Archive of Our Own

The alarm clock rang its hideous ear splitting tones and out of habit, Connor sprang out of bed and onto his feet like there was an axe-wielding maniac beside him. After realizing where he was, he sat down on the mattress and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The bedroom was lit warm shades of orange courtesy of the drapes, which filtered the sun into something softer and less glaring. The sheets beneath him -- 300 thread count Egyptian cotton, one of Oliver's indulgences -- were still warm and comforting on his bare skin. They had an argument about getting come on those sheets, and Connor didn't survive all this time not knowing that there were some things people wouldn't change their minds about, and to be fair, Oliver had bought the sheets. A towel it was, and they rotated a pile of seven towels whenever someone felt insatiable at night, usually Connor with a very willing Oliver, who never minded being led if their destination was the same. Some weeks, no towels remained, on bad weeks all seven stood by the foot of the bed unused like cruel taunting reminders, but on most weeks, there were usually about two towels left on their pile. They even had favorites: Connor's favorite was the soft yellow one while Oliver often picked the blue one. There was an orange one there before, but Oliver, being a sensible man at heart, quickly got rid of it. At the bottom of that pile was the biggest beach blanket they could find, complete with a tawdry 80s Miami motif of palm trees and bikinis, and that towel was for when they felt like experimenting. Oliver still got a little red when Connor picked that towel out on certain nights.

"Not a chainsaw wielding lunatic," Connor heard behind him.

"You wouldn't be able to carry it off anyway," he replied. He crawled on the bed to get over Oliver, who was still in that bleary eyed phase of the morning without his coffee, still with his foul morning breath that Connor couldn't help but tease him about. Oliver winced when Connor's left ankle brushed up against him, the hard plastic strapped around it making a soft thunk on contact. Connor pressed a soft kiss on Oliver's chin as an apology.

Today was a good day, Connor decided, and pushed the sheets down. He loved Oliver's cock, its length and thickness, its clean skin smell even in the hellish depths of summer.

How many assholes were surprised when they pulled down your pants? Connor had asked him, way before their domestic phase.

Not too many, Oliver had answered, but enough that I was rougher with the ones that were.

Connor has spent hours before rendering Oliver incoherent, love and gratitude and disbelief all mingling messily into something pure. They didn't have time for that this morning though, so Connor went with tried and true methods. One long lick up from base to head, which always made Oliver squirm just a little; a surprise deep throat technique borne from years of experience, something that always made Oliver arch his back; withdrawing about an inch and sucking in, Oliver sighing in response; extending his tongue to lick the joint of flesh between Oliver's cock and balls while still sucking, which always made him go crazy. Rinse and repeat, switch up the steps, an ordinarily extraordinary act of devotion. In five minutes, Oliver came, melting even deeper into the bed, a satisfied smile on his face.

With a smile, Connor pulled off. "Blowjob champion of the state," he said. Oliver just smiled at him, and that was perhaps Oliver at his most potent. Somewhere in his life, someone convinced Oliver that he would be a better person with layer after layer of pretense: be straighter, butcher, less Asian. Oliver had none of those in the morning other than a sleepy sense of satisfaction, and Connor aimed to keep that there for as long as Oliver allowed him. "Get up soon," Connor said, "breakfast of champions in about 30 minutes." He had to work today, but not until early afternoon, so he had time.

One of the wonderful things Oliver introduced him to was Filipino food. Connor's family had disowned him a while back, but Oliver's family was huge, loud and for the most part, welcoming. Unfailingly polite, even under the worst of circumstances, which Connor coming into their family certainly was. And when Oliver had brought him for the tenth time, the collective of aunts, grandmothers and mothers cooed at him and sometimes gathered to watch him eat Filipino food, marveling at his zest for what they assumed to be unusual flavors to him. After the fifteenth time, Oliver's aunt Perla said "If you're going to make Ollie happy, you need to learn a few tricks." And since Oliver's mother had never really learned how to cook well and always ceded her kitchen to Perla anyway, Connor learned some Filipino cookery lessons under her careful tutelage.

He crushed a few cloves of garlic and finely minced them before tossing them into a heated pan with vegetable oil. The leftover rice from last night's dinner he separated with his hands, and once the garlic was a mellow brown he tossed the rice in. In another pan, he fried some eggs sunny side up and in another, he fried some Filipino smoked sausage called longanisa, a staple in their kitchen and responsible for the measly few pounds that Connor has gained in the past couple of months. Once the rice was brown he turned off the heat and snipped some scallions in, letting the remaining heat from the rice wilt them. He grabbed two plates, put generous scoopfuls of garlicky rice on each along with a cheerful egg on top and the red-brown sausages on the side.

Oliver's arms curled around his waist. His breath, thankfully now smelling of toothpaste, was near Connor's ear. "You're responsible for the extra half hour I have put in the gym these days."

"Blame Perla," Connor said. "Dig in." Oliver kissed him on the nape before taking his seat, and Connor took the place across from him. He cracked the egg yolk so that it slathered like a creamy sauce on the garlic rice, cut off a piece of sausage with the edge of his fork, then took a big forkful of rice, sausage and egg together. The garlic melded with the salty egg creaminess and the smoky sweet sausage pulled both flavors together into something magical. Connor has prepared this breakfast a few times now and it always makes him happy. He looked across the table at Oliver, who was eating like a famine was coming the next day.

Oliver noticed him looking. "S'good," he mumbled through the food in his mouth. "S'always good." He finished ahead of Connor, which wasn't a big surprise the rate he was going. He got some orange juice and poured some into two glasses. "What time do you have to work today?"

"I don't have to come in until 2:30," Connor said. He drank some orange juice.

"You should have told me," Oliver said. "I wouldn't have set the alarm for this time."

"I don't mind. We both went to bed the same time last night."

"You'll be up later though."

"Don't worry about it. Get ready for work." He felt Oliver kiss him on the forehead, linger there for a few seconds.

"You didn't let me reciprocate earlier. I didn't get my protein."

Connor groaned. "Oliver, that joke wasn't funny the first time you said it and it's really not funny now."

"Eh, you're still here. It's time for me to gain 500 lbs and become a hoarder now, because we've settled." And with that, Oliver went to the shower laughing.

"Just for that, you're washing the dishes," Connor said.

"Leave them! I'll stack 'em when I'm out of the shower."

Connor put the dishes in the dishwasher anyway -- it wasn't like his morning was bustling. He went into the bedroom and straightened the bed, listening to Oliver mangle an old French song in the shower. He opened the closet and sighed at Oliver's dull suit collection of gray and black and blue. He picked out a gray one, got a crisp white shirt and a sky blue tie along with a silver tie clip. He rarely indulged his desire to dress Oliver, but it was that kind of morning.

Oliver got out of the ensuite shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. "That kind of morning?"

"That kind of morning." Oliver dressed himself with an indulgent smile peeking through once in a while. "Want me to pack you some lunch?" Connor asked, already knowing the answer as he walked out. He got some Tupperware and packed some of the garlic rice and longanisa in it. "Go be your competent IT wizard self," he said, and kissed Oliver on the mouth. These days, their kisses tended to linger, the air of missed opportunities still hung over them like a pestilence, even with their kisses feeling as bright and fresh as morning dew.

"I'll see you tonight," Oliver said and walked out. Connor heard the car engine going through its now familiar vroom. Errands now, Connor thought sullenly, and mustered the patience to go on with his day. He made a phone call and said "Walking to Whole Foods, usual place, one hour at the most, picking up food." The OK came quickly enough -- trust that was hard won -- and he was on his way.

Whole Foods wasn't packed, a luxury of shopping there at 10:00 on a weekday morning. It was a cool fall day with school already back in session, so he had the yoga moms and the night shift workers buying meals, some of whom he recognized on the times he had to work nights and did the same thing. No idle chat with any of them though, because there was enough of an understanding that after a long shift that a nod was more than enough. He picked up basics like olive oil, soap, cheese (a requirement at their house), noodles and pasta, some garlic to replace the ones he had used up this morning.

While he was debating whether to get croissants or a loaf of rye as he stalked the bread aisle, he ran into Michaela.

They stared at each other, not knowing what to say. They hadn't been in touch for a long time, had been told not to contact each other. As if they would.

"You won't get into trouble," Michaela said. "Neither of us will. This was a complete coincidence."

Connor nodded, trying to allieviate the panic that was still making his heart race. "How've you been?"

Michaela rolled her eyes. "Peachy, Connor. You?"

She did look peachy, which was the funny thing. She was in beautifully tailored black slacks that went past her ankle and closed toe high heeled shoes, also in black. Her light peach blouse looked a little fussy to Connor, but she made it work. Still the prettiest prom queen in town, even years after the vote. He can't help but wonder what she thought of his old jeans that had cuffs past the fashionable length nearly touching the ground, an old t-shirt and light brown leather jacket combo. "Not bad, all things considered."

Michaela looked surprised by how genuine his response was. "Lucky you," she said.

A silence that lasted mere seconds but drifted by with the unceasing patience of a glacier seemed to pass. He didn't know what to say and it was clear that she was caught wrong footed here too. "How's Aiden?" he asked.

Her smile was brittle. "We're on a break."

He smiled at that and hoped it came across as real and not his former brand of smarm. "Ross and Rachel got back together in the end."

"I hated that show," she said. "But maybe, yeah." Her face seemed to brighten before she shored up her defenses again. She nodded at him and walked past, as if he was a stranger who had only looked familiar.

He had other things to pick up, but he thought Oliver would understand why he had to leave, had to leave right now.

On the way home, he wondered about them, his old colleagues. Michaela seemed OK, if a little unhappy, not that he couldn't understand why she would be. Wes was the first to leave, and being The Puppy got him through a lot of doors when it came to relocating. Last Connor heard, he was in California. Michaela left, came back, left again, came back after that, and left again, though now she was clearly back here, and maybe Connor's Ross and Rachel comparison was on the nose. Laurel had lingered for a while before she took off, but in the short time he had known her, she had always played things close to the vest, and she did that back then too. She must have made plans because she completely disappeared in a way that made it clear it was her choice, in a way that screamed fuck all of you. Her vanishing act seemed to be a fait accompli, much to everyone's frustration, Frank's most of all, Frank who had become unhinged and livid at her disappearance. He was chasing her still, somewhere.

It was Asher who took Frank's place at Professor Keating's law firm, and Connor would laugh at that if he had any fucks to give. Bonnie, as far as Connor knew, remained the professional icicle at Keating's side. Keating chose to stay and remained her seemingly inviolable self, and if her game had any cracks in it, she refused to let it show. She moved on with her life after Dr. Keating's...death, partly because there was no choice, partly because there were opportunities that presented themselves in the aftermath, and partly, Connor suspected, because she didn't know what else to do.

At 1:30pm, Connor called and said "Going to work until 10:30pm, taking the bus, no stops until work." The bus came at 1:45pm sharp.

He cracked open a book Oliver had recommended called The Lost City of Z, about some crazy explorer who had disappeared in the Amazon searching for a lost city. It was pretty engrossing, enough that Connor could forget he was riding a bus to work with some teenagers who were really obvious about skipping school and filled with adrenaline because of it, along with other working stiffs like him and an elderly couple arguing about a movie they saw in an early showing. His bag was on the floor, and Connor was already imagining eating the leftover fried rice and longanisa on his break. The bus was relatively clean, but it smelled like old car grease and fumes, and it was chilly enough that opening the windows wasn't an option. He picked a seat near the exits and carefully timed his breathing every time the doors opened for fresh air.

He started work at 2:30 on the dot. He wore his steel toed shoes to work, its top edges below the ankle to avoid discomfort. He slipped off his jacket and put it in his locker.

"Walsh," his supervisor said. "Get to receiving -- we need those powders sorted."

Connor's work was repetitive mentally but exhausting physically . He worked for a company that sold organic physical supplements like protein powder and herbal remedies. The warehouse was only 10,000 square feet but had inventory that would fill a warehouse double the current one's size. The company itself was legal, but violated a lot of safety laws in their warehouse. A man like Connor couldn't be picky though, so he swallowed his pride, his sense of right -- not that it was ever that sharp to begin with -- and got to working, all for $8.50 an hour.

One of the smarmy jackass sales reps came into the warehouse and asked for some of his orders to be pushed up the order queue because he wanted to meet his quota. Connor's supervisor gave those orders to him, and when he looked at the orders, he couldn't help but groan. The orders were huge, and they all wanted master cases of the heaviest protein powders. The aisle that those specific protein powders were in was packed full of skids, so he couldn't even take his cart into the aisle -- he had to squeeze in between the racking and the skids on the floor to pick up items stored three feet over his outstretched arms, which meant that he had to pick the master cases down one by one, each weighing 50 lbs, hold it above his head because there wasn't room for it to be carried normally, then walk that way back to where his cart was and keep doing it until he filled the orders.

Well, this was the reason he didn't go to the gym anymore. He put his head down and worked until the first break came along.

The lunch room was already full of the other warehouse workers when he got there. He felt tired and sticky already, the aisles and racking dirty since they couldn't get in there to clean because of the packed skids on the floor. He probably smelled, but then, this was the warehouse worker's lunch room -- they all did after a few hours of work.

"Can you believe what's happening in this article?" Trisha was a lifer at this warehouse. She was all of five feet but strong as a horse, and her idea of a good time involved drinking until she passed out.

"What article?" Leeza asked. She was using this job to pay for night time paralegal courses. Connor liked her, and wished he could share his knowledge.

The microwave beeped to its finish, and Connor got there as quickly as he could to heat up his dinner. He was morbidly curious. He used to breathe news, finding inspiration in every drop of blood spilled, every bit of corruption unearthed. Not anymore though. This article, whatever it was, was actually news to him.

"So get this," Trisha said, clearly eager that she had Leeza paying attention, along with the others in the lunch room. "There's this guy called Frank who's looking for this girl he used to screw." Connor tried not to let it show that it sounded very familiar. I think I know him, Trisha, he thought vindictively. What would you think of that? "This girl, Lorna or Laura something or other," Trisha continued, warming to her own paraphrasing, "disappeared because of some murder of some hoity toity college professor, and this guy is tracking her down, but get this. He finds another guy, this Indian guy," and Trisha takes on a note of scandal here, "and this Indian guy said 'that girl wanted to disappear so don't go looking for her' and this Frank guy loses it, just loses it, and beats the Indian guy up. The Indian guy is tough though and fights back, but in the fight, he slams down Frank's head and he goes into a coma."

Connor hasn't moved from where the microwave is. Frank. Laurel. And Khan, poor Khan getting involved in this mess.

"Jesus Christ," Leeza said. "You know, from the courses I've been taking, the Indian guy will get off on self defense."

"Yeah, but think of what happened in Con Air. You know, that movie with Nicolas Cage? He still went to prison because he killed his muggers even though it was self defense. Who cares about that anyway, because the Frank guy comes out of his coma and sues the Indian guy for aggravated assault."

"That's pretty ballsy," Leeza said.

"It gets better. Guess who the Indian guy's lawyer is?"

Connor got out of the room. He went into a bathroom stall and felt a panic attack coming on, but he knew strategies now. He put a hand on his chest and started to regulate his breathing.

Breathe in. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Breathe out.

Breathe in. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Breathe out.

Breathe in. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Breathe out.

Breathe in. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Breathe out.

Breathe in. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Breathe out.

He could tell Trisha so many things and wished he could say it to her face: the guy you insist on calling the Indian guy, his name is Khan, and you bet your ass he has the fucking best lawyer in the entire US of fucking A, a badass, take-no-prisoners, tough as nails woman named Annalise Keating. If you think what she can do when the client is obviously guilty is impressive, watch how hard, how long and how smart she fights when her client is innocent. No such thing as loyalty then, and Frank better drop the suit if he knows what's good for him.

Connor calmed himself down. Thought about calling Oliver. Decided not to, because Oliver would only worry and it wasn't like he could do anything. He went back to the lunch room. Got his delicious garlic rice and longanisa. Smiled faintly at Leeza who exclaimed at how good it smelled. Picked orders until his shoulders and arms and legs hurt. Cleaned up a spill of protein powder that fell from the highest racking -- it looked like a nuclear bomb when it landed. Placed a phone call: Taking the bus home, no detours. Took the bus home, the book opened to page 176 and not a single word was read.

On the elevator, Connor placed a call: "Elevator home, turning in for the night."

He walked into the apartment as quietly as he could, taking his shoes off as soon as he got in since the heavy soles made a lot of noise.The long, hot shower soothed his sore muscles, and in there, he let himself cry. For Khan. For Frank and Bonnie. For Rebecca. That douche face Asher. For Annalise and the way her life ended up being smeared, poked and prodded and how she plowed through it with her chin up high, because fuck dignity when you have smarts and will and a way for seeing all the exit signs. For the way his life was, for the way it turned out. For Wes and Laurel and Michaela and himself, and their stupid mistakes and the crime they committed that ended up being something else altogether. For the deals that they made that they all had to live with, that they somehow all had lives to return to after, even if Laurel chose to leave it all anyway. For Dr. Keating.

The bathroom mirror was steamed up, which suited him fine. He didn't feel like looking at himself. He flossed and brushed his teeth, rubbed at his left ankle, which always chafed after a shower.

Oliver was already asleep, curled into a small 'c' on the bed. His body was still nicely muscled from regular gym sessions, but there was a softening in his gut that came with age, that couldn't be stopped any more than the increasing stands of silver in his hair. His glasses were on the nightstand but his tablet lay on the bed. Connor looked at it to read what Oliver was in the middle of: Ardun's muscles were gleaming in the firelight. His thick cock was resting between his legs. O Goddess of Heaven, Dokkar thought, please let me resist temptation, but I find that I cannot. I must put tongue where his seed is birthed so that I may consume its abundance and become a man. Connor laughed as quietly as he could, but not quietly enough it seemed.

"I would like to state for the record," Oliver said, "that I sometimes need a break from the good stuff."

"Does Dokkar put his tongue where Ardun's seed is birthed?"

"And how," Oliver said. "It goes on for ten pages, because Ardun is the god of virility and has lots of seed."

"Lucky Dokkar." Connor laid his head on Oliver's chest, following Oliver's calm breaths.

"Not really. Ardun pumps enough sperm into Dokkar that he looks pregnant after they have sex."

Connor raised his head and looked at Oliver. "You disgusting pervert."

Oliver shrugged in a sleepy way, which Connor found inexplicably delightful. He found himself flipped over on his back, his pajama pants being slipped off his hips and then off him completely. "You didn't let me reciprocate earlier."

"Oh God, not that joke again."

"No joke," Oliver said. He slid down and started from Connor's left foot, sucking on each toe.

"Oliver," Connor whispered. "You don't have to prove anything to me, not at this point. Especially not to me."

"No, I don't," Oliver said. "I know you, Connor Walsh, I know you now." He licked around the ankle monitor and Connor could tell that Oliver was holding back on a terrible tampering joke but thought it insensitive. He loved Oliver more for it.

Oliver had his own tricks for getting Connor off now. He knew that Connor loved it when he hummed while giving head, that Connor liked a little bit of pain, that Connor liked a finger up his ass while getting blown. Which Oliver did then, and the day's unexpected bumps and swerves melted away in the heat of Oliver's mouth, in the steadfastness of his devotion, and how Oliver, once convinced of something's worth was convinced forever. Connor let go.

"You OK?" Oliver asked. Connor cleared the fuzziness good sex always gave him.

"Yeah," he replied. "Kept running into my old life today."

"What do you mean?"

Connor explained it: Michaela, Frank and who was likely Khan, Laurel and Annalise. Remnants of his past, seeming so long ago now but not really, thanks to a few deals that turned their way, that let them serve criminally minimum sentences, that let them get away with it forever changed from the core and every cell connected to it.

"I liked you then," Oliver said after. "Even if you were a remarkable asshole."

"Why did you?"

"Hot assholes who want you for unending sex are a thing, you know."

Connor smiled, but it felt tremulous, unstable. "I shouldn't have this. I shouldn't have you."

He felt more than saw Oliver clear a stray hair from his forehead. "You do though. You have this, you have me. Years after the fact, and you've been to places I won't ever know. But you're here. The only crime now," Oliver paused, deep in thought, "is if you throw away second chances."

Connor was stupid once, but he was wiser now, or at least marginally less stupid. He hung on. Not desperately or tightly, not in a way that what he held on to would panic because air was impossible. No, he has since learned the best way to hold on was to do it gently, always looking forward, with another hand knowing how to hold him in return.