Chapter Text
Wednesday, April 10th
Connor should have texted me almost an hour ago. He told me. He promised me that he would tell me when he got home. I always get worried when he takes the bus home, and he knows that.
But It's 4:30. School let out an hour ago. And no sign of Connor. Nothing. I think I've worried a hole in my shirt with how much I've been rubbing it.
He could have just forgotten. Maybe he fell asleep. Or got caught up on homework. Any of the perfectly reasonable explanations that could exist.
But maybe Connor got kidnapped as he was walking from the bus stop. Maybe he got hit by a car. Maybe he got struck by lightning. Maybe he slipped in the pouring rain and cracked his skull on concrete, and now he's bleeding out all alone somewhere and I'm just sitting here not doing anything and letting my boyfriend die.
And now I'm hyperventilating. Which doesn't help anything. Breathing hard isn't gonna stop Connor from dying on the sidewalk. So I just need to sit down. And breathe.
My phone vibrates against my desk, and I lunge across my bed for it, ripping it off the charger. Connor's calling.
"Connor? Why haven't you called, what's wrong? Is everything okay?" I ask, trying to muffle my breathing so I don't destroy Connor's ears.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Is Heidi home?" he asks, except that he's wheezing too.
"What do you think?"
"Cool. Cool. Okay. Um. Do you have like, uh, y'know, access to a car or something?" Somethings wrong. I feel it in the way that dogs can tell someone's about to have a seizure. There's a deepset sickness that rocks my bones.
"Why? What's wrong? Where are you?" I question, even more worried than I was before. Now it's basically confirmed that he's hurt.
"Can you pick me up at school?" Connor asks, voice strained. I can hear small pants into the phone. He's too casual, like when someone walks in the room and you have to act natural. He can't quite hide the pain in his voice.
"It's, it's 4:30. Why are you still at school? Are you bleeding out somewhere? I thought you said that you were taking the bus because Zoe couldn't drive you and you're still at school so clearly the buses are gone, why are just now calling me? What's going-"
"Ev, calm down. Can you come pick me up? I can call Cynthia or something if you can't, it's fine," he says, voice crackling over the phone. Why did he say Cynthia? Why is he acting like it's completely fine when somethings obviously wrong?
"Why'd you call her Cynthia, what happened?" I ask, biting my thumbnail. There's so many things wrong right now. Connor never calls, he sounds in pain, he hasn't called Cynthia by her first name in months, he's not telling me what happened. Not to mention that normally he knows how stressed out I get and tries to quell my anxiety, but right now it's like he doesn't even remember.
"Evan. I just did, it wasn't on purpose. I'm not mad at her or anything," he justifies. If he's going for nonchalant, it's not working.
"Okay, okay. I'll. Um," I stammer. I want to help him so badly, and I feel physically ill that I can't. Self-loathing crawls up my throat and I choke.
"Oh, sh*t. You don't drive. Okay. I'll call her, sorry," Connor swears, and his voice goes quieter at the end, like he's pulling the phone away from his face to hang up.
"No!" I scream, too loud. He can't hang up. I have the sinking feeling that if he hangs up, I'll never hear from him again. "No, I'm. I'll be there. Soon. Hang tight. Please. I promise."
"You sure?"
"Y-yeah. I promise. I love you," I whisper, a sob building up in the back of my throat. Somethings wrong.
"Love you too," Connor says, and it's like he doesn't know how panicked I am.
Normally, I wouldn't do this. Ever. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
Me: I'm really sorry
Me: Can I borrow your car?
Me: I promise I'll have it back as soon as I can
J: what's in it for me
Me: Whatever you want, it's an emergency.
J: $20
Me: Done
Me: I'll be there in a second
I download Uber as quickly as possible, and order a ride. It only takes 10 minutes to get here, thankfully. Double thankfully, the driver doesn't try to talk to me. Or kill me. That would be a very real possibility, but I guess all my anxiety is more focused on worrying about Connor right now.
It feels like hours before I drop an additional $10 tip on the console of the car, and sprint towards Jared's porch. I knock, but it's really more like a slam.
"Money," Jared says the minute the door cracks open. I drop the bill into his waiting palm, and he fishes the keys out of his pocket.
"Have it back soon." I nod, and snatch the keys. It isn't until I sit down in the front seat that I realize what I'm about to do.
I haven't driven in over a year, since I got my license and had to drive with an instructor. I had barely gotten through it without a panic attack. My hands didn't stop shaking the whole time.
I reach to put the keys in the ignition, but it's not there. What? What the hell, how is there not an ignition?
Right. Automatic. I've seen Jared do this. Okay. Foot on brake. Press the button. Okay. The car starts beneath me, engine roaring to life. Breathe. I close my eyes, inhaling deeply while I clutch the gear stick.
Jared's house is in the neighborhood behind the school. I don't even think there's a stoplight on the way. I still need a GPS, though.
Slowly, slowly, I shift the car into drive. I couldn't be more grateful that Jared backs into his driveway. At least I don't have to reverse just yet.
Gently, I coast out of Jared's driveway. I'm already starting to turn when I slam to a stop. Turn signal. Right. I flick it up, before continuing with my slow turn.
I need to hurry. I need to get to Connor. He could be dying. He could be dead. But every time the speedometer goes above 0, nausea churns in my stomach. I've yet to even step on the gas.
It's excruciating, really. I need to go faster. I need to get to him. But it seems my anxiety never fails to bind me in chains, leaving me writhing on the ground.
At least I have something to focus my energy on. It's almost like I can forget about Connor while I drive with hyper-vigilance, checking my mirrors every other second, looking around turns, hesitantly pressing the gas.
And it's almost a smooth drive. Except for when I see someone on the road behind me, and flash my hazards before pulling over. Best to just let them pass considering I'm going a whopping 0 miles per hour.
But finally. Finally. I turn into the gates of the school, and roll to a stop outside of the side entrance. I pick up my phone, and call Connor.
"I'm, I'm in the student parking lot. Where are you?" I ask, trying to calm my breathing. I want to be relieved, but I still need to find Connor and drive home.
"sh*t. Okay. I'll come over," he sighs. Something on the other end rustles, and he grunts in pain.
"Where are you?!"
"This is the faculty parking lot, god damnit," he huffs. He's definitely injured.
"No. I'll drive over. Are you okay?" I ask, setting the phone on speaker so I can slowly coast around the side of the building.
"I see you," Connor states, and I hear a beep. He hung up.
I gasp, and slam to a stop. Holy sh*t.
Connor's face is screwed up as he limps towards my car, arms stiff at his sides. Bruises blossom across his face, and as he gets closer I can see small cuts littered across them too. I frantically put the car in park and stumble out of the car.
"Connor! What the hell! What happened, oh my God, how did this- who- what?!" I ask, cupping his face and running my thumb over his split lip.
"Ty," he answers, wincing away from my touch. Blood is running slowly down a cut just above his brow. It's way too close to his eye.
And I hate myself. I hate that seeing him all broken and bloody is a relief. What a horrible thought. It's not that I want him to be beat up, it's just that I was so ready to find him in such worse shape. At least he's alive, and nothing seems too permanently broken.
"I- is he still here? Where is he?" I ask, my eyes darting around the parking lot and the school windows. I don't see anyone. Maybe I can get the secretary to let me back inside the school.
"No offense babe, but if he can take me down then you don't have a chance," Connor chuckles, before cringing.
"I- I know!" I can't f*cking do anything. I can't get revenge on Ty. Even if he were here, I can't even look him in the eye without sweating. I can barely even drive us home, or to a hospital, or literally anything useful. "What happened?"
"Can we go to your place? I don't want to tell my parents what happened," he asks, hand loosely wrapped around my wrist. His head is sinking into my hand, eyelids fluttering.
"Yeah. Yeah, of course. But, um, I don't really do well with, like, sounds? When I'm driving? I don't like noise or distractions," I say, avoiding eye contact. It's embarrassing how stressful driving is.
"Whatever you need," Connor mumbles. Carefully, I wrap his arm around my shoulder and lead him to Jared's car. Most of his weight is against me, so we're moving kind of slow. That doesn't matter. Whatever it takes for him to get home safely.
Driving home isn't as bad. There's a small intersection, but no one else is there. I try to go as close to the speed limit as I'm comfortable with, so Connor doesn't think I'm too much of a freak. He's curled up in the passenger seat, eyes closed. I don't know if he's sleeping, but just in case, I go slowly on the speed bumps.
Eventually, I'm parking in the driveway. Now that the driving part is over, I have to make sure Connor's okay. When I slam the car door closed and walk over to the passenger side, he stirs.
"Come on, baby. We're home," I murmur, brushing the hair away from his face. He blinks blearily at me, eyes hazy with pain.
I should have checked up on him earlier. I should have called him first. Maybe if I had, he wouldn't be limping his way up my front stoop. I wrap my arm around his waist, and he looks at me, eyes unfocused.
"Did you hit your head? Oh my God, do you have a concussion?" I ask. How the f*ck did I not think of that before? And I even let him sleep in the car! Oh my God, I could have let him die.
"No, he didn't hit my head. Just tired," Connor says, grabbing the railing to help heave himself up the steps.
"Okay, that's good. That's good. Why were you still at school?" I ask as we make our way inside and upstairs. My voice shakes as I lead him through the hallway. It hurts to see him hurt. To know that I could have helped him.
"Librarian let me study after-hours-" Connor starts.
"What? Why were you studying? Why-"
"Evan," he whispers, voice coming out in a wheeze. I swallow hard, nodding.
"Sorry."
"Ty must have been there for afterschool tutoring because he's as dumb as a rock," Connor says, smiling and gripping onto my shoulder and I help him walk upstairs. It hurts, but he doesn't need to know that.
"I bet wrestling had practice," I hum, letting him take as much time as he needs to climb the steps.
"Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. That makes a lot of sense."
He's strong. I feel his bicep tense against my back as I help haul him upstairs. My strong Connor. I wish more than anything that I could have been strong for him, that I could have protected him like he's protected me.
But, instead, I got him hurt. This isn't even the first time Ty's hurt him because of me.
"Here, sit on the counter," I direct, leading him into the bathroom.
"Why?"
"You're bleeding and dirty. I'm not letting you get infected." His face scrunches in pain as he hops onto the counter, gripping the edge tightly.
"Thanks," he says, grinning.
"Take off your shirt and pants," I tell him, opening cabinet to find a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
"Ooh~" Connor wiggles his eyebrows at me.
"I- I didn't mean it like that, okay! Just. Do it. It's not like we weren't half naked on my bed a few weeks ago."
"We never did finish that," he muses, wiggling out of his shirt. His torso is red, cuts sprinkled across the inflamed bruises that stretch across his chest and abdomen.
"Pants. Shirt. Off."
"Yes sir." Without the denim blocking my view, it's apparent that his legs are almost as bad as his chest. He'll be painted a nasty shade of purple in a few days.
"Jesus," I mutter, pushing him forward to see his back.
"Yeah. Got me pretty bad."
"Okay. Um. I'll be right back," I say, ducking out of the bathroom into the hallway. The hydrogen peroxide must be in the closer.
"Need help-" Connor asks, hopping down off the counter.
"Hey! No, no. Get back up there. You're not walking, okay?" I command, glaring at him.
"I can walk," he protests, as if he isn't clutching the doorframe for dear life. Connor's always been bullheaded, but right now I just really need him to sit down.
"Barely. Get back on the counter." He mutters under his breath, but clambers back up onto the bathroom counter.
I find the hydrogen peroxide, cotton pads, and bandages.
"This is gonna sting," I warn, pouring some of the peroxide onto a pad.
"I just got the snot beat out of me, I can handle- FFFFFFffff," Connor yelps, holding onto the counter with a white knuckled-grip as I clean a nasty cut on his cheek. He tries to move his head away from me, but I guide it back.
"You sure?"
"I'm fine," he squeaks, squeezing his eyes shut. I don't like hurting him, but I know he probably won't clean them on his own.
"Sorry," I whisper, placing a Band-Aid across his face. His skin is soft and warm under my touch, his foggy eyes flickering toward me.
"'S fine," he shrugs.
"You're out of it, sweetheart. You sure you didn't hit your head? If you have a concussion we need to get you to the hospital." He's probably too stubborn to admit it.
"Sweetheart? Buy me a drink first, hot stuff," he jokes, smirking.
"Genuinely, did you hit your head?" I ask.
"No. I didn't. Thank you, though." Connor leans forward and kissing my nose, a smile in his eyes. They're groggy, definitely tired, but I guess that's all just chalked up to pain.
"How did this happen? How bad did you get Ty?" I ask, returning my attention back to the cuts. They seem to be centered around his face, arms, and chest. His shirt must be torn then.
"Uh. Well, I didn't really get a good hit in," Connor says, staring pointedly at the spot just behind me.
"What? You didn't fight back, why not?"
"There was 3 of them! And he..." Connor snaps, before trailing off. His hair is pulled back, revealing red ears.
"He what?" I ask, the blood draining from my face. Not Connor. Not my Connor.
"Nothing," he mumbles, scratching his neck. No. This is all my fault. The punches, the name calling, the harassment, the- it's all my fault.
"Connor. Connor, what did he do?" I repeat, my vision going blurry. I would rather it happen to me a thousand times over than for Connor to ever have to know how it feels.
"No! No, god no, not like that. He just, he kneed me. Uh, down there," he chokes out. And, again, I feel horrible for being relieved. But the reality is so much better than what I thought had happened
"Oh, babe," I say sympathetically.
"Yeah. I wasn't exactly in peak fighting condition," he snorts, glancing at me. "Can you kiss it and make it feel better?" he asks, a sh*t-eating grin appearing on his face. I kiss his forehead, and pat his head sweetly.
"Not where I meant."
"I know." I ignore Connor's dirty look and grab another cotton pad. "So they just ganged up on you?"
"Yeah."
"Did he say anything?" I ask, cleaning the cut above his eyebrow. He doesn't answer me. "Connor?"
"I can't tell you," he sighs, but his eyes are angry. Connor doesn't look at me, and I think I would die if he did. The old anger that I rarely ever see at full force is back. Bits of it peak through from time to time, but his eyes are so raw right now that I could almost believe I'm sitting next to him in World Lit after Mr. Abdul just moved my seat.
"Why not? Why, what did he say?" I press, stroking his hair from where it's starting to fall from the hair tie.
"He.. he said... 'Did your boyfriend tell you that he likes it hard?'" Connor spits out, arm shaking as he holds onto the counter.
"Oh." I have a horrible feeling that this was just all a way to remind me of what Ty did. As if I could ever forget. As if I don't ever wake up gasping for breathing, panting out 'no' and 'stop' until my voice is hoarse.
"I'm sorry."
"Is that all he said?"
"He said some other stuff that doesn't matter and is disgusting and vulgar and I wish I could have beat him but I wasn't strong enough," he says, closing his eyes. I grasp his shoulders, like I can shake the desperation out of his tone.
"Hey, hey. I don't blame you. Don't blame yourself." Connor just shakes his head. "What else did he say?"
"Told me to ask if you want a round three..." he says, and I swear to God it's September all over again. "He, he called you a, a whor* and I wanted break his f*cking nose, but his stupid f*cking friend was holding my arms behind me and I couldn't f*cking get to him, I couldn't get to him," he growls, face crumpling.
"It's okay Con. It's okay," I reassure, rubbing his arms.
"It's not! It's not okay."
"It is. Please let it go. You can't do anything about it now, so don't let it hurt you anymore," I say. He meets my eyes, and there's definitely a fire smoldering in them. But the inferno's died down.
"Letting it go doesn't unbruise my ribs," he grunts, but his lips hint towards a smile.
"You know what I meant." Connor keeps distracting me. Really, I'm distracting myself. But he's what's distracting me.
I pour a little bit of hydrogen peroxide on an especially deep cut that lays across a bruise on his ribs. He hisses in pain, and the muscles tense under his skin.
"You're fine. You're fine," I murmur, cleaning away the dried blood.
"I'm fine," he parrots, forcing himself to relax.
"Good, baby. Good. You're okay," I whisper, stroking his ribs with my thumb, trying to be as gentle with the cotton pad as I can be.
"This sh*t hurts," Connor complains, reaching for me with the hand that isn't locked around the lip of the counter. I take it with my free hand.
"I know. I know."
"D'ya think I need stitches?"
"I don't think so," I answer. None of the cuts look deep enough for stitches, but I'm not a medical expert and I don't know what made them. "Where'd all these cuts come from?"
"Ty was wearing rings, probably for the express purpose of beating me the f*ck up."
This was planned, then. Or at the very least, Ty was waiting for an opportunity to corner him. And it was because of me.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, focusing on my shaky hands as I clean a cut on Connor's shoulder.
"For what?" he asks.
"He hurt you because of me. This, it's all my fault," I say, clenching my jaw as I wipe down the last of Connor's cuts.
"Uh, no. What? Ev, he's been going after me for a while. He hurt you because he knew it would hurt me," he says.
He's right. I totally forgot that Ty's been bothering Connor before we were even friends. I got so caught up in everything that I made it about me.
"But, but I could have helped you-" It's somehow my fault. I mean, obviously. I just don't know how to explain it.
"I didn't tell you that I was staying after-school. You didn't know that Ty was gonna go after me. You came as soon as possible. You even drove to come get me. You did everything you could, so you need to stop looking for reasons to blame yourself, okay?"
I don't know what to say. Somethings clearly my fault. I just don't know which part.
"I'm sorry that happened," I decide to say.
"It's whatever. Didn't get time to finish my Painting project, though," Connor shrugs.
"What's it about?"
"American Realism. I'm going for a real Edward Hopper vibe," he says, wiggling his eyebrows like there's a joke in there that I don't get. I guess it's an art thing.
"It sounds pretty," I comment, screwing the top onto the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
"Do you know who Edward Hopper is?" he asks.
"No, but if you're making it then it's going to be pretty.
"You're pretty."
"No, you're pretty."
"My bags still in your car, but if you help me up I can show you my drafts," Connor offers, sliding off of the counter. He can't walk by himself, but I'll help him.
"I'd like that," I smile, grabbing Connor's hand to lead him downstairs. If letting him talk about his project alleviates his pain, I'll be more than willing to listen.
