Work Text:
Connor turned over in the bed, feeling the comforter uncomfortably twist around him. He didn't have the energy or care to correct it. All he had the energy for was a heavy huff and open his eyes to look at the dirt wall.
Connor's nose twitched, getting a whiff of the wet dirt. The smell was enough to make him turn over again, getting himself further tangled in the comforter. He didn't understand how Tommy deals with the boggy smell of this Hobbit hole he calls a home. No wonder he's been gone for so many months - Connor wouldn't want to live in this dirt hole on the side of a hill either.
Connor huffed again when he noted the hypocrisy of this thought. He's literally choosing to live in this kid's house. He could easily leave and go build his own house... But instead, he stayed needlessly grounded. Just like he was on SMPLive.
"At least I rotted in a nice beach house on that stupid fucking server..." Connor grumbled to himself. How limited the natural light was down here probably didn't help how he felt. The smell and sound of the ocean was a lot harder to be suicidal around.
Well, hold on, no -- suicidal isn't the right term. Connor's been there, he's done that. What he's currently feeling is... Connor's always been bad at explaining his emotions correctly - maybe it's guilt? But it's more than that - maybe it's more like shame? Or are those basically the same thing? Those don't even start to cover this stupid, empty drowning feeling that forces him to stay in this bed, though…
Whatever is the emotion you deal with whenever you let your dumbass friend leave, then he sends you a sad ass letter, then you arrive too late and hear all the heinous shit your best friend in the entire world did. Then living in a server where you have nothing, people are fucking crazy, and you keep learning new war crimes your ex-husband committed.
Whatever... Whatever emotion goes with all that. That's what he's dealing with. It's too complex for words... Or maybe Connor just didn't want to put towards the effort of labeling it.
Connor used his arms to force himself to sit up with a heavy breath. His body had an idle ache that he wasn't confident that it wasn't just in his head. His legs slid to hang off the bed. Connor sat there, staring down at his clothed feet, as he tried to gain the energy and confidence to get up.
His nose twitched again. The fetid smell of wet dirt still was bugging him. You'd think he'd get used to it at this point.
He unzipped the blue furred onesie partially, sliding the sleeves off and revealing the white t-shirt he wore underneath to no one but himself. He tied the sleeves around his waist and stood up with a little grunt. The comforter plopped to the ground as he got up but he didn't care enough to pick it up. His hand scratched his ass as he toddled over to a chest on the ground and opened it up.
It was a chest of Schlatt's things he left behind when he died. Quackity had it but didn't want it, so he was happy to give it to the first person that showed interest. The wood of the chest was pretty dinged up, obviously not cared about enough to keep it protected… Connor tried to make sure it didn’t get anymore roughed up than it already was.
There wasn't much in there: There were some old suits - one of which had burn marks for some reason. Some more leisurely clothes. There were two wedding rings which Connor's stomach turned each time he was reminded of them. A few books, a flask, a few lapels and cufflinks, some documents, and other miscellaneous junk. He was searching for something in particular though.
"There we go..." Connor mumbled to himself when his hand felt flimsy cardboard. He pulled out a tattered pack of cigarettes. He opened the top to only see a few left and sighed... He needed to stop using these as a crutch.
Connor remembers how he would bitch about Schlatt's smoking problem. He'd remind the ram about cancer and always complain about how bad it smelled. Connor let out an amused huff to himself. If only his younger self could see his newest coping mechanism - he’d flip.
He pulled out a cigarette with shaky hands and held it up to a torch on the wall. Once it was lit, he tossed the box of cigarettes into the chest and used a foot to close it. Connor took a deep breath in, then out with a sigh. He never smoked the cig, instead just... Appreciated what that nasty ass smell was associated with. He used them as some kind of sick kind of incense sticks.
This is the smell of Schlatt - his best friend, his business partner, his former husband. This was the smell of the Schlatt & Co offices. This was the smell of late night talks on roofs at 3 am. This was the smell that Schlatt would drag into his bed every night. This was the smell that filled Connor's senses when Schlatt kissed him.
He took it so much for granted then. He used to hate it. It's almost all he cares about now.
Connor smiled bitterly to himself as he slid back into the bed. Instead of the musty dank of the earth, all he smelled was the brand of tobacco that he associated with his favorite bastard. He grabbed the comforter from the ground with his free hand and tossed it over himself. He laid the cigarette on a small dish on his makeshift nightstand.
Connor let out a content hum. The smell was so nostalgic. It was addicting even - but not in the way that cigarettes normally are.
The way it brought Connor to a better time, a better place made him grow dependent on the substance. The way it let Connor remember the Schlatt he knew, not the monster he heard stories about, absolutely had him hooked. He prayed to Prime he'd be able to find this same brand once he burned through these - he needed these cancer sticks to get through the day. It was the only time his brain could slow down and be at peace for a moment.
Connor felt his eyes get heavy and he didn't try to fight it. He took the rare opportunity to be content, to be comfortable. He then nestled into the pillow underneath his head, smiling to himself, as he thought about everything that acrid smell meant to him. For a night, he was able to rest easy.