Work Text:
Oliver has learnt to recognize the sounds of Connor breaking down. He knows it well enough by now, the quick breaths that he tries to keep quiet as to not wake the other boy, the tremble of his shoulders underneath the sheets, the clenched jaw. He glances briefly at the clock on his bedside table, careful not to stir and freak Connor out even more-- 4:41 am. Jesus Christ.
Connor had offered to sleep on the couch after the nightmares had started. Really, based on everything Connor's told him, Oliver suspects they've been going on for awhile. He says no, because they're engaged now (Connor had spent an hour trying to talk him out of this, out of wanting him, but Oliver knows there's nobody else. So he kissed him quiet and then asked again, and then Connor said yes), and what kind of fiancé would he be if he kicked him out of the bed because he's messed up after everything that's happened? Oliver knows he sure is, and he hasn't been through half of what Connor has.
So the nightmares, then, were pretty bad. Connor would cry, or shake, and on the worst nights he'd have panic attacks. Never as bad as the night Sam died, no, that was Connor at rock bottom and he hopes to all the powers that be that he never has to see his fiancé like that again. But pretty bad all the same. On the bad nights he can't do much because Connor will hyperventilate if he touches him. So he whispers reassurances and gets him to breathe along with him, and slowly, slowly, Connor calms down.
Today, Oliver thinks, isn't that bad. Connor isn't having a full-out attack, at least, so he sits up and whispers, "You okay?"
"Fine," says Connor shakily.
(Even after he told him the truth, Connor's never stopped telling him little lies. It's a good thing Oliver can see right through them.)
"Talk to me," Oliver says, reaching out gently to stroke his hair. He doesn't flinch back, which he takes as a good sign.
Connor exhales. "I-- I had a dream."
He doesn't push Connor to elaborate, but he traces circles in the nape of his neck with one hand and places the other on his shoulder, which is still shaking but a little less than before. Good.
"About Wes," Connor adds after a moment. "About how I might've killed him."
"You didn't feel a pulse," Oliver reminds him. "You were trying to save him. And there was a gas leak-- you know that, Con. Nothing you could've done would have saved him. It's horrible, yes, but it's also not your fault."
Connor shakes his head. "Wes is gone, Ollie," he breathes, and turns his head, and by the fluorescent light of the alarm clock Oliver can see that his eyes are read and gleaming with unshed tears.
Oliver lays back down and draws the duvet up over their shoulders because Connor's absolutely freezing, and then wraps an arm around the other boy and waits until he relaxes into him. "I know, love," he says quietly. (It's a cheesy nickname, one that Connor's teased him about constantly since it first slipped out months ago, but it's the one he's noticed Connor responds best to when he's having an episode). "But Wes wouldn't blame you. All you did was try to help. But his death was out of your hands, Connor. It's not your fault. Blame the sick bastard who did that to him, but not yourself. Never yourself."
Connor breathes in sharply and Oliver can feel his muscles tense underneath his arm. "I-- I hated him, Ollie. I hate him. I still do. That makes me a bad fucking person. You... you deserve better than me." Connor wiggles out of Oliver's hold and turns so he's facing away from him. Oliver forces the hurt down because this isn't about him or his feelings. This is about Connor, who's falling apart, and he can't do a thing except talk him out of-- of spiraling or killing himself or something, at least until the next nightmare, and God, sometimes he feels so useless.
And then Connor starts to sob.
"Con, love, look at me. Look at me, Connor," and he hasn't turned back yet but he's not full out bawling, so Oliver takes that as a good sign and goes with it. "You are not a bad person. You and Wes had a complicated history, but Wes knew you'd never hurt him. Maybe you don't know that yourself, but I do. An evil, fucked up, selfish person would not stay with a positive guy, trust me. I know that's what you think of yourself, but Connor, please just-- just look at me. Okay? Just... please. Don't shut me out."
He watches Connor's shoulders rise and fall, rise and fall like waves. His breaths are rough, shallow, and sound like they're tearing against his lungs as he struggles to hold them in. "Let it out," Oliver whispers. "Just cry it out." And he does.
Oliver briefly thinks back to when they first met, before everything had gotten so complicated. The Connor he'd first known would never have cried in front of someone, and especially not someone he was seeing.
Then again, murder does tend to change you.
Connor's quieter, now, and he's begun to sniffle, so Oliver gets up slowly and walks over to the kitchen to fill him a glass of water. He lets the water run, trying to give Connor some space, a moment to catch his breath. When he comes back, he's mostly silent except for the odd hiccup or two, and he takes the glass from him with a grateful smile.
Later, when Oliver lies back down, Connor takes a deep breath and says, "No more crying."
"No?"
Connor shakes his head. "I'm going to try. To get better, I mean."
Oliver smiles at him, a real smile he didn't know he could muster given the fact that he's completely exhausted. "That's good."
"I'm not stupid, you know," Connor says, and this time he's talking to the ceiling , eyes focused upwards so he can't meet Oliver's concerned gaze. "I know I'm fucked up. PTSD, for starters, although I'm not sure I expected any of us would get through Sam and Sinclair and Wes without it."
Self-awareness, Oliver thinks, has always been a quality he'd liked about Connor. Now, it's kind of a double-edged sword. He can only imagine how it must feel, to know you're not okay but still be unable to do anything to fix that.
"So, are you going to see someone?" Oliver asks lightly. He reaches out and slowly links his fingers with Connor's. The other man's hand is clammy, but he holds back, and that's enough for him.
"A therapist, you mean? Can you imagine? Yeah, Doc, I killed someone, and I'm not coping too well." Connor laughs bitterly. "Then again, I'm pretty sure seeing Annalise shot fucked me up plenty, and let's not forget about Wes. And I could talk about that, I guess." It still amazes Oliver how candid he can be about it all.
Then Connor shrugs. "I dunno," he says, quieter this time. "If you think it'll help, I'll go. If you want me to stop drinking, I'll try. I want to get better for you, Ollie."
They let their chests rise and fall together under the sheets. Behind the curtains, the sun begins to rise, and the wall begins to glow slightly. If Oliver were to look beside him, the clock would read 5:31 am, which would normally send him into a freak out about how his sleep schedule would be messed up for days. Now, though, he only has eyes for Connor.
"I don't want to tell you to do anything, Connor," Oliver says after awhile. "I want to get through this together. And I promise you, we will."
"Betting on my mental health is not the best idea, babe," Connor says with a smirk, and it's a bad joke but they both laugh anyway.
"I'd bet on you no matter what the odds are, Connor," Oliver tells him. He squeezes his hand tighter and smiles.
And Connor doesn't let go.