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One month.
That’s how long it’s been since he last saw Oliver in person. Between exams, his internship, and visiting his parents for Christmas, there hasn’t been a chance to catch up, even if Connor wanted to. And God, did he want to.
He spends the month stressed beyond reason, without even the satisfaction of Oliver’s company or more than the occasional drop of liquor.
(He’d made a promise to himself to cut back on the drinking after a particularly horrendous hangover had left him mostly incapacitated during an important trial prep – Annalise had not been impressed.)
In fact, outside of his home visit, for the duration of the month his interactions are confined exclusively to the other students he interns with, their minders, their fellow classmates, and Annalise. The bond between them, though still tenuous, has finally begun to resemble something akin to friendship. They study together, work together, eat the majority of their meals together – and it almost feels like a proper relationship. If they hadn’t all been forced into it, that is.
Truthfully, Connor quite likes his colleagues – most of the time. They never try to pry into his personal life, yet they never seem overly bothered when he tries to pry into theirs.
Except for Michaela.
Shortly after the Aiden debacle, it was almost a miracle they were able to stand being in the same room without clawing at each other’s throats. The whole thing had been ridiculous, really – Connor hadn’t even really liked Aiden that much when they’d briefly hooked up at boarding school, and he certainly hadn’t gained any sense of affection for him in his absence – but it had been an opportunity to rile Michaela up, get under her skin.
A chance to snatch the trophy right out from underneath her.
In the months that followed it was hard to believe that he’d ever managed to be so ruthless, so unflinchingly cruel. After watching Pax fall, watching him choose to end his life because of Connor’s actions, he’d been forced to re-evaluate. Connor had taken a long hard look at himself, at his choices, and realized that he didn’t want to be the reason the people around him felt helpless or miserable. So he’d taken the high road – he apologized to Michaela, attempted to befriend the other interns, and reconnected with old friends.
The former had been a bit of a wash – Michaela and Aiden’s relationship was still on uncertain ground – but the latter, well, it had brought him Oliver.
Sweet, patient, incredibly attractive Oliver, whose apartment Connor currently stands in front of.
He rearranges the position of the box under his left arm to knock on the door of apartment 303. He’s nervous, not entirely sure what to expect. Three hours after stepping off a plane, and he’s about to be face-to-face with Oliver.
“Just a minute!” Oliver calls from the confines of his apartment. Connor shifts restlessly on the balls of his feet. He feels awkward, standing out in the hallway with a gift tucked under his arm, and even more so when an elderly woman two door down eyes him on her way inside. Oliver pulls the door open, poised to speak, before he frowns instead. “You’re not the pizza guy.”
Connor smirks. “No, I’m not.”
Oliver doesn’t move from the doorway. “You’re early, too.”
It’s not exactly the reception he was anticipating when he turned up, gift in hand. “You seem disappointed.”
Oliver’s frown softens into a chagrined smile. “I was just really looking forward to pizza.” Oliver steps back to let him in, eyeing the gift as he passes. “Is that for me?”
“It might be, if you’re willing to share some pizza, that is.”
Oliver laughs.
The first thing Connor notices about Oliver’s apartment upon his entry is that it’s very neat – much neater than his own with its endless stacks of law textbooks – but not so neat that it doesn’t feel lived-in. After spending his childhood at the residence of business executives with interior designed living rooms where nothing was ever to be touched, Connor admires houses that really feel like a home. A place where people live, not just reside.
A cursory glance at Oliver’s apartment gives him the impression that Oliver spends a lot of time here. Even from a distance, the large slate couch occupying most of the room’s space screams comfort, as does the plethora of cushions and blankets. The room is a little on the dim side, lit only by lamps, but they emit a soft glow. There’s a definite warmth and openness to the apartment, one that radiates from Oliver himself and extends to every corner of his home.
“What do you think?” Oliver asks him, gesturing around the space. “I don’t often have people over so this is kind of a novelty for me.”
Connor likes the apartment, like it because it embodies everything he likes about Oliver. “It’s nice.”
They’ve only just sat down when there’s a knock at the door.
“Here’s hoping it’s actually the pizza guy this time.” Oliver stands up to answer the door, cash in hand. Connor, eager to impress Oliver, offers to get some plates before he realizes he has no idea where Oliver keeps them. Quiet footsteps approach behind him.
“Cupboard on your right,” Oliver supplies, sensing Connor’s hesitation, “bottom shelf.”
Plates found, he carries them over to the coffee table where Oliver’s place the box of pizza. The TV drones quietly in the background as Oliver settles in beside him, passing him a beer. They share a small smile.
It’s the first time he’s ever shared a meal with someone he’s romantically involved with, Connor realizes, the first time he’s ever really liked someone enough to spend time with them outside of sex. After boarding school, he’d made a conscious effort to distance his emotions from physical intimacy, one so successful that he can’t really remember the last time he was friends with someone he was also intimate with. Or, at least, hoping to be intimate with.
Oliver swallows down a mouthful of pizza and clears his throat. “How was Christmas?”
Connor takes a drink and shrugs. “It was okay, I guess. Lots of nosy relatives and not enough places to hide.”
Although they’d exchanged numbers before Oliver left after thanksgiving – and had been texting semi-regularly ever since – Connor had managed to lose track of his phone somewhere between his second and third glass of wine. He’d spent almost an hour looking for it, after remembering Oliver was home alone in Philadelphia, to no avail. Which, in retrospect, was probably for the best – the last thing Oliver needed on Christmas Day were misspelled texts from an intoxicated, horny Connor.
“There was one weird incident,” Oliver looks up at him with interest, “my cousin’s boyfriend tried to proposition me…for a threesome.”
Oliver bursts into a coughing fit, clutching his chest. When he finally recovers, his eyebrows are still raised. “Did he know you were related?”
Connor bites into his pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “Oh, he knew,” he assures Oliver when his mouth is no longer full, “she introduced me as her favourite gay cousin.”
Oliver laughs. “You’re her only gay cousin.”
They devolve into a comfortable silence as Connor starts in on his third slice. After a rather lacklustre in-flight meal, he’s relieved to be eating something that wasn’t frozen before it arrived on his plate. “What about you?” He begins, “how was your Christmas?”
Oliver wipes his hands on a napkin and drops it onto his plate. “Apparently not nearly as eventful as yours,” Oliver teases, “I skyped my parents in the morning, watched all the decent Christmas movies Netflix has to offer and worked my way through the last third of a bottle of wine. I woke up on the couch the next morning severely hungover.”
Connor knows from experience how lonely the holiday season can be when you’re miles away from home and everyone you know is spending time with their loved ones. He certainly doesn’t begrudge Oliver the occasional drunken binge.
“Did you watch It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“Of course I watched it,” Oliver tells him as he clears the table, “I watch it every year.”
As a child, Gemma had been obsessed with the film, suggesting it every year on the annual Hampton-Walsh Children’s Christmas movie night. With each of them possessing such opposing choices of film, a fair decision could only be reached by using the most diplomatic of adult decision-making tools: rock, paper, scissors. Against all odds, Gemma won three Christmases in a row – much to the dismay of Oliver’s older sister Amy, who’d wanted to watch Edward Scissorhands. It warms Connor to know that Oliver is still keeping the tradition alive.
He follows Oliver into the kitchen, where he’s currently doing the dishes. He looks so relaxed, so positively domestic, that it overwhelms Connor for a moment.
“Thank you for inviting me over,” he says to the back of Oliver’s head, “and for letting me hang out even though I ate your pizza.”
Oliver turns his head briefly to smile before returning his attention to the sink.
“I, uh, I really missed you after thanksgiving.”
When Oliver turns around fully this time, giving him his undivided attention, Connor tugs his sleeves over his hands. It’s a lot easier to be bold about your feelings when you’re not looking the object of your affection directly in the eye, he realizes. “Outside of law school and my family, I don’t really have anyone, you know? And I guess what I’m trying to say is that it felt nice to have somebody to talk to, somebody who actually listened.”
Oliver’s eyes are all soft and fond when Connor finally looks up at him. Full of affection and understanding. “Connor,” he starts, stepping toward him. Connor pulls back, arms wrapped defensively around his midsection. There’s color high on his cheeks, a hint of embarrassment as his eyes skitter away. The way he always feels when he makes himself vulnerable in front of another person.
“We should open presents now, right?”
There’s a flash of disappointment in Oliver’s expression before he smiles, but he lets the moment go and joins Connor on the couch.
Although his primary emotion is overwhelming relief, Connor feels a bubble of guilt welling up inside of him. He wants to be honest with Oliver, wants him to know what an important part of his life he’s becoming, but years of being told by his father that ‘men don’t share their feelings’ has made the notion difficult to shake. The impulse to run, to clam up and close himself off is almost too strong to ignore, but he tamps it down when Oliver places a gift in his lap.
He’s unwrapping it messily when Oliver interrupts. “It’s not the greatest present in the world,” he warns him, “but hopefully you don’t hate it?”
Connor pulls the last piece of tape free to see a bundle of dark fabric. He lifts it out of the paper to look at it. It’s a navy sweater, dark and soft, with long sleeves. When Connor stays silent a moment too long, Oliver begins babbling beside him. “I kept the receipt if you want to exchange it for something else. I just thought – the color’s really nice and it’d look great on you and-and Philadelphia gets cold and you can never have enough sweaters, right?”
Oliver’s face is red when Connor places his hands on his cheeks, eyes downcast with embarrassment. “It’s perfect,” Connor assures him. Oliver lets out a small squeak of surprise when he draws him in for a kiss, slow and appreciative. Despite Oliver’s protests, it’s clear that he’s put a lot of thought into selecting a gift – something Connor can’t recall anyone else doing in a long time. It’s sweet and thoughtful, a gesture that makes Connor’s heart lurch with want when Oliver pulls back from the kiss. In that moment, he thinks he’d be content to just sit here staring at the adorable, giddy expression on Oliver’s face for the rest of his life.
“My turn. I want to open my present.” With an eye roll and the words ‘bossy much’ muttered under his breath, he passes the box to Oliver. He unwraps it slowly, careful not to tear the tissue paper. He keeps sneaking glances at Connor, looking for some kind of indication of what’s inside, but his poorly concealed grin gives away nothing.
When Oliver finally lifts the lid off the box, Connor scoots closer. He can see Oliver staring at the object curiously. “My grandma made it for me.”
Oliver narrows his eyes at him. “So this is a regift.”
“I kind of ran out of time with exams and everything,” he explains. “Besides, I couldn’t pull it off but you totally can.”
He takes the green and yellow lopsided knit hat from the box and pulls it over Oliver’s head.
“I feel ridiculous,” Oliver tells him.
“Well you look great. You’ll see, you’re gonna have guys falling at your feet when they see you in this.”
Oliver rolls his eyes but he doesn’t remove the hat. “Whatever you say, Connor.”
He bumps his knee against Oliver’s. “I’m serious, that hat is totally doing it for me.”
Oliver elbows him gently in the side. “It is not.”
Eager to prove his point, Connor turns Oliver’s face and plunges his tongue inside his mouth. It’s messy and inelegant, but Oliver pulls him closer anyway. Still attached at the mouth, they tumble backwards into the cushions in their urgency to reach one another, to have their bodies pressed flush together. Connor can feel the cool air against his back where Oliver has bunched up his sweater between his fists. He hastily slips the garment over his head, desperate for skin-to-skin contact. When Oliver’s eyes linger a moment over his torso before returning to his face, it’s hard not to feel a little flattered.
Connor mouths his way down Oliver’s neck, sucking gently on the skin, until he realises Oliver is trying to remove the hat. He pins Oliver’s hands down, running a thumb over each wrist. “Keep it on.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Connor nips at the skin just above Oliver’s collarbone and he’s rewarded with a gasp. “I’m dead serious.”
“If this is your way of telling me you have some weird hat fetish, so help me God-“
“I don’t think that’s really a thing,” he points out, resting his chin on an arm he drapes across Oliver’s chest. He remains like that for a minute, studying Oliver’s face. The close scrutiny makes Oliver furrow his brow, though the seriousness of his expression loses its effect when Connor notices how dilated his pupils are. There’s a definite hunger in his eyes, an overwhelming desire Connor knows is reflected in his own.
“Can I go down on you?” He asks, without breaking eye contact.
Oliver’s jaw falls slack before he manages to regain his composure. “Oh, are you sure? I mean, yes, if you want to but uh, only if you want to.”
Connor grins at him, leaning forward to capture Oliver’s lips in a quick kiss. He lets his mouth linger on its way down to the center of the v of his neckline, open and wet. He can feel Oliver’s chest heave a little when he pushes his sweater up to sit under his arms. He moves down Oliver’s body leisurely, leaving a trail of wet kisses from his collarbone to the waistband of his pants.
There’s something almost intoxicating about watching Oliver trying – and failing – to keep his composure. The way he bites his lip when Connor’s face hovers for a second longer than necessary over the fly of his pants, or the way he breathes audibly through his nose when Connor’s tongue traces his skin – it drives Connor wild.
Which is why he’s irritated when his phone starts ringing in his back pocket. “Ignore it,” he mumbles against Oliver’s stomach when he feels the other man hesitating. He’ll be damned if he gives up that easy after the wait he’s had to endure. The phone stops ringing and Oliver relaxes again.
Connor gets back to work on unbuckling Oliver’s belt when it starts ringing again. “It’s probably Michaela asking for my study notes,” he states, unsure of whether he’s trying to assure himself or Oliver. Although Oliver’s hum is largely noncommittal, Connor chooses to take it as assent to proceed. He rids Oliver of his pants, dropping them onto the floor, and prepares to remove the final barrier. Hands on Oliver’s hips, he’s slowly sliding his briefs down when his phone rings for a third time.
Thoroughly annoyed, Connor pushes himself up to mash his lips against Oliver’s while he plunges his hand down the front of Oliver’s briefs. Hips jerking up on their own accord, it takes Oliver a moment to gather his thoughts when he abruptly pulls away. “Maybe you should answer that.”
Connor lets out a frustrated sigh. “I have my hand down your pants and you want me to answer my phone?” As if to emphasize his point, he strokes his fist down Oliver’s length.
“It might be important,” Oliver manages to get out in between a series of breathy gasps. Connor relents, taking the phone out of his pocket with a huff. “This better be important,” he growls, “or I might actually kill you.”
“It’s Michaela,” Laurel tells him from the other end, “she’s in a bit of trouble.”
Connor frowns. “What kind of trouble?”
“She’s been so stressed with exams and everything that went down with Aiden, I just wanted to help her relax a little.”
He’s not sure he’s ever heard Laurel sound so concerned, so emotional. She’d been so hard to read, both in class and out, that Connor was starting to suspect that nothing ever rumpled her. Hearing her voice on the phone, however, suggests that he might’ve been wrong. “She’s drunk,” Laurel confesses, “really drunk. I’ve been trying to convince her to leave for half an hour now and she won’t cooperate. I really need your help, even if it’s just carrying her to the car so I can drive her home.”
He lets out a reluctant groan. “Fine, but you owe me.”
She promise to text him the address and hangs up.
Oliver, who’s been pretending to be occupied while Connor was talking, looks up when he lowers his phone. “It was Laurel,” he explains, trying to find the sweater he’d flung across the back of the couch, “she and Michaela went out and Michaela tried to drown her sorrows, so now I have to make sure she gets home safely.”
Although Oliver assures him that it’s more than okay for him to leave, and that he’s proud of Connor for being a good friend, he still looks a tad disappointed when Connor stands up to leave. Seeing him there in a state of disarray with that ridiculous hat still firmly on his head makes Connor’s heart swell. He wants to stay, more than anything, but he’d promised Laurel he’d help. He leans over to plant his lips on Oliver’s one more time before leaving. “We’ll hang out again soon, okay?”
Oliver nods. “I expect a rain check though.”
Connor smirks at the blush in Oliver’s cheeks at his own flirtatious remark. He kisses him again. “I even promise to turn my phone off next time.”
He’s managed to pull his shoes on and slide one arm into his coat when he hears Oliver’s feet padding across the floor toward him. “Don’t forget this.” He holds Connor’s new sweater in front of him.
Connor pulls his coat on the rest of the way and takes it, sliding his arms around Oliver’s waist. “Merry Christmas, Ollie.”
Oliver glides his hands down Connor’s chest. “Merry Christmas, Connor.”
Connor lets his mouth linger on Oliver’s as he kisses him one last time before he slips out the door. Although the air outside the apartment building is frigid, Connor can’t ignore the warmth in his chest when he climbs into his car. He drives away, thoughts of Oliver on his mind, and a lovesick grin plastered to his face.