Chapter Text
Maybe it started when he grabbed Connor's face in a fit of hysteria, or the way that Connor has always been touchier with him. Kevin wasn't quite sure about anything right now, given his faith falling apart and all. All that Kevin knows is that he likes Connor, all of it — being near Connor, touching him, holding his freakishly cold hands. It's all perfect.
Like now. They're walking out to the garden in the weird morning light, Connor leading in front of him. Since making their stay in Uganda less church-sanctioned, they had decided to start a little garden by their hut. Maybe they just needed something to fill the time, but nobody could deny it was nice to have vegetables on hand.
It's far too early, in Kevin's humble opinion, but they have to get on gardening early to beat the afternoon sun's heat and UV. By "they", he means Connor, and he's here for moral support. Kevin seriously cannot believe a ginger got sent to Uganda.
Until recently, he would be thinking about God's tests, how He picked out McKinley specifically to go and learn a lesson in blistering heat. Right now, he's thinking about someone in an office having an awful day and deciding to make themselves feel better by sending the pastiest boy alive to be roasted by the African sun slowly, painfully, until said boy resembles a lobster.
Those are complex thoughts though, something that he'll save for when that devious sun is actually out and he can bear to think about Apostles and the Church. He can have easy thoughts right now, like the best way to be touching Connor to inconvenience him. His current best bet is grabbing both of his hands, lacing their fingers together.
"Elder Price, I really do need my hands to garden, you know," says Connor, peevishly.
Bingo.
"Hm? Oh- those hands! You can garden later, can't you?" Kevin smiles, knowing full well that he absolutely cannot—and should not—garden later. There isn't enough sunscreen in the world for his milky skin to not burn.
But it's the light banter that Kevin's after. He wants the feeling of Connor's skin heating up as he touches him, of knowing exactly how their interaction will go. It's comforting, almost sweet.
Connor scowls, but there's no heat behind it, just like usual. Usually, he'll playfully bat him off, and Kevin will go fake-pout until Connor comes to fix his grievous mistake.
Instead, Connor slowly takes their interlaced hands and plants a kiss on his knuckles, then wrestles his hands free to grab the shovel stuck into the dirt. He's never kissed him before, but Kevin isn't against the idea at all. It makes him feel special, preferred.
"You mind helping me bury these potato plants, Kev?"
The downside to being preferred is being dragged along with chores.
"What, you're gonna give me a kiss on the hand like I'm a princess, but I have to work? Chivalry is dead," He scoffs, faking indignation as he grabs a bucket of dirt.
"How will you continue on? Carrying such a heavy bucket, helping us grow food," Connor looks down, shaking his head.
He squats down and starts adjusting the flour bags around the mess of stakes they have to keep the dirt in while they bury the potatoes above ground. Kevin Price is not jealous of the way he isn't being fussed over as much as potatoes. Not one bit, actually.
Kevin sets down the bucket of dirt and starts to scoop dirt into the spout, shaking the leaves of the plant like he was shown. He stops pretty soon though, once he sees how Connor does it much better than he ever could.
He does, however, wrestle his head into the crook of Connor's neck. He's just nice to be on. Plus, it probably destabilizes him from his careful potato ministrations, which is surely his real goal.
Yet again, he feels Connor heat up where he lays on him, as if he's an oven. Kevin runs hot, sure, but he always feels like it gets to Connor more than anyone else. He's weird like that, he supposes. He definitely feels the boy's chin heat up against his head, feels him swallow. Kevin lets out a contented hum, incredibly satisfied with his work here.
Connor hums back, something more melodic, as he stretches himself every which way to keep from disturbing him. It doesn't work, but it makes Kevin smile nonetheless.
"You'll be the death of me, Elder Price."
----
Elder McKinley hunches over, cradling Arnold's palm in his lap as he fishes out slivers of glass from the skin. He's perfectly caring and selfless for his fellow man, gently pinching each shard out with metal tweezers.
Kevin is comforting his best friend as best he can, holding his shoulder and passing him tissues with his unoccupied hand. He absolutely does not envy his situation; there's a lot of blood, pooling and dribbling down his wrist. Even with how gentle Elder McKinley is, he imagines each slight movement of the embedded shards stings like heck.
"'m sorry! But," their prophet pauses to sniffle, "I was being Gandalf when he died in Moria b-because Naba asked to see and I was falling and, and-"
"Shh, it's fine. We can get a new window, Prophet Cunningham," Elder McKinley assures, breathing deeply to coax Arnold to copy him.
Even after everything, after being essentially excommunicated, after losing any surety of a return home, he still sticks to calling everyone "Elder", or "Prophet" in Arnold's case, like its his sworn duty. It makes him feel a lot, things he can't quite describe. He'll settle for "maddening" and "impressive", though.
Connor is a perfect person, he thinks. Watching him, he's just such a perfect embodiment of trying to be human, trying to be more-than. He's a perfect embodiment of a Latter Day Saint should be. There's more care in the pinch of his fingers than Kevin could ever have in his whole body. The kind of care you don't see with missionaries, where it truly is out of concern for the person, not to rack up karmic points to get to Heaven.
He feels like Connor genuinely, honestly wanted to go on this mission. They all did, but Connor he thinks most of all. Not to prove something, but to help in any way possible. Dimly, he thinks about his own reaction to being sent to Uganda, then imagines Connor in the missionary training center. He was probably delighted, so excited to go to a place where he could actually change people for the better. In service to God, rather than in service to his own self-image.
There's a shattered window behind Connor's head right now, and he looks angelic, light filtering weirdly through the dirty shards, like stained glass. It's almost a halo, the cracked outline of Arnold's hand having fallen away into a craggly oval. He'd only seen stained glass a couple times, every instance inside the Temple, but he thinks this almost rivals it. He's like a portrait.
His eyebrows knit together in focus, but there's no trace of frustration on his face. His hands are steady, despite the situation at hand. The blood from Arnold's palms drips onto a scrap of cloth, leaving next to none anywhere on him.
Kevin couldn't do it. Not be frustrated with Arnold crashing his hand through their window, that is. Or keep blood off of him like that.
He doesn't think that in a million years he could so deftly follow each rule with his whole heart after everything. Lights out at 10:00, rise at 6:30, keep his hair neat, be of pure word and mind. Always leave accompanied by someone, even if it wasn't his companion. Be placative, be a perfect, shining representative of their Lord's presence on earth.
He feels like the shattered window behind Connor — sharp around the edges, awful to run into when you're not expecting it, irreparably changed by Arnold Cunningham — rather than like the perfect Latter Day Saint that sits perfectly framed in front of it, serene.
He even has those blue eyes, that pale complexion. He looks like a born prophet, like he was meant to do something people would remember. Everyone in the paintings always had blue eyes, piercing, looking straight out. They feel righteous to him. It feels like Connor's been given a gift for being so perfect, a reward for staying so steadfast in tumultuous times.
Except he can't really see those eyes now, because there's a whisper of ginger hair fallen in front of them, wrestled free from the focus of the situation.
It's not an excuse to touch Connor, it isn't, but he just–. He'd like to be able to see his eyes, properly. Plus, it'd be better for Arnold, still crying as his hand is wrapped in a bandage, to have someone attending to him with his full range of vision.
It irks him, catching himself thinking, that he has to justify what he wants. He has to have some practical reason, can't just engage in impulsive acts for his own enjoyment. Kevin pauses and mentally scowls at himself. There's a mental game of tug-o-war, where he's upset that he's thinking like this, but he can't quite stop entirely, and then he's being conceited and–. It only frustrates him more.
He could get pulled into that loop of mad-at-himself for hours, so he resolves to brush the hair out of Connor's eyes. In a justified, righteous manner for a justified, righteous man. He tucks the stray strands behind his ear. His hair is soft, surprisingly so for the climate. Kevin still isn't able to adjust to not having an extensive routine, but Connor's hair seems to revel in the climate.
A small smile spills onto the other's face as he secures the cloth around Arnold's hand, telling him something about being more careful. Or something. The world around him drowns out into a pleasant singularity on the warm feeling of making Connor smile. Everything else, the dopey grin he's wearing or the buzzing mosquitoes in the air, fades into the background.
"You're adorable, Kev."
He can't even find it in himself to prickle, to retort back that he is not adorable, he is ruggedly handsome, thank you very much. It's just nice. It's so nice to not think, because Connor's talking and he has to listen to every word addressed to him.
Kevin grabs for his hand, wrapping around and back to rest his chin on Connor's shoulder. He tangles Connor up in his own limbs. When he's on Connor, he isn't anyone, he isn't a Latter Day Saint, he isn't Kevin Price, he just is. He breathes and feels the way Connor shifts his weight to let Kevin lean on him further and he just is.
Connor opens his mouth, he can feel it, and Kevin cuts him off, muttering into the fabric.
"Wash your hands later, you'll be fine," says Kevin.
He hums, musing.
"Yeah, it will be."
----
The bed Kevin wakes up in later that night is much too empty. Of course, there's Arnold snoring like a chainsaw a few feet away, but there's too much weight on his chest for nobody to be laying on it. Like Connor. Connor could lay on his chest and it would be okay.
He's cold, isn't that weird? It's never cold here, usually suffocatingly hot, but it's not so much temperature as it is the lack of warmth. He can't think, it's too early. He wants Connor.
There's a weight on his chest that is not Connor. It feels like each breath is fighting to get out, rushing away from the overwhelming sense of wrongwrongwrong that floods his entire body. It's stupid, he's not scared of anything. Nothing happened, nothing with the General or blood dripping down Arnold's hands being too similar to the blood leaking out of Kimbe's husband's head.
Nothing's wrong, but he feels antsy nonetheless. If he lays down, he has to think and let his subconscious take everything he's been deliberately not thinking about on a parade around his mind. If he lays down, he has to dream.
There's a weight on his chest, the weight of something, and he can't make out what. Clawing, panging. He's not going back to sleep. He doubts he even could with Arnold asleep next to him. Seriously, he should get that snore checked out, because Kevin swears that their new prophet is going to choke to death in his sleep one of these nights.
Instead of listening to frightful snore-chokes, he returns to routine. He does what he always does: he goes to the kitchen to get some water and fall asleep on the couch.
Kevin opens his door, silent as anything, and he does not let himself expect Connor to be waiting there for him. It's better this way, if he pretends it's a shock to see anyone else up this late. This way, it doesn't sting in some weird way when Connor isn't there. This way, this comfort is an extra solace, not something that he needs, not something that can be taken away. He can't be wrong if he doesn't expect it.
But, he hopes that whenever he wakes up like a kid after a nightmare, he'll find Connor with the same problem.
Connor stands leaned back against their table, wearing elegantly striped pajama pants over his Temple Garments. His head still snaps up as he enters the room, pausing whatever he was doing to assess the situation. They exchange a look, one they've exchanged countless times before, to ask a silent question.
Dreams again?
Connor's eyes are wet with tears, red and rubbed-at, Kevin notes. He hasn't seen Connor like this, he doesn't think. The redness around his eyes feels like he's scorning himself for crying, trying to press the tears back in with his sleeves.
He's very pointedly avoiding eye contact now, looking down with folded arms like he's praying. Nobody prays about anything good, for themselves or others, this late at night.
Kevin decides to remedy this by pushing himself into Connor's side until he hears the whisper of an "amen" and there's a shaky arm wrapped around him. He's steadying both of them, steeling them to go back to sleep.
They don't need words right now. Kevin knows not to push at Connor — perfect, placative Connor — in times like this. He knows nobody in that hut deals with vulnerability well. He'll sit there, he resolves, and Connor will hold him while holding back tears until it passes. They're just like that, Kevin supposes.
He and Elder Connor McKinley are friends in a way Kevin has never been friends with anyone before. Kevin had friends when he was in high school, but there's something different about what he has now. He never really liked anyone he was friends with, and they didn't really like him.
People gravitated towards him, but he always felt like it was toward the idea of him. People never liked Kevin, just Kevin Price. They were friends with the person he was in public: the boy who parents loved, who would always have girls flocking to him at Church dances, who gave lessons during Sunday School.
Nobody knew Kevin, who would lie awake at night thinking about how there was nothing behind his laugh, who had apologizing for storming off down to an art, who would find he could never quite remember each two hour block of church as well as he should.
Connor knows Kevin, not Kevin Price. He gets the feeling sometimes that he wanted to know Kevin Price, but he gets to know Kevin instead. It's confusing. Kevin, all things considered, wouldn't want to know himself. If he were Connor, he'd turn and run.
But he doesn't. Connor seems to take him in like part of the scenery, like what's supposed to be there. He doesn't think anyone's ever done that.
He doesn't get scared when Kevin starts yelling. It reminds him of what they had taught him at Young Men's, to not show fear when you're in the woods with a bear. He's never been good with metaphors, or imagination, but there's probably some story to be told there. Arnold could probably find it.
He sees him. He sees that pit inside Kevin Price and still stays. He stays until Kevin can think again, letting whatever bubbles out of that pit in his chest settle. He sits and he waits and still loves him. It's terrifying, if he's honest. He doesn't want it to stop.
He likes Connor more than he's ever liked anyone. And he knows he will screw up and send Connor running eventually, but for now, Kevin gets to enjoy freckled arms draped over him at all hours.
For now, Kevin will let himself be held in dark kitchens and feel like they're the only two people on the planet.