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Somewhere in an airplane graveyard situated between the middle of two nowheres in a barren and desolate region of Arizona, the midnight winds, which have been harsher than usual lately, howl against the walls of a decommissioned corporate jet as if they demand entry. The third time the harsh drafts make their rounds on the side of the plane is when Connor finally stirs. He’s only half-conscious, for an unpleasant dream had seized him while he was asleep. He doesn’t remember his dreams anymore—hasn’t since he kicked-AWOL a year ago—but he certainly remembers the feelings they conjure within him. A cruel cocktail of emotions roils inside his chest as he sits up. His dream, whatever it had been, had contained Risa. That’s what upsets Connor the most. Thinking of her reminds him of what happened. Of what they had, and how their relationship has begun to crumble more and more each passing day.
Earlier that night, Risa had accused Connor of not caring. Not wanting her with him during meetings with the rest of the Holy of Whollies. The truth couldn’t be anything farther from that. If he could, he’d have her by his side all the time. But, mixed with her own avoidance and his need to protect her—which can only be fulfilled if he pushes her away—that simply isn’t an option. Now, over the past few weeks, a chasm has opened between them, and neither of them have made the proper efforts to close the distance or reignite the spark they once had. Everything just feels… awkward. Strained.
Connor tries to shake the thoughts away and rakes a hand through his hair, then quickly drops his arm back against the sheets when he realizes whose hand it really is. Roland’s. Connor will never get used to having his enemy’s arm grafted onto his own body. It serves as a loathsome reminder that Roland will always be with him, and every time he happens to catch sight of the shark tattoo on his wrist, he remembers. He hates remembering.
He could get into another Happy Jack-esque accident to get rid of the arm, but he’d rather not go through something like that again. One time was enough, he decides.
Connor flops back against his pillow with a sigh. His thoughts, which have consisted of nothing much except Risa as of late, plague him just as they would any on other sleepless night of his. But tonight they seem amplified tenfold.
“If you wanted me with you, you would have built a ramp.”
“I think we need to take a break, Connor.”
The mere thought of what Risa had said to him earlier that night—about him not building a ramp, about taking a break from their relationship—makes Connor want to punch the nearest wall. And so he does. He rises from his bed and delivers a barrage of blows to the wall of his jet, its metallic protests and his own heavy breathing the only sound in the midst of the arid night. He punches and punches until the knuckles on his right hand bleed. He punches and punches until he’s satisfied with the pain he’s inflicted upon himself.
No, Connor thinks, it’s not me inflicting pain upon myself. It’s me inflicting pain upon Roland. This is the closest to revenge I’ll ever get.
After Connor wipes the beading blood off his knuckles with a tissue, he isn’t sure of what to do with himself. He attempts to fall back asleep, but to no avail. His mattress feels too stiff below him. His entire body feels too heavy. His headspace feels too full. Full of immense regrets and guilt.
There are so many things Connor should be worrying about. Things like the ADR’s frustrating lack of reliability, as well as the looming threat of the Juvey cops. These factors, among many others that he would rather not think of, follow him around like his own shadow. He can’t escape them no matter how hard he tries. And every time he thinks he finally has escaped them, the sun comes out from behind the clouds and makes those grim shadows of his own responsibilites visible to him again. It’s a vicious cycle that he wishes he could somehow break, but he knows deep down that as long as he’s known as the Akron AWOL, he’ll continue to run in circles, desperately chasing those fleeting moments of hope that will only end up slipping between his fingers like sand.
Connor Lassiter will never be able to lead a normal life. Not with the level of notoriety he’s managed to accumulate over the past year. From the very moment he used a Juvey cop’s tranq gun against himself, he condemned himself to a life of constantly fleeing from the law without a single moment of respite. He hasn’t been able to relax, to unwind—er, no, wrong term—to ease up since that fateful day he caused a pileup on the Ohio interstate.
I can’t stand this anymore.
The bleak landscape of the Arizona desert stretches out before Connor as he steps out of his corporate jet and into the lifeless night. He feels restless. He wants to talk to Risa, to scout her out and try to repair what little remnants of their rocky relationship still exist. But he knows he can’t. If he were to even look in her direct line of sight at the moment, he’s sure she would try to run him over with her wheelchair.
Well, if Connor can’t confide in Risa, who can he talk to about this raging tempest inside his mind? He can only think of one person in particular.
That’s how Connor ends up outside of the ComBom, hurling rocks at the tail of the WWII bomber to obtain Hayden’s attention—a trick he learned, of course, from Risa. A string of low curses follows from inside, and the door swings open to reveal a slightly bedraggled Hayden. A silence settles between them. It isn’t a comfortable one.
“…Hey, Connor,” Hayden quips after the silence lingers for a second too long. “I’m off duty right now, so if the Juveys have finally raided the Graveyard, save Risa first and kindly allow me five more minutes of sleep.”
At the mention of Risa, Connor stiffens so greatly that Hayden can see it even from the top of the plane’s steps. He knows that their relationship has been turbulent of late, but has it really been so bad to the point where something as simple as the mention of her name makes Connor wince? Apparently so, judging by the way he looks at Hayden as if he just revealed he’s been working for the Juvenile Authority this entire time.
Before Hayden gets a chance to voice his confusion and ask Connor what could have possibly happened to be making him act so uncharacteristic, Connor briskly ascends the steps and forcefully pushes past him. Their shoulders collide, causing Hayden to stumble slightly. He throw his hands in the air defensively as his line of sight follows Connor’s retreating figure.
“Who shoved a stick up your ass?” He mutters halfheartedly, his upper lip curled in a soft scowl. He follows Connor further into the ComBom, shutting the door on his way there. They pass by the makeshift bedrooms that Hayden’s subordinates reside in—sectioned off with cubicle curtains on either side, they eerily resemble a hospital room. It isn’t ideal, but it will have to work, Hayden had told his subsidiary colleagues the first day they moved into the decommissioned jet.
Connor reaches Hayden’s living quarters before the latter does. The area, which is abundantly more spacious than the other rooms, considering who occupies it, is lived-in—radio equipment is haphazardly strewn along the counter closest to the wall, a lone pair of headphones sits on the bed, and a book titled The Rise and Fall of Ancient Egypt with a dog-eared page and a cracked spine rests on the nightstand. Hayden’s aberrant interests are something Connor would usually taunt him for, but tonight, he doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he sits on the edge of Hayden’s bed with a pensive look on his face and a strangely skittish air to his demeanor.
Hayden saunters inside the room and leans against the cluttered counter parallel to the bed. He tries to act casual, but it’s difficult to keep up that pretense when the fact that something’s amiss is so clearly written on Connor’s expression. He holds the other’s gaze for a beat.
“So,” Hayden begins, his words swimming with thinly veiled suspicion, “is there a reason you’re here?”
“We have a meeting with the Holy of Whollies this afternoon,” Connor says, “and I wanted to be ready early.” A half-truth.
“It’s past midnight.”
“Can’t a guy be prepared?”
That familiar smirk takes purchase on Hayden’s lips. “I don’t see why you can’t be ‘prepared’ in your own jet. I’ll have you know, you interrupted my beauty sleep.”
Connor can’t argue with that. He opens his mouth to double down on his flimsy excuse, but Hayden beats him to it.
“Tell me why you’re really here.”
Connor hesitates. “Risa’s mad at me,” he explains vaguely.
Hayden cocks an eyebrow at that. “Shocker. You didn’t know that when you purposefully neglect your girlfriend, she’ll get mad? Remember Newton’s third law? For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. When you ignore Risa, she’ll—“
“—would you just be quiet?” Connor snaps. “She’s not even my.. my girlfriend anymore.”
His heart drops the moment he lets the admission slip out. He shifts his legs uncomfortably where he sits.
Hayden blinks and allows the silence to linger so long that it feels like a third presence in the room. “What?” he says finally. He thinks he misheard Connor.
“I, well—actually, never mind,” Connor, flustered, suddenly moves to stand up from the bed as he frantically backpedals. “I think I should go. You didn’t hear any of this from me.”
As Connor tries to whisk past, Hayden grabs his shoulder with a grip that borders on desperate. Connor is taken aback; he glances at Hayden with bewilderment in his eyes.
“Connor, wait. Did you and Risa break up?” Hayden asks, point-blank, much unlike all the other things that come out of his mouth.
“She said she wanted to take a break,” a vexed Connor corrects, avoiding the question. “We didn’t… break up.”
Hayden lets go. He takes a few steps back further into his room. “Are you sure that’s what Risa really meant?” he prods in a voice dripping with faux-innocence. This, Connor knows, is him hovering his hand over the candle’s flickering flame just as he used to do back when they were being housed in Sonia’s basement. “I mean, speaking from my own experience, women aren’t always exactly forthright with their feelings.”
Tonight Connor is too tired to try and solve any of Hayden’s many riddles. “You barely know anything about Risa or what she does,” he spits.
“Maybe I don’t,” Hayden counters, “but I know you. I know all about the demented version of a savior complex that you have, and the way you think distancing yourself from Risa will save her, but all it’s done it lead you here. Nowhere.”
A flicker of visceral, genuine hurt flashes across Connor’s face, but it’s so quick that Hayden thinks he imagined it. His guard slips back into place just as quickly as it had dropped.
Connor wants to lash out again, to put Hayden in his place and tell him that he is saving Risa as well as everyone else in the Graveyard, that he’s been working tirelessly for the past few months only for the ADR to mistreat and walk all over him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he opts for sighing deeply and trudging back over to Hayden’s bed. He flops down on his back, his eyes slipping shut.
Hayden hesitates to follow suit, but after a moment he tails after Connor and sits on the edge of the bed next to him.
“Was that too low of a blow?” he asks softly, seeming almost rueful.
Connor just hums sluggishly.
Hayden exhales through his nose in mild annoyance at Connor’s intentionally shallow response. “Sit up and talk to me.”
Connor cracks one eye open at that. It isn’t often that Hayden gives him orders. It makes a strange, abyssal pit open up low in his stomach. “Why do I have to sit up to talk to you?”
“Because I want to see your face, Connor.”
Usually, Connor would deflect a statement like that. Make a snarky comeback. But something about the assertive undertone in Hayden’s voice makes him rise slowly until he finds himself at level with him. But Connor isn’t ready to look into Hayden’s eyes just yet.
A stifling quiet settles between them. Connor ponders over whether or not he can manage to wriggle his way out of this situation and eventually arrives at the conclusion that he can’t. Hayden will pry and pry until he gets what he wants. So Connor chooses to talk. He doesn’t know how long he talks for, exactly—he just says whatever comes to mind. He talks about his relationship (or, rather, lack thereof) with Risa, his frustration with the ADR, the responsibilities in which he holds as being leader of the Graveyard and how he feels he won’t be able to uphold them any longer… everything. Connor isn’t even sure Hayden is listening anymore by the time he’s done, but he gets his confirmation when he says:
“You should talk to me about these things more often.”
Connor finally looks at Hayden then. He narrows his eyes with incredulity. “Since when did you get so sincere?” And if Connor notices the way Hayden keeps looking down at his lips, he doesn’t say anything.
“Since you finally dropped your act, I dropped mine,” Hayden says. The way in which he maintains eye contact is almost unsettling. It makes Connor shiver involuntarily, and his right hand grips the sheet below him. The dried blood on his knuckles glistens a deep maroon beneath the moonlight that filters through the small window on the wall. Hayden catches the faint shine, and his eyes drift down to Connor’s—or, rather, Roland’s—fingers marred with past scratches and faint scars.
Hayden, not wanting to upset Connor any further than he already has, inches his fingers closer to the latter’s. His touch is tentative, light, but Connor still tenses underneath it.
“What happened to your knuckles?” Hayden asks cautiously. He intertwines their fingers, frowning softly when Connor shies away.
Connor knows that Hayden knows why his knuckles are bloody; Hayden just wants to hear him admit it out loud. He’s always been disturbingly skilled at reading people, even when they can’t read themselves. It reminds Connor of Risa.
“I was mad, so I just, uh, punched the walls of my jet..” Connor finally mumbles. His words are quiet and his gaze averted. Hayden can’t hear him.
A cold, slender hand snakes its way to the far side of Connor’s face, steering his attention towards Hayden’s half-lidded eyes that suddenly stare at him with a heightened intensity. The way Hayden handles Connor—so unexpectedly artless, like it’s something he’s been waiting to do this entire time, only serves to further burrow the pit that’s opened up in Connor’s stomach. It’s foreign, strange, this feeling… but it isn’t entirely unwelcome. He’s never felt this way with Risa.
“Say it one more time,” Hayden says. His hand is still on Connor’s face.
Connor chews the inside of his cheek. He can’t look away from Hayden. Not because he’s enraptured, no… because Hayden won’t let him.
Well, maybe he is a little enraptured.
“Look,” he begins, “I was worked up about Risa, and I punched the walls of my jet. But it’s not a big deal.”
As he speaks, Connor tries to gently pry Hayden’s hand off of his face. Hayden cuts the movement short by intertwining their fingers a second time around. He doesn’t leave room for Connor to shy away this time.
For what feels like the umpteenth time tonight, a pause blankets the space between them. Since when had Hayden gotten that close? Connor thinks. Before he has the time to ask, Hayden brings Connor’s hand up to his face and kisses his bloodied knuckles. Connor flinches and pulls away as if he’s been burned by the touch of Hayden’s lips on his skin—as if it’s something sinful.
“That’s Roland’s hand,” Connor sputters frantically. “Don’t touch it.”
Hayden’s eyes widen slightly at the other’s sudden yet brief outburst. He lets go of the grafted hand and, just when Connor thinks he’s finally done, takes hold of his other hand—the one that’s his own—and kisses that one instead. When that doesn’t elicit a reaction, Hayden finds himself getting bolder. He wants to draw a reaction out of Connor. He peppers light kisses up Connor’s arm, shoulder, and neck until he reaches his jawline, and finally his face.
Hayden pulls away to meet Connor’s gaze. He’s clearly flustered. He didn’t expect that he would want this. So when Hayden whispers, “Can I?” so quietly that Connor thinks he imagined it, he can’t find it in himself to decline. He nods.
When the kiss finally happens, it’s everything Hayden has ever wanted. It’s everything that Connor didn’t know he wanted. Hayden’s hands roam at first and eventually find purchase on Connor’s waist. Connor hesitates, his own hands awkwardly resting at his sides before he finally melts into the kiss and lets his fingers tangle in Hayden’s blond hair.
Hayden, whose desperation finally rises to the surface, groans softly into Connor’s mouth when he feels his fingers in his hair. He pushes Connor down onto the mattress, following suit and ending up on top of him. Their lips clash passionately for what feels like an eternity to Connor, but not long enough to Hayden. Connor is tugged out of his euphoric haze by a sudden thought—Risa.
Connor pries Hayden off him, his hand untangling from the latter’s hair and coming to rest on his cheek. “I can’t do this, Hayden,” he says between heavy breaths. “What about Risa?”
Hayden narrows his eyes and purses his lips. Is Connor serious right now? Just when I think I’ve finally got him, all he can think about is Risa?
He leans down, his lips nearly touching Connor’s ear. “You wouldn’t have let me do this if you still cared about Risa,” he whispers. His breath tickles Connor’s ear, and it sends a chilling shiver down his spine.
He can’t deny it. He looks away with a sigh and turns his head to the side. He tries to push himself back up into a sitting position, but Hayden nudges him back down onto the mattress below, his hand splayed across his chest.
“Just… let me have this. Let me have you. Just for one night. It’s all I’ve wanted, Connor.”
The display of vulnerability that Hayden now presents is such a far cry from the usual smooth, charismatic persona he flaunts that Connor can’t help but be shocked. He searches Hayden’s face for any signs of deceit and finds none.
Hayden leans back in slowly, giving Connor plenty of time to move away. He doesn’t. Their lips meet a second time, and Connor finally surrenders to Hayden’s whims. He wants this—they both do. It’s apparent in the way Connor reciprocates and the manner in which Hayden holds him like he’s something sacred.
At some point—Connor isn’t sure when, for he’s been blinded by the sudden ecstasy that clouds his head—the pair slides off the bed. He only realizes it when his back hits the ground, and he lets out an involuntary, low whine. Hayden pulls back and puts a finger to his lips, nodding his head in the direction of the curtain that seperates them from the rest of the ComBom’s occupants. Connor casts a glance over his shoulder. He had forgotten all about where they were, and the fact that the curtain is the only thing limiting them from being seen. And somehow, that makes everything all the more exciting.
Connor looks back towards Hayden and slightly angles his head to the side, beckoning him to resume the workings of his lips. Hayden does just that, but not in the way Connor anticipated. He tilts down and kisses Connor’s exposed neck with a newfound ferocity; hard enough to leave a mark. Connor leans his head back, giving Hayden better access. His hands hover just above his hair, but then—
Hayden’s braces scrape against Connor’s skin. He winces and tangles his hand in the former’s hair, yanking him backward. He looks at Hayden, bewildered.
The moment is over as quickly as it had begun. Hayden curses himself internally. If he hadn’t been so careless, if he had done something differently, he wouldn’t have shattered the moment. He doesn’t do anything when Connor pulls away for the last time tonight—it’s his own fault that he’s even pulling away in the first place.
Hayden pushes himself to his feet, carding a hand through his now unruly hair. He feels uncharacteristically ashamed. He can’t put on a facade now; he’s already laid himself and his desires bare to Connor. But he can try.
That same stifling silence from before fills the space between them. Connor is frozen where he sits. He mulls over the night’s events in his mind, following a mental timeline of everything that happened. There’s only one thought running through his head.
How did I get here?
Hayden extends his hand to Connor, and he takes it, hauling himself off the floor. He feels dizzy. Dazed. It’s still difficult for him to comprehend what just happened. What he just did. The alarm clock on Hayden’s nightstand catches his eye, drawing him out of his rampant thoughts. It flashes the numbers 12:47.
“I need to go,” Connor says, massaging his neck with one hand. He’ll have to cover it come morning.
Hayden wipes saliva off his bruised lips with his sleeve. “Might want to cover those,” he gibes, that familiar mask of his slipping back into place as he points at Connor’s neck. “Have to maintain that professional image of yours, don’t you, O Mighty Graveyard Leader?”
Connor offers Hayden a scathing look. He flips him the bird before turning away and starting towards the curtain. Just as he’s about to pull it back and leave, he stops a step short.
“Don’t miss the meeting this afternoon, asshole,” he says.
“It was nice to see you too, Connor,” Hayden replies with a smirk. And with that, Connor’s gone.
Sleep evades Hayden for the rest of the night. He tosses and turns underneath his sheets. He tries counting sheep. He tries counting to 1,000 but stops at 289. He tries breathing exercises. Not a single thing works. His headspace remains filled with self-effacing woes. He doesn’t consider himself a dramatic person, but he can’t help in thinking that he screwed up astronomically. If he had kept his self control, maybe he wouldn’t have scared Connor off. He knows he’ll never get another opportunity like that one again. A rare sensation of guilt weighs heavily in his chest; one that will stick with him for the foreseeable future.
Back at the corporate jet, Connor can’t sleep either. Guilt tugs at his conscience as well, but not for the same reason as Hayden. All he can think about is Risa. How will she react if she finds out what happened? If she finds out about his disloyalty? It isn’t just guilt that eats at him, however—it’s also anger. Not at Hayden or Risa, but at himself. Why didn’t he pull himself away? Why did he let Hayden do what he did?
Because I wanted it to happen. I know Risa doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. And after how quickly I surrendered to Hayden, maybe it’s for the best.
Well, there’s the answer to that question.
***
No one at the meeting with the Holy of Whollies later that day says anything about the strange tension that’s formed between Connor and Hayden. Either they don’t notice it, or they purposefully choose to ignore it. Nobody, however, ignores the large bandage that Connor now bears around his neck. Whenever anyone asks, he simply tells them he got into an accident while repairing one of the jet’s engines. It’s plausible enough of an excuse for it to not be questioned.
The days pass, which eventually turn into weeks. Hayden and Connor continue to dance around one another after that night in the ComBom—stolen glances when they think the other isn’t looking, their fingers purposefully brushing against each other when they walk by. Everything is intentional, and it drives Hayden close to insanity. He just wishes Connor would take the hint.
Hayden’s wishes finally come true on a mundane day when he’s leisurely lounging on a chair in the recreational center of the Graveyard. He’s just finished playing a round of pool against some of Starkey’s storks—he wiped the floor with them, of course, and laughed to himself as they stormed off in a fit. Sore losers, he thought.
A figure approaches from the distance. Hayden squints his eyes against the radiant Arizona sun to gauge who it is. To his chagrin, it’s Connor.
Hayden has been able to keep his composure around Connor for weeks since their unexpected tryst in the ComBom, but it’s getting increasingly difficult as the days continue to drag by. Every time he sees him, his heart seems to skip a beat.
Connor motions with two fingers for Hayden to follow him. Hayden gets up from his chair and lets Connor lead him to a secluded area underneath the infirmary jet’s wings. For a moment, they just stare at each other.
Hayden isn’t sure of what to say or why Connor wanted to get him alone. He wants to cover up his uncertainty by making some sarcastic comment, something he’s used to doing, but he finds himself awkwardly apologizing instead.
“Look, if this is about the other night, I feel bad for, uh, what happened, and I’m sor—“
“Don’t apologize. Just… stop by my jet tonight. It’s important,” Connor says. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, his footsteps receding on the dry dirt.
Hayden stands alone, frozen in place. Then he cracks a grin.
It seems that what happened in the ComBom won’t be a one-time thing after all.