know it’s not on me but…” But he still walked out on me. “But knowing it doesn’t make it feel any less personal. Still makes me feel like I could have done something different, something better.” Oliver shifted, setting deeper in the couch. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Oliver,” Connor was quick to say but Oliver just shook his head, eyes shiny with tears and locked on the TV. “Alright. Okay. We don’t have to. Sorry I brought it up.”
Oliver shook his head. “Don’t apologize to me.” Not you. Not about this. Never about this.
They settled in to watch TV again and silence in the room was filled by the tinny laugh track as Blanche and Rose were joined by Sophia on screen.
“Oliver?”
“Yeah.”
“You know you can always call me,” Connor said. “Before, about the results, you said—well, you can always call me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Connor risked a glance at Oliver. “I meant what I said before. You can always come to me. Always.”
Not trusting himself to speak, Oliver reached out and covered Connor’s hand. He cleared his throat but the words still came out a little broken. “You can come to me too, Connor.”
“Always?” Connor asked, only half-joking.
Oliver squeezed Connor’s hand. “Always.”
A thud on the door and scrape of a key in the lock had Oliver pulling his hand back and Connor hugging the pillow closer to his chest.
Michaela and Asher were back. The spell that had been cast over tonight had worn out, the little protective bubbled they’d created for themselves was burst. The real world was just outside, struggling to open the door.
that promo! (a/n: contains spoilers for the 3x04 promo) (WATCH IT!!!)
Connor leaned over Oliver’s shoulder, watching the code fly over the screen. “Anything yet?”
Oliver shook his head and the look he shot Connor was mournful. “No. Sorry.”
“Dammit.” Connor scrubbed a hand over his face and stood, sneaking a glance at the clock on the wall. He needed to leave soon or he’d be late.
“I can text you.” Oliver turned back to the laptop. “You don’t have to wait.”
“No, it’s–”
“I heard you have a date.”
Connor froze at that, a chill running down his spine. He turned slowly to face Oliver. “How’d–?”
“Laurel,” Oliver answered. He shot Connor what Connor imagined Oliver thought was a reassuring smile. “She might have mentioned it.”
“Laurel,” Connor nearly growled the word, letting it fall from his lips like a curse.
“She just wanted to give me the heads up. Didn’t want me to get blindsided by it,” Oliver rushed in to defend. “She didn’t mean anything by it and besides...” Oliver let out a breath and forced himself to look Connor in the eye. “I’m happy for you.”
Connor’s look was incredulous. “You’re happy for me?”
“Well...” Oliver ran a finger along the edge of his laptop and tried to find the words. “I mean, it’s...it’s good you’re moving on.”
Connor snorted. “Like you and Simon are moving on?” He closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to bring that...that person up at all.
“What?” Oliver blinked. “Me and Simon? We aren’t–” He frowned at Connor but, seeing Connor’s dark expression, Oliver choose to just let that lie. He didn’t want to fight with Connor anymore. All they seemed to do lately was fight. He cleared his throat and started again, “I’m glad for you, Con. About tonight. It’s...it’s good.”
Connor snorted. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“I said unbelievable!” Connor nearly shouted. “You are unbelievable, Oliver. You find out I’m going to ‘dinner’ with some middle-aged guy who lives above Michaela and all you can say is you’re happy for me. Fuck that. You’re my ex-boyfriend! You should...you should–!”
“What?” Oliver demanded, rising from his seat. “I should what, Connor?”
“Be mad! Be mad or...or jealous! Threaten him or...or me or try to convince me not to go or–Fuck. I don’t know!” Connor’s chest heaved with breath. One quip from Simon about Oliver had Connor seeing red all afternoon. Oliver finds out Connor is dating again and he’s just fine. Bullshit. “Just do something, Ollie.” Stop me, Connor thought as he held Oliver’s eyes. Ollie, stop me.
“I...” Oliver looked down, looked away. “I can’t.” I shouldn’t.
“You can’t? Jesus, Oliver–”
“I miss you.” Oliver’s eyes shot back up to Connor’s and they held there for a breath, then two. “Is that what you want to hear? That I miss you? Because I do. I really do. It’s–” Oliver took in a shaking breath. “I’ve never missed anyone the way I miss you, Connor. It...I don’t know what to do with it most of the time and...and I miss you as my partner but also–” Another dangerously shaking breath. “I miss you as my friend.” Their eyes held and Connor had to swallow down the knot in his throat. “You are–you were my best friend Connor, and...and I can’t be your boyfriend–”
Yes, Connor’s treacherous mind thought. Yes you can. “Ollie–”
“But!” Oliver continued, not letting Connor cut him off. “But I can be your friend.” He took one last settling breath and set his shoulders. “And friends are happy for each other when they have dates. So I’m happy for you, Connor. I...I hope you–” Oliver stumbled, stopping short of wishing Connor fun on the date. This entire thing was making his stomach ache. He had to draw the line somewhere.
Oliver never picked that thread of conversation back up. His half expressed good wishes just hung there in the air, like a weight between them.
“You’ll text me,” Connor said eventually, when the pressure of the moment became too much. “If you find anything,” he gestured to Oliver’s computer, “You’ll text me.”
Oliver nodded. “Yeah. I’ll text you.”
“Okay. Good.” Connor quickly got his stuff together, shoving his tablet and books and notes into a bag. “Okay, well...” He gave Oliver a weak smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Oliver echoed. He waited until Connor was at the door and out of reach. “Connor?”
Connor stopped short and turned back. “Yeah, Ollie?”
Their eyes held and Connor’s breath caught in his throat.
Stop me. Please. Please, Ollie. Stop me.
Oliver swallowed and he took in the sight of it, how Connor Walsh looked before heading out on a date. He plastered that reassuring smile back on his lips and ignored the stinging in his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Connor forced his lips to quirk up in the smirk he knew Oliver was expecting. “When have I ever?”
They shared a smile and Connor gave a wave before he turned away and walked out of the room.
“When indeed,” Oliver whispered as he listened to Connor’s retreating footsteps echo down the hall. He tried to focus back on the code in front of him but all he could see was Connor, standing there in the door, smiling at him.
A Coliver 3x02 coda... (note: check tags for warnings) - ao3
He’d forgotten about dinner.
Oliver flipped off the burners with a flick of his wrist and, with a touch of apprehension, lifted one of the pot lids. He found that the sauce had been simmering so long it had started to crust on the sides of the pan and a check of the other pot was no better. The pasta inside was a mushy, overcooked mess.
Turning on the sink, Oliver grabbed potholders and poured the mess of pasta down the drain. He flipped the switch and let the food processor deal with the mess of it all, using a wooden spoon to shove down the remaining bits of food. The sauce followed suit and, once the processor was down pulverizing all of it, Oliver dumped some dish soap in the pan and filled it with hot water, letting the mess start to soak.
You made dinner for you and your ex. Isn’t that just darling?
Ignoring the thought, whispered in a voice that sounded entirely too much like Oliver’s own, Oliver dealt with the salad next, pulling out plastic wrap and tupperware on autopilot.
Wow, the voice whispered darkly. You really made a lot of food. Who exactly did you think was going to eat all of this? Or were you planning on sending your ex-boyfriend off each day with as kiss on the cheek and leftovers for lunch? How quaint.
Pushing the voice away again, trying to shove it deeper back this time, Oliver opened the fridge and put away the salad and leftover vegetables. And there in the door was the chilling bottle of champagne. Oliver closed his eyes and hung his head.
Doesn’t Connor have a substance abuse problem? Wasn’t buying champagne a bad idea? Or were you just too focused on pretending everything was still fine and making sure dinner was perfect that you forgot about that small detail?
Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts, Oliver let the fridge door close with a slam. Fuck it all. He’d deal with the dishes and the mess tomorrow.
He walked over to the couch and sat down. Absently picking up the remote, Oliver turned on the TV. He needing a distraction, something dumb and mindless to keep his brain from thinking so fucking loud. He flipped through a the channels and tried to watch a few minutes of something stupid on Bravo but quickly turned it off. He wasn’t in the mood for...well for anything really.
Standing, Oliver looked and walked around the room, around the space, and saw Connor everywhere.
It wasn’t just in the things Connor had left behind in his haste. A sweater tossed over the back of a chair. The USB left in Oliver’s laptop. The phone charger Oliver spotted on the nightstand. The old lacrosse stick that remained shoved in the corner of the closet.
Oliver saw Connor in the things that were missing. The blank spot on the wall where his print of Baldwin had hung. The drawers Connor had packed in a rush and were now empty and sitting open, just a few centimeters ajar. His half of the bathroom counter was completely bare. And then there was the closet. While his half of it still had a number of things in it, there were huge sections missing, as if Connor had blindly reached in and plucked up handfuls of shirts and pants and shoes to shove in the bags he was taking.
Connor was still everywhere. He still lingered in every corner of the apartment. Oliver could hear the ghost of Connor’s voice when he turned his head, could still smell Connor’s aftershave hanging in the air, he could feel the cool press of Connor’s lips against his own.
But he was gone.
Connor was gone and Oliver was alone.
Isn’t this what you wanted? The voice taunted him. You told him you wanted to be alone and now you are.
Blinking back the sting of tears, Oliver sat on the edge of the bed.
He just wanted to make you happy, just wanted to love you. And you pushed him away. You are so fucking stupid.
Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, Oliver covered his mouth with a hand, trying to muffle a sob.
You dumped him and then made him fucking dinner. Oh right, we don’t like that word. We didn’t dump him ...But calling it something nicer doesn’t make it better. You dumped him. You dumped him and broke his heart and then begged him to stay. Fucking pathetic.
“Stop it,” Oliver whispered, voice weak and low. But the thoughts were true. He had begged Connor to stay tonight. He could hear his own voice echoing the words back.
“Connor, please. Not tonight. Don’t leave tonight. Just….just stay. We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure something out and–”
“No, Ollie. No. No!! You...you dumped me!! I...I can’t fucking stay here!! This–it isn’t good. It isn’t okay. We–I need to leave. Just let me leave!”
Fucking pathetic, his own head whispered again to him. So fucking pathetic. You really think you’re going to ever find anyone else to love you like he did. ‘Cause you’re not. I mean, look at him. And look at you. He’s going find someone else in a minute.
“No,” Oliver whispered to himself, too upset to feel foolish.
He’s going to find someone else. Someone else is going to love him. Someone else is going to kiss him and hold him and touch him and fuck him. He’s going to call someone else’s name out in bed in a heartbeat. Think about that. Someone else is going to touch him. Someone else is going to kiss him. He’s going to snuggle up next to someone else in bed real quick.
“Stop it,” Oliver said, louder this time, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks.
We can stop but that doesn’t make it any less true. He’s going to find someone else, someone better, and you are going to be alone. You are going to be alone forever.
No, Oliver thought. That’s not–
It is true. It is and you know it. Who else are you going to find to be with you now? Now that you’re broken and sick and such a fucking selfish, loser that–
“STOP!”
Oliver was too far gone to realize he yelled the word. He yelled it into the emptiness of 303 and it echoed off the walls.
He curled fingers in his hair and pulled, pulled hard, until the pain in his scalp was all he could feel and hear and taste. He pulled until the pain whited out his vision and rang in his ears. He pulled until the voice, the dark voice inside him was silenced.
With shaking hands, Oliver reached in his back pocket for his phone. He dropped it once on the floor and it bounced away.
“Come on, Olls,” he muttered to himself as he bent to pick up the phone.
He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the tears from his cheeks and opened the phone. His thumb shook a touch as he scrolled through his contacts. He hesitated ever so briefly over Connor’s name but kept scrolling until he found it.
Pressing the contact, Oliver held the phone up to his ear and waited. It was after hours and it took five rings before the messaging service clicked on.
“Hello. You’ve reached The Madison Medical Group. Our office is now closed. If this is a medical emergency, hang up and dial 911…”
Oliver listened as the message went on. Giving the number of the on-call doctor, going over the hours of the practice, explaining how phone messages would be answered, and then, finally, listing various extensions. Hearing the one for his doctor, Oliver punched it in the phone and, even though he was waiting for it, he still jolted a bit when the beep finally sounded.
“Hi,” he said. His voice sounded small and choked and Oliver cleared his throat. “Hi. Uh, this message is for Dr. Velazquez. This is Oliver Hampton. I’m...uh...I’m an older patient and it’s been a while.” It’d been nearly two years since Oliver had visited the good doctor’s office. He hoped he was still in the system. “Anyway, I was just wondering if I could make an appointment for sometime later this week or...or early next week. We could even do something on the phone if he doesn’t have time for me to come in. I just–” When he felt his voice beginning to waver, Oliver cut himself off and took a breath. It wouldn’t do to cry on his therapist’s voice mail. “I just would really like to set something up with him, as...as soon as we can. Uh, my number hasn’t changed but, just in case, it’s…” Oliver rattled off his number and took another breath. “I–I look forward to hearing from your office tomorrow. Uh...thanks, Dr. V. Bye.”
Ending the call, Oliver wiped his phone screen off with his thumb. Going to Dr. V had helped a lot before. He might not have the experience Oliver needed now but maybe he could recommend someone or a support group or...or something.
Thought you told Connor you needed to be alone…
Yeah, he had and Oliver did think he needed to be alone right now. But…but being alone didn’t mean he had to go through it alone.
With a sigh, Oliver stood. He looked over to the closet where many of Connor’s clothes still hung, to the charger on the night stand, to the sweater over the back of the couch, and fought the urge to start crying again. That wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.
Maybe a shower would help, help clear his head, clear his mind a little. Heading into the bathroom, Oliver tugged off his shirt and slipped off his pants and briefs. He stuffed the clothes into the hamper and turned. Avoiding his own eyes in the mirror, Oliver kept his gaze down and stopped short at what he saw.
Connor’s side of the counter was bare. From the edge of the bed, Oliver had watched as Connor shoved all his creams and products into a personal bag. So it wasn’t the lack of clutter that stilled Oliver. It was another item Connor’d forgotten. His toothbrush.
Connor’s blue toothbrush sat there in the holder, innocently next to Oliver’s red one. Connor had forgotten his toothbrush.
Connor was gone.
Oliver knew that, thought he’d known that anyway, but the realization of it hit like a punch to Oliver’s gut and he couldn’t breathe.
Connor was gone and he wasn’t coming back.
In another (much less empty) apartment...
The two of them were out there whispering about him.
Through the bathroom door, Connor loudly informed them, “You know I can hear you guys, right?”
The whispering stopped for a moment then started right back up again. Connor rolled his eyes and continued to dig through the bag of toiletries he’d packed. Let them whisper about him; he didn’t care.
Lifting up the bag, Connor shook it and frowned at the contents. Had he really forgotten his toothbrush? He had floss, travel-size toothpaste, a mini-bottle of mouthwash but no toothbrush.
Fucking hell.
He slammed the bag into the sink, with entirely more force than necessary, and leaned heavily on the sink, his shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath. How had he forgotten his goddamn toothbrush?
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Connor dug out the bottle of mouthwash and took a swig of it. While he rinsed out his mouth, he tucked his small bag into a corner of the vanity. The bag looked awkward and out of place on Michaela’s perfectly arranged vanity and Connor felt oddly guilty about it.
He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have burdened Michaela with his problems. He should have gone to a hotel or...or to Wes’ or...or somewhere else, anywhere else. If he’d had more time to think, to plan, Connor wouldn’t have had to inconvenience Michaela.
He should have ignored Oliver’s “You can stay as long as you need. There’s no rush” and found a place after that first night. But, stupidly, Connor had seen hope those words; he’d seen an opening and thought he could take it.
Yeah, so Connor’d spend a few days on the couch while he subtly changed Oliver’s mind about this whole ‘breakup’ bullshit, and then they’d be alright again. Their ‘breakup’ would be a small blip on the radar, a rough patch that they had overcome and moved on from. Connor had figured he’d need to give Oliver a few days but then, after some talking and maybe some sex, everything would be fine again. Oliver just needed a few days of sleeping alone before Connor had everything he wanted, everything he needed, back in place again.
God. He was an idiot. He should have seen things for the way they were. The breakup hadn’t been temporary. It wasn’t a blip or a rough patch or an inconvenience.
It was an end.
Connor spat the mouthwash into the sink, flipped on the water, and rinsed it away.
He and Oliver were over. It was done.
With a touch of reluctance, Connor gathered up the suit he’d changed out of and left the bathroom. He didn’t want to deal with Michaela’s questions or Asher’s concern or either of them trying to talk to him. He wanted Oliver and, barring that, Connor wanted silence and sleep.
“Hey!” Michaela’s voice was overly cheerful and made Connor’s teeth clench. “You changed.”
“Yeah.” Connor threw his dirty clothes into one of the bags. “Thanks for noticing.”
Ignoring Connor’s attempt at a quip, Michaela smiled wide at him, all forced happiness and cheer. “I made you up a bed–” she started to say when Asher interrupted.
“You, Mic?”
Michaela shot him a look. “We,” she conceded. “We made you up a bed.” Gesturing to the makeshift bed they’d put together on the couch, she continued, “Do you need anything else? More blankets or pillows or–”
“It’s fine. Thanks.” Connor plopped down on the couch and rested his head on the back, letting his eyes slip shut. Even with his lids closed, Connor could practically see the looks Michaela and Asher were shooting each other, nearly hear everything they weren’t saying out loud. “You can just say it,” he muttered to them.
Michaela took a seat next to Connor on the couch and hesitated only a moment before placing her hand on his. “You...you wanna talk about it?” Connor shook his head but she pressed on, “Because you can, if you want. We’ll listen.”
Connor’s eyes opened to slits and he stared at her. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“Come on, bro.” Asher put a hand on Connor’s shoulder and joined them on the couch, settling in on Connor’s older side. “Safe space and all that shit.”
“’All that shit?’” Connor repeated. He’d won his first case today and this was really how his night was ending. Really?
Connor shot Michaela another look. You and him...really?
Ignoring both Asher’s words and Connor’s look, Michaela said, “Just know that, if you want, I’m here. For anything. Talking or...or whatever. Anything you want.”
“What I want…” Connor let his breath blow out long and slow. “What I want is to sleep.”
“Okay.” Michaela brushed Connor’s hair back, attempting to soothe him, trying to do something to get that devastated look out of his eyes. “If that’s what you want.”
Connor nodded. “It is.”
She stood and paused, waiting for Asher to join her but he didn’t move yet.
“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Asher told Connor. “We could...we could drink or I could take you out. We could drown your sorrows or find you someone new or–” Asher slapped Connor’s arm. “Strip joint. Classic break up move. I’ll take you to a strip joint. First lap dance on me.” Asher paused for the briefest of moments, “Do...do they have strip clubs for dudes?”
For a moment, Connor let himself imagine what Asher Millstone would be like in a gay bar. It sounded like Connor’s personal version of hell. “I really just want to get some sleep.”
“We hear you.” Michaela shot Asher a pointed look and pulled him up, none too gently, by his arm. “We’ll leave you alone.” Michaela flicked off the lights as they left, her hand still clamped around Asher’s arm.
The door to Michaela’s bedroom didn’t quite latch when she closed it and, through the door, Connor could hear bits and pieces of their muffled discussion. From context, Connor guessed they were debating Asher staying or leaving but Connor couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit.
He settled down on the couch, spread the borrowed blankets so they covered his feet, and plumped up a pillow behind his head. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of the last time he’d slept on a bed instead of a couch. He tried not to hear Oliver’s broken voice echoing in his head as he pleaded with Connor to stay. “Just stay tonight. We’ll figure it out. Don’t leave. Don’t leave now.”
Shaking his head and trying to banish the thoughts, Connor tried to think of something else, anything else. But he kept coming back to the words and the feel of Oliver’s soft lips parting under his and the toothbrush.
He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten his toothbrush.
Oliver’s POV of Connor leaving. Spoilers for 3x02.
Read on AO3
It was funny, Oliver thought, the details people take away from life changing moments. Like how he remembered his mom holding a pink towel when he told her about his acceptance letter into college, or how he was deleting a spam email when his HIV test results came back positive, or how Oliver’s hands trembled the entire time Connor was packing his bags to leave.
It was what he wanted, it was what he had asked for, and yet it wasn’t. Some part of him believed that even broken up, he’d get to keep Connor in his life somehow. That same naive part that kept silent all summer, thinking maybe it’ll be different tomorrow and maybe if I waited a few more days it’ll be okay. And when neither of those things happened, some part of him had still foolishly hoped that the leaving wouldn’t include any actual leaving.
Oliver loved Connor, he loved him so much it hurt sometimes. He loved him so much he couldn’t think past Connor and how deeply Connor loved. Oliver needed to be alone because Connor’s kisses were siren songs, his hopeful eyes would draw Oliver back in, and then he’d breathe Connor in like a man gasping for air and his resolve would crumble.
He watched as Connor moved through the apartment, eyes downcast, movements jerky as if he was tearing himself away from the space as he went. Oliver’s heart ached for him. For them. He wanted to hug Connor, to kiss him again. He wanted so much that his hands trembled with the weight of it. He clenched his hands into fists and held them by his side.
This was for the better. He had to keep that in mind. He was doing it for the both of them.
He got up and shadowed Connor as he gathered his things, hanging back a few steps that felt like miles instead. Oliver’s eyes burned with unshed tears and Connor’s eyes were filling again.
“You don’t have to leave right now,” Oliver tried once more. His voice sounded choked up and miserable. Connor’s shoulders tensed before slumping down.
“Yes, I do.” Connor murmured, and if Oliver sounded miserable then Connor sounded outright devastated. He felt the painful squeeze of his heart.
There went the red shirt he loved on Connor so much, shoved into a box, followed by a jacket, a few ties, and that stupid poster Connor brought when he moved in. Oliver watched with growing numbness as Connor removed it from the wall.
Oliver swallowed hard. He hated that poster so much. He was going to miss the fuck out of it.
His boyfriend -ex-boyfriend- was almost done packing. He wasn’t even taking all of his things, and Oliver figured that Connor wanted to be out of here as fast as possible. Maybe he felt the air pressing down on him too, the way Oliver did.
Oliver watched as Connor shoved the last of the belongings he deemed worthy of moving into the tiny box. Connor’s hands finally stilled their frantic movements, causing Oliver’s chest to fill with dread. This was it then.
Their eyes hadn’t met once since Connor announced he was leaving. Now they stood facing each other, and Connor finally looked up at him. Oliver wished he hadn’t. There was so much pain there, Oliver wanted to look away. He had caused that. He had caused his best friend, the first man he really loved, to look that way.
It was for the best. He knew it was. It just didn’t make this any easier.
“Guess that’s everything,” Connor’s voice was dull, the fight taken out of it. “I’ll see if I pick up my books and whatever else is left later.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Oliver offered back, hands now worrying at the hem of his shirt. “Anytime you want, just let me know.”
“I’ll see you around anyway, at the clinic,” Connor tried for a painful looking smile then dropped it. He reached into his pocket next and pulled out a key. The apartment key. Oliver hadn’t even considered that. “You should have this back.”
“You can-” Oliver started, only to be interrupted by the expression on Connor’s face.
“Don’t,” Connor shook his head. “Just take it. Please.”
Oliver did. His hand trembled as Connor dropped the key in it.
It all felt so final as Connor hauled up his box, as he moved towards the door, as he offered Oliver one last watery smile and then walked out of the apartment. The soft sound of the door shutting causing Oliver to flinch.
The tears finally came in abundance. The type of crying that came with loss and heartache, ugly sobs followed by cold numbness. Oliver wiped at his eyes, only to feel more salt water gracing his fingertips.
He brushed his teeth -Connor’s toothbrush gone-, he changed his clothes -the closet was too empty-, he went to the living room, only to glance at the empty wall where a picture frame was not an hour ago, and finally gave up and crawled into bed.
He took deep breaths that didn’t help at all, and felt his heart break more with each sob. It was for the best. He had just lost one of his best friends. The love of his life. For the best. He did the right thing.
He loved Connor and it wasn’t enough, and that was the real tragedy of it all.
Still, Oliver would get through this and so would Connor. They would not be the same but they may still be friends after everything had settled. Oliver had to believe as much, because anything else was too painful to consider.
Where will Connor sleep tonight? Did he even take his favorite sweater with him? Did he take anything of Oliver’s?
Oliver forced his mind to a halt, the pain of the thoughts growing, growing, growing until it threatened to choke him. He lay his head down and reached his hand to the pillow next to his. Connor’s pillow. And now; Oliver’s pillow again.
Oliver closed his eyes against the new wave of tears. Against the second pillow, his hand trembled.
I wish you would write a fic where Connor really loves Oliver's singing voice and after the breakup him singing "Ordinary People" is how he goes to sleep (this prompt got lengthy sorry)
just rip my heart out. it will be less painful. (also, this isn’t exactly it and isn’t exactly a fic bc i suck sometimes...)
Connor let the door of his apartment fall closed with a slam. Tossing his keys on a table and throwing the bag on a chair, he walked over to the fridge and pulled out a beer. Twisting off the cap, he downed nearly half of it in one pull and leaned heavily against the counter.
Today sucked and wasn’t even close to being over. There was still a paper he needed to tweak, a quiz to study for, and a mock trial to start prepping for. The thought of all that work still unfinished made Connor even more weary and he took another long draw off his beer.
A break. He just needed a break. A few minutes to close his eyes and breathe a little. Just a quick stop to recharge the batteries a little before starting his all-nighter.
Heading over to his couch, Connor laid out, stretching out his legs, pillowing arms behind his head, and let his eyes fall closed. He took a deep breath and tried to let some of the stress of the day go on the exhale. Deep breath in and long one out.
Had the apartment always been this quiet?
In and out.
It was like a tomb in here. Or a church. Or a library.
In and out.
was that the neighbor’s cooking? Could he hear them chopping things and dropping things into pots? Was...was that normal?
In and out.
Oliver’s apartment was never this quiet.
And, just like that, Connor’s mind was full of Oliver.
Fuck it all.
He’d been doing so well today. Oliver hadn’t been at Annalise’s that morning and Connor’d been in classes all afternoon so they hadn’t crossed paths until well into the evening. And, even then, they’d both been cordial and respectful and Connor’d been so proud of himself. Look at the two of them, acting like mature grown ups.
Now, with one stray thought, all Connor could think of was Oliver and music.
Oliver almost always had music playing in 303. Music he could hum along with as he cooked or sing with as he showered. Music on in the background to muffle the sound of his fingers flying over keys while Connor tried to study. Music on low to when they lounged in bed on Sunday mornings or made love or curled around each other on the couch.
Even now, Connor could hear Oliver’s voice in his ear, singing along as he stirred something on the stove.
In contrast, Connor’s apartment was so quiet, so still. It was missing life and love and Oliver.
He was missing Oliver.
Trying to banish the thought with a shake of his head, Connor resettled himself back on the couch and started over. Deep breath in and long breath out.
i wish you would write a fic where coliver become good friends after their breakup.
DONE! (okay. quick note. i posted this ficlety thing (it’s not really a fic but whatever) on twitter yesterday so i am posting it here to. also, it’s not stealing if its from yourself.)
Okay, so it’s been a few weeks since the breakup. Connor has accepted it (ish) and has moved out. Oliver’s really trying to do the whole “work on myself” thing. Working at Annalise’s together is awkward af for everyone but they all manage somehow.
Then, Connor’s out one night. He’s at a bar somewhere and he fucking hates it.
The music is too loud. Everyone here is too loud. Some guy offered to buy him a drink and Connor couldn’t even work up the energy to be polite when he said no.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. This was a bad idea.
He should go home. Well, he should got back to Michaela’s. (She’s letting him crash on her couch. Also, she’s gone a few nights a week and is surprisingly tight lipped when Connor asks about it but that’s another story).
Connor’s just about to down the last of his drink and call an Uber when he looks up.
There, across the way, nursing a Jack and coke, is Oliver.
Connor feels like he’s been punched in the gut and can’t move. Oliver. ....Oliver’s here?
Yeah, sure, Connor’s here too. But Connor didn’t break up with anyone. Connor didn’t say he wanted to work on himself or be alone or whatever and stomp on anyone’s heart.
Connor doesn’t want to be here. Connor wants to be at home, curled around the man standing ten feet away.
Connor know’s he’s staring but he can’t look away.
Feeling someone’s eyes on him, Oliver turns.
Now, they’re both frozen. Standing across from each other. Waiting.
Connor breaks first (like they both knew he would) and walks over. “Thought you were taking time for yourself,” he mumbles with the hint of a glare.
Oliver gestures to the glass in Connor’s hand. “Thought you had a drinking problem.”
“It’s seltzer,” Connor says. He offers up the glass. “Wanna try it?” Connor doesn’t know if he’s amused or offended with Oliver actually takes the glass and downs a sip.
Oliver’s lips twist. That’s seltzer alright.
“Satisfied?” Connor asks and Oliver looks sheepish when he nods once. They’re quiet for a beat then Connor says, “What about you?” Oliver’s brow furrows and Connor repeats, “Thought you were taking time for yourself.”
Oliver winces and gestures out to the dance floor. “They insisted I make an appearance,” he says with the hint of a frown.
“Who?” Connor glances out into the sea of bodies. “Your friends?”
Oliver nods. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Connor scoffs. “Make you come out and then ditch you.” He takes another swig of his drink. “You need new friends.”
Oliver shoots him a look. It’s an old argument of theirs. Connor never quite warmed to Oliver’s friends because “Friends don’t let friends get blind drunk and then go home with strangers. Oliver!” “I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions!” “You were drunk and they were supposed to be looking out for you! That’s what friends do!” “I’m not having this conversation again!!”
Ignoring Connor’s comment, Oliver looks out over the dance floor. “Maybe you’re right,” he mumbles to Connor. “Maybe I do need new friends.”
Connor tries not to let the hope flare inside him a those words.
They watch the dancers in comfortable silence for a moment then Connor turns. “Wanna get out of here?”
Oliver raises an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know.” Connor shrugs. “Coffee?”
Oliver debates. Then, “Coffee sounds good.”
They don’t walk out of the bar hand-in-hand but it’s a close thing.
They find a Starbucks a block down. Oliver slips Connor a ten and says, “Get me a chai tea. I’m gonna get us seats.” Connor tries to hand the money back but Oliver holds up a hand. “Friends pay their own way.”
Oliver snags two overstuffed chairs in a corner. Connor comes over moments later with Oliver’s tea, his own latte, and a cookie.
“Friends split cookies,” he tells Oliver, breaking the cookie in half and taking a bite.
Oliver laughs. Friends do split cookies.
They settle in. Talking and laughing and sharing bits and updates of their lives. Catching up in that nice was old friends, and old lovers, can sometimes.
“Okay.” Connor brushes crumbs off his shirt. “Tell me something true.”
Oliver blinks. “What?”
Connor pauses, choosing his words carefully. “We...we lied before. You to me and me to you. And...and this-” He gestures to the chairs and empty coffee cups and them, sitting there, side-by-side. “This feels like a new start.” Oliver opens his mouth but Connor’s right there. “Wait. Please. Just let me-” He takes a breath. “I know this isn’t really...I know we aren’t getting back together or...or anything but Oliver-” Connor looks up then, heart in his eyes. “I need you in my life. And I wanna be your friend so...so can you just tell me something true?” Connor blinks and is surprised when a tear slips from his eye. He’s quick to brush it away. “Please. Just tell me something.”
Oliver licks his lips, considering. Connor’s sure Oliver’s going to say no, going to blow him off, when Oliver’s mouth opens.
“I hate ice cream.”
Connor blinks. Stunned. “What?”
“I hate ice cream,” Oliver repeats. “That’s something true about me.” Oliver looks at Connor expectantly. “What about you?”
Connor’s smile is wide and he almost laughs, giddy and free. “You hate ice cream?” He can’t get over this.
“I hate ice cream,” Oliver says, hint of a smile in his voice. “Always have.”
Connor nearly giggles. “I never knew that.”
“Well...” Oliver shrugs. Then, “I’m still waiting.”
“Right.” Connor leans his head back on the chair and thinks. “I once broke me ankle to get out of band camp.”
“What?” It’s Oliver’s turn to blink. Then, “You were in band? What did you play? Are there pictures?”
Connor smiles and starts in on the whole story. “Okay. So, I’m in, like, seventh grade and my mom...”
They close down the coffee shop. Spending the hours sitting there, side-by-side, telling each other truths.
Connor’s tense, but he can’t explain why. It’s been like this for weeks, since he’s reconciled his fragile relationship with Oliver. He walks on pins and needles now, afraid to say something wrong. Afraid he’ll make Oliver leave again.
“It wasn’t you,” Oliver said when they reconnected. “I promise. It was nothing about you. It was me.”
Connor nodded then, relief stitching his heart back together. Now, he wonders - what did Oliver lack? What in Connor wasn’t enough to make him feel whole?
He scrubs the dishes now, harder than he means to. His brush scratches across the faces of perfectly clean plates and glasses.
He’s fine. Everything’s fine. He has Oliver again. Nothing’s wrong.
“Connor?” Oliver’s voice makes him jump. The plate he’s holding drops into the sink with a splash, dampening his shirt. “Connor.”
Connor wants to turn around, wants to put on a bright smile and keep pretending everything is fine. But his heart’s still broken, and it’s getting harder to lie.
He doesn’t know what else to do. So he reaches down, grabs the plate, and starts scrubbing again.
“Connor,” Oliver says again, much softer than before. His arms slip around Connor’s waist. His hands find purchase on Connor’s arms. Then elbows. Wrists.
Connor stills at Oliver’s gentle touch, at the thumbs brushing against the top of his own. Oliver kisses the back of Connor’s neck.
“Talk to me,” Oliver asks - quiet, patient. Connor should be mad about their break up, maybe, but how can he be when Oliver is so perfect? Whatever happened between them, surely it was Connor’s fault.
“I don’t want you to...” Connor bites his tongue. “Nevermind.”
Oliver takes the plate from Connor’s hands and places it in the sink. Then, slowly, he guides Connor around in his arms. Connor moves willingly, eagerly even, ready for the tension to be over, wanting to just be with his boyfriend again without all the drama between them.
Connor grabs at Oliver’s shirt, soap-covered fingers curling, clenching tight.
“Ollie.”
“I hurt you,” Oliver says.
Connor can’t raise his eyes, even when Oliver cups his face. Even when Oliver kisses him softly.
“I won’t do it again. I promise,” Oliver says. “I’ll prove it to you.”
“It’s not that.” Connor shakes off Oliver’s hands, but won’t let go of his shirt. It’s kind of that, but it’s more too.
“Then what?” Oliver whispers, words soft in the warming space between them. “I want to fix us.”
“Me, too.”
“Then... what, Connor?”
Connor takes a deep breath. He could shatter everything with honesty... or he could fix the best thing that ever happened to him. He didn’t know... He just...
He glances up into Oliver’s dark eyes, wide and scared and vulnerable. Caring. Loving. Oliver. And Connor wants this to work with his entire heart. Even at the cost of losing it all.
