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Connor is a terrifying beauty.
Terrifying is a bad word, of course, and Evan would rather cut his tongue with— with something dull, like an unsharpened pencil, or a very not-sharp knife, just to let the torture linger or something— because he would. No. He would not say that, ever, alive, and aloud, if he must, because it’s a bad word to be telling somebody but honestly he hadn’t known how else to explain how Connor looks like, all pale and sickly, like a marble statue almost (and dolls and mannequins and everything resembling a human form freaks Evan out, like literally, and maybe that’s why Evan is insisting on the word “terrifying”) on the floor of his bathroom.
But beautiful.
Connor stumbling into his home isn’t a strange occurrences anymore, even though it still sort of feels like a dream (or a nightmare, a pleasant one, or just a hallucination) whenever it happens. The guy would just walk in, barely announcing that he’s entering — as though he’s been going to Evan’s all too-small house his whole life — and flops down wherever he deems appropriate.
They don’t really do anything, but Evan figures out sooner or later that the reason Connor’s there at all is because he — escapes. He wants to escape. From his parents, most likely, whom he calls by names and if that isn’t an indication that they don’t get along or aren’t close then Evan doesn’t know what. Usually, Evan’s too squeaky and scared to say anything and let Connor do whatever he does. Thankfully, Connor must be thoughtful enough to only get high in Evan’s room and away from Heidi, sometimes even barely leaving any hint of smell behind when he leaves.
At first, it happens at considerate hours. Connor walking in, and helping Evan dealing with the delivery guys. But then Connor starts showing up around wee hours in the morning. And then Evan’s just waking up sometimes to a muffled voice of somebody’s crying near his bed. Evan doesn’t remember how or why or when he’s started not just kneeling down next to Connor’s shaking body when that happens, and instead just tugs Connor up until they’re splayed so close (that Evan can hear everything and feel everything and just — everything everything) across the bed and Evan’s doing that silly thing where he tries petting Connor’s back unhelpfully like people do in movies or books.
Gratefully, Connor doesn’t comment much about Evan’s lack of social skills of comforting people, nor about these incidents at all aside from mumbled “sorry’s” that he’ll get when morning comes.
Evan would brush it off though, ‘cause it’s fine. It’s really — okay. Even if he isn’t. He tries babbling to Connor that, hey, if he ever wants to talk, like, with words, ‘cause that’s how people talk right, like, Evan’s there, and Evan will always be there, because where else would he be? And plus, Evan’s sort of knows how it is to feel. Stuck. Like, in your own skin. And it sucks. And it’s like nobody cares. And Evan knows. A little, even if it isn’t a lot. And honestly Connor’s been coming a lot lately too and just adding a deep meaningful conversation to this awkward silent pact they have isn’t much of a bother and in fact Evan’s happy to help! Happy to feel useful, even if he feels helpless, and he’s talking too much now, he should stop, like what’s the point even that he was trying to make—
Anyway.
Connor is lying there, for the first time, on his bathroom floor and he’s so beautiful and raw and so — so sad, and Evan’s known this for a while, but it’s still so heartbreaking to realise it over and over again and the cuts, oh god, the cuts down Connor’s arm, it’s so — real. It’s so red. Like Connor’s been scratching at them non-stop lately, so wild, and—Connor’s crying, hard, and the trace of vomit dripping down his lips are. It’s a mess. But Evan takes a step over him carefully to flush down what he assumes are Connor’s dinner before he kneels with a wet towel, remembering this was what Heidi did when Evan’s like this, years ago. Months ago? When he was bad.
Evan feels like crying, and maybe he is, and God, it’s so awful — is this how Mom feels?
“Nobody gives a shit.” Connor whispers, harsh, trying to knock Evan’s hands off when he’s finally managed to get the other man into a sitting position; lanky fingers move to shove, to push. Evan lets himself be shoved, sits, and looks down. He clenches and unclenches his fists, wanting to say so much, but suddenly doesn’t know how words work. What are English, anyway? What are languages? “Nobody does. I’m so fucking— fuck.”
“Connor.”
“I’m a mess, Hansen, get the fuck away from me.” But all Connor sounds is broken instead of threatening and Evan moves his hand that’s holding the towel again, wanting to wash away the sadness, wanting to do everything in his power to not. Not let anybody, ever, feel this way. It’s so — bad. To feel unwanted, unneeded. Evan should know. He does.
“Connor, please. I — I want to h-help. I just...”
“No, no, no, no, no—” Connor isn’t listening now; black-painted fingernails buried in the mess of his hair as he mumbles the words to himself, seemingly stuck on some train of thought that makes Evan feels like the distance between them were miles away instead the inches it actually were. Evan feels separated, but God, Connor must’ve felt worse.
Evan could feel his throat closing in on him now, tight and constricting, and more wetness smearing across his freckled cheeks but does it matter? Does it really matter? Connor is stuck somewhere, somewhere bad, and somewhere where Evan can’t help, because he’s so useless and he messes everything up always and he has no idea what to do and he’s helpless and that’s all he ever is, and he needs Connor to be okay, even though Connor isn’t, and he wants to help dammit but how, how, when he knows how it feels like and Connor is just. Connor is just. So sad. And alone. And Evan wants to scream, to kick, to punch and crawl his way in just to embed it there: that he’s not.
You matter.
Instead he hugs, messy and uncoordinated, but it isn’t even a hug — it’s just arms around Connor’s shrinking body and clinging, and Connor trying to push him away and Evan’s stubbornly yelping “No, no, won’t let you go, I’m here, not alone Connor, never alone, I’m here” while crying into Connor’s hair and it’s pathetic and annoying, Evan knows, so annoying, like God, can’t he be normal for one minute? Until—
The strong hands resisting him ends up curling, fingers buried in Evan’s shirt until Evan’s pretty certain their body have fused into one — syncing, aligning, melting.
Connor sobs, heavy and forceful, and Evan sobs back, equally powerful. For a moment, nothing is right. And nothing seems to ever be right. But at least they’re together on this, and Evan can feel this — in the way they grip onto one another like lifelines, like they’re the other’s last hopeful string to stay afloat and should the other let go... It’ll be over. The world will end. And it’s stupidly scary. But they don’t let each other go, and even when Connor’s sobs lessen to a series of hiccups, leaving Evan pretty much still leaking his tears like he’s trying to drown the world, they’ve got each other.
And Evan... likes it. The company. The warmth. Even if the situation’s crooked. Bad, even. But not very much so. Not if they have each other like this.
“Stop- fucking. Stop it. Crying.” Connor says between his own sniffles, nose against Evan’s shoulders as Evan whimpers, wanting to, but just couldn’t. It takes him a while, but he finally realises that Connor’s hands are moving against his back, rubbing circles, and Evan feels — relaxed, a little. Like he could breathe. And he hears his own crying voice lessens in his ears, and he should be moving away now. But he doesn’t. Couldn’t. And especially when Connor repeats, slow, but there: “M’here, Evan.”
It’s awkward to realise about seven minutes later that Evan’s actually straddling Connor, but before he could sob his way through a paragraph of apologies, Connor pulls the other up, rummages through Evan’s untouched drawer of baggy sweaters that Evan claims he never really wears because the colours were too bright and bright colours make him nervous, and says, “let’s go to sleep,” as he settles with something that’s bright orange. When Evan laughs at him, a little, Connor’s surprisingly subdued to not be as angry because Evan knows Connor has a thing with people laughing at him and only manages a half-glare attempt of, “Shut it. It’s your dumbass sweater.” while still sniffling.
“I— yeah. I’m. Sorry. I just. Wish. Sorry that my clothes. They don’t. Fit. You. You’re just—” Evan smiles a little, kindly, even with his red, puffy eyes and knows that despite the teasing, the colour orange looks well on Connor. Not, like, really well that he should wear it outside, god, but well enough that — if Connor wants to wear it again, Evan would probably wash them and fold them and place them where Connor can easily reach next time. “You’re just big.”
Connor scoffs, and lies down on the too-small bed, his hair sprawled everywhere and God. Beautiful. “Whatever. You wanna sleep, or what?” He reaches out a hand, inviting, and this should be weird right? It should be, but instead Evan’s leaning forward, almost submissive, and so so so tired that he doesn’t even care, and snuggle in and Connor is warm and safe and alive and just—
“Thanks. By the way. Um. Yeah.” Connor whispers after a while, somehow pulling Evan closer and closer that it’s like they’re not worlds apart after all, and it’s amazing. Evan feels like crying again, a little, and he probably would’ve had if he hadn’t been so sleepy and exhausted and droopy. “Thanks, Ev.”
Evan thinks about how Connor had been beautiful on the floor of his bathroom, despite the vomit and tears and regret sinking into his pale-so-pale skin only to bleed out, but to think of Connor on his bed with his dark, dark hair in curls across Evan’s pillow when he wakes up and with those soft lushes of eyelashes lining with contrast against the colour of his cheekbones as he’s still sleeping soundly? Evan thinks about how Connor might even be a marble statue right then, and it’d be creepy and weird and it’d freak him out, like seriously, but he would still — admire Connor for all he is. And all he stands for.
Except Connor isn’t a marble statue, because he’s alive and breathing and warm.
And that’s more than beautiful.
It’s everything.