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Connor wrings the steering wheel in his hands as a suitable alternative to Seven Lawlessβ neck.
In the passenger seat beside him Olive has grown quiet, which worries him more than the jagged, heartbreaking sobbing had. He takes his eyes off the road to glance over quickly and sees her with her head resting against the window, her eyes tightly shut, mouth trembling. The glass fogs from her breath in unsteady little puffs. Her mascara has run and smudged where she tried to wipe her cheeks with shaking hands.
A lump in his throat, he returns his gaze to the road. His headlights cut glaring beams out of the dark, illuminating the sleeping houses and the cars huddled in their driveways, windows gleaming and fading as they catch the light. He drums his fingers on the wheel, chewing on the inside of his cheek. What is there to say? Nothing, really. Nothing that would help coming from his mouth.
Fucking Seven.
Con could have imagined any number of thingsβended friendships, petty bullshit, even leaving the bandβbut he never would have thought Seven capable of this. It seems unnaturally fucking cruel, taking the vote out on Olive most of all when she was the only one who voted to keep him a damn lead. He never in a million years thought Seven would break things off, and in such spectacular fashion?
Well, maybe the dramatics he should have foreseen. Fucking Seven.
Finally he pulls into his own driveway, putting the truck into park and turning the key, and the dark abruptly swallows everything. For a moment thereβs only the ticking of the engine and the sound of Oliveβs sniffling. Connor shuts his eyes, taking a fortifying breath.
She needs you, he tells himself. No bullshit.
He pops his door but doesnβt open it fully, glancing over at Olive again. βWeβre here,β he saysβredundantly, he thinks, until he sees the dazed way Olive blinks and straightens, eyes flickering nervously at their surroundings.
She sniffs and wipes beneath her nose. βThis is your place.β
Con unbuckles his seat belt, nodding. βYeah,β he says. βSorry. I didnβt thinkβ¦β He hesitates, uncertain how to phrase the next part. I didnβt want you alone in your apartment if Seven came back. Making that decision isnβt really his right, is it? But Olive had been worse than inconsolable, and the thought of just dropping her home and washing his hands of it turned Conβs stomach. The thought of staying over at their place with her was equally untenable. If Seven came back and found them both there togetherβ
Yeah, no. Heβd do a lot for Olive, but heβd sooner walk over broken glass than put himself in that situation. Or her, for that matter. Seven would give him an I knew it look and Connor would probably break his nose. Helping no one, and certainly making everything worse.
So: his place. Neutral ground, so to speak. Seven certainly wonβt be coming around here.
Not if he knows whatβs good for him, Con thinks darkly.
Heβs jolted out of his thoughts by a low, pained whine. When he looks over, Oliveβs face has crumpled again.
βI canβt even go home,β she says, and bursts into fresh tears.
Oh, god. He reaches for her across the center console, hesitates, and draws back. Without a word Connor opens his door and steps out onto the driveway, rounding the front of his truck and approaching the passenger side. He opens it and Olive turns away from him in her seat, hands over her eyes, making such horrible sounds. It barely sounds like crying, itβs so sharp and ugly, sounding like itβs tearing itself out of her throat. Itβs fucking awful. The kind of crying that makes you tear up just to listen to it.
He canβt start crying too or theyβll be out here until the sun rises. Careful not to touch her, he leans over her and presses the buckle of her seat belt, drawing it back carefully so it doesnβt hit her. βCβmon, Olive,β he says, feeling helpless. βLetβs get you inside.β
She doesnβt say anything in responseβsheβs insensible again, just crying and crying and crying. Like thereβs a well of sadness in her so deep sheβll never dry out. It might be the worst thing heβs ever heard.
Fucking Seven.
In an adjoining house a dog starts barking, and Connor takes that as his cue. βSorry,β he murmurs, and bends to gather her into his arms. He hoists her out of the car, one arm under her knees and the other around her back, and kicks the passenger door shut with the heel of his boot.
Olive doesnβt resist. He doesnβt even know if sheβs aware sheβs being carried. The sobs shake her entire body. Heβll be surprised if she can even speak tomorrow.
Heβll be surprised if she wants to.
Getting in through the front door is tricky, but Olive isnβt so heavy, and it only takes a minute of blind fumbling with his keys before he gets it in the lock. He wasnβt planning on anyone coming over tonight so heβs just praying the place isnβt in too bad a stateβthough, honestly, he doubts sheβll even remember this come morning. She has bigger problems right now anyway; sheβs probably not gonna judge him for having dishes in the sink. Not that she would even on a good day. Olive isnβt the judgy type.
The house is dark, the living room lying silent and still to his right with the kitchen just beyond it. He squintsβyes, there are dishes in the sink. Fuck. To his immediate left is the front closet, and further down the wall the door to his bedroom hangs open. He does some quick thinking as he shuts the front door behind them. Olive can have the bedroom, his couch is comfortable enough, and heβs fallen asleep on it enough times himself to know it wonβt hurt him for a night. Heβll have to strip the bed but he has a clean pair of sheetsβ¦ somewhereβ¦ and Olive can borrow some of his pajamas if she needs something to sleep in.
Olive in his shirt. No, nope. Heβs not thinking about that.
Sheβs curled herself into his chest, still crying but silently now, biting her lips so hard heβs worried theyβll bleed. Connor carries her into the living room and sets her down on his couch, the lump in his throat returning twofold as he pries her hands free of his shirt, trying to be gentle. He kneels in front of her, trying to get her to look him in the eye, but itβs no use. βYou can stay here tonight,β he says. βI donβt mind.β
βI donβtβw-want toββ
If he didnβt know her as well as he does he might have taken that to mean I donβt want to stay, but thankfully he knows Olive pretty damn well, so he knows she means something more along the lines of I donβt want to inconvenience you. Which is ridiculous, and also so her it hurts.
βYouβre staying, Olive,β he says, tone firm. βWe can talk about it in the morning if you want, but tonight youβre staying here. Okay?β He doesnβt wait for her to respond, standing and shucking his denim jacket. He tosses it onto the side of the couch opposite to her. βYouβll have my bed, the couch works for me.β
Oliveβs lower lip wobbles, tears welling up in her eyes. βNo, Connorββ
He sweeps a hand between them, sweeping away her attempt to argue. βNo choice. Sorry. I insist.β Con rubs his neck, sucking air through his teeth as he thinks. βThereβs fresh towels under the sink if you want a shower, and I think I have an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.β Truthfully he knows heβs just trying to solve little problems because the biggest one he canβt do anything about.
βWhy are youββ Now itβs her whole chin wobbling, and the tears spill over onto her damp cheeks. Olive pulls her knees up into her chest, seeming to do her level best to make herself small. βWhy are you being soβ¦ s-so nice to me?β
Because Iβm in love with you, and I have been since we were fifteen, and the thought of someone breaking your heart makes me want to tear my beard out, or do something really stupid that might land me in jail.
Obviously he canβt say that.
βBecause you deserve nice,β Connor says, which is the better thing to say, anyway.
β¦but apparently not, because all Olive does is burst into frantic sobs again.
βHey,β he says, a little panicked, and quickly sits beside her on the couch. βHey, hey, heyβ¦ Come onβ¦β She shakes her head, still sobbing, but doesnβt pull away when he puts an arm around her and tugs her into his side. He shushes her in what he hopes is a soothing way and lets her cling to him, her hands hot in the material of his shirt. Thereβs probably mascara smudged all over it, which he doesnβt have the first idea how to get out, but he can worry about that later. Heβd sooner burn the whole shirt tomorrow than ask Olive to let go of him right now.
They sit there for how long he doesnβt know, but it feels like a small eternity. Connor holds her as she cries, alternating between petting her hair and stroking her back, making small sympathetic noises in the back of his throat when it isnβt too tight to let him. Eventually Olive quiets to the small, jerking cries, and then the miserable sniffling. Even when your life feels like itβs falling apart, crying that hard for that long takes it out of you, he supposes.
Connor tries to stand but Oliveβs grip on him tightens, a small, hoarse noise of protest leaving her. βIβm just gonna get you some water,β he says quietly. After a moment, and with surprising reluctance, she lets go.
In the kitchen he takes a moment to breathe while he fills a cup with water from the tap. Jesus, this is not how he thought his night was gonna go. Itβs not how he thought any night was gonna go. The possibility of Seven and Olive breaking up never even occurred to him, it was so remoteβso absurd a thing to consider. Everyone knew they were going to be together forever and die hand-in-hand in the fucking nursing home seventy years from now a minute after one another. Everyone had known it even before they were together. And then they got togetherβfinally, everyone and their mother said, rolling their eyesβand that was it.
Connor bites at a hangnail on his thumb, brow furrowed, staring intensely at nothing at all. That was supposed to be it.
He brings Olive her water, setting it down on the coffee table in front of the couch.
βYou donβt have any coasters,β she says in a small voice, waterlogged and wobbly.
βWhat?β Con considers the table. Huh. He doesnβt. How did he never think of that? βOh, yeah. I live like an animal in here. Sorry you had to find out this way.β
His joke doesnβt get much of a response, but she doesnβt start crying again, at least. She sips meekly at her water as he watchesβhe gets the feeling she does it just because heβs watchingβand she sets it back down so carefully, like sheβs afraid to make a sound, right in the little ring of condensation where he placed it to start. So it doesnβt stain the table twice.
God, he loves her.
βOkay.β He clasps his hands, sucking in a breath to counter the ballooning affection in his chest. βI can get the bedroom ready. Do you wannaββ Connor pauses, hoping he can say this next thing normally. βYou can borrow some clothes of mine if you want. I mean, theyβll be too big, but, you know, whatever. If youβd rather not sleep in yours.β There. Totally fine.
Olive bows her head, a hand lifting as if to tuck her hair behind her ear before falling limp back into her lap without touching it. βYou donβt have to,β she whispers.
No, I do. He really canβt conceive of doing anything less. But heβs thinking about how he loves her too much and he always gets a little paranoid about it when that happens around her, like sheβll be able to pick up on his brainwaves or literally smell it on him somehow, so Connor forces a shrug. βWhat are friends for?β
Friends, he reminds himself sternly.
A tear drips off her chin. βI donβt d-deserve itβ¦β Softly she starts to cry again, shoulders shaking.
Heβs being a fucking jerk, worrying about his own bullshit when Olive is in this state. Connor sits back down beside her, getting a look at her hands in her lap, furiously picking and worrying at her skin. He reaches out to still them. βCβmon, Olive,β he says. βThatβs not true.β
She only cries harder, not responding. He sighs and sways to rest his head against hers, squeezing her hands, feeling the way they tremble under his.
He hopes, with a viciousness that startles him, that Seven is going through the same thing completely alone.
That makes him uneasy. Seven isβwas?βhis friend, too, just as long as Olive and the rest of the band. Thereβs years of history there, stretching all the way through high school and collegeβis this really where all that ends? With one messy, awful party, and Connor praying heβs in pain? He thought he was a better friend than that.
Then again, he thought Seven was a better person than this. Maybe theyβre all disappointed tonight.
Eventually he manages to coax Olive to finish her water, and after that she curls up on his couch with her arms wrapped around herself, legs tucked up so tight it seems like sheβs trying to make herself disappear. He leaves her there, though he hates to do it, to do what he said he would and get his bedroom ready.
He flicks the light on and immediately squints, screwing up his face. After his eyes adjust he hurries around the room picking clothes up off the floor, tossing them into the hamper thatβs there for a fucking reason but youβd never guess it by the way he lives. Suddenly the room that was perfectly fine for him this morning is too cramped, too dark, too dirty. Itβs impossible to picture Olive here, nevermind that sheβs just in the next room over; none of it is good enough. And why does he have so many magazines? Music, sports, TV, news, does he just grab the entire newsstand every time he leaves the house? An embarrassing amount of them are relegated to the space beneath the bed via swift kick. He doesnβt have time for that.
He cracks a window and sets about stripping and resetting the bed, pausing halfway through to glance through the doorway toward the living room. Olive isnβt visible and itβs been strangely quiet for a while, he realizes. βHey, Olive?β he calls, shaking a pillow into its fresh pillowcase. βYou okay?β
Thereβs no response, but he didnβt really expect one. He tosses the pillow onto the bed and wanders back out, brow furrowed.
Olive is still right where he left her, the glow of her phone illuminating her face. Sheβs staring at her lockscreenβa photo of her and Seven, cheeks smashed together. Olive is beaming into the camera and Seven is looking at her. Every time the screen goes to sleep she taps to wake it again and goes on staring. Her tears are soaking into the cushion beneath her cheek.
Connor reacts before he can think about it, leaning over the back of the couch and snatching the phone from her hand. βNope,β he says, shoving it into his back pocket. Olive doesnβt even get mad. She just hiccups miserably. βThisβ¦ isnβt helping,β Connor decides, rubbing a hand over his beard. βCome on, letβs get you up. Youβll feel better in some comfier clothes. Maybe a shower. Are you hungry?β Heβs grasping and knows it.
Olive makes a soft noise that might be an answer in the negative. Itβs hard to tell with that glazed look on her face.
βOkay,β he says, still rubbing at his chin. βThatβsβ¦ probably for the best. I have no idea whatβs in my fridge.β He sighs.
It turns out Olive is easy to coax out of the living room. He worried sheβd be something like comatose, but when the crying jags abate and she isnβt struggling to breathe, sheβs quiet as a mouse. He fetches her more water and she holds it cupped in her hands as she sits in the chair by his desk, watching him finish arranging the sheets on the bed. He fluffs his pillows for good measure, just to have something to do with his hands.
βIβm sorry,β Olive whispers. He glances over and sees her studying her glass of water, turning it carefully between her palms. She hasnβt drank any of it. βYou shouldnβt have to deal withβ¦β She doesnβt finish that sentence, her eyes welling with tears. βYouβre too nice.β
βNo more of that,β Con says, not unkindly. He gets the feeling nothing he says could convince Olive sheβs not a burden, that heβs happy to do all this, so he doesnβt try. He kneels in front of the chair so he can look up into her face, resting a hand on the arm. βWhat do you need?β he asks. βWhat can I do?β
Olive shakes her head slightly, avoiding his eyes, and takes a tiny sip of her water. She sniffs. βI just feel so stupid,β she says, so softly he doesnβt know if he was meant to hear it at all.
Youβre not the one whoβs stupid. He doesnβt say it; he has a feeling badmouthing Seven wouldnβt go over well, even now. βYou arenβt,β he says instead.
She tries to smile, tremulous and weak, and gives up quickly. She wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand, holding the glass on her bent knee, feet tucked up beneath her. βYou might be right,β she says. βMaybe a shower wouldβ¦ help.β
They both know it wonβt, but itβs a nice thought.
Connor pulls fresh towels out from beneath the sink and picks out one of his band shirts and a pair of pajama pantsβthe good flannel, so old theyβve gone soft. He leaves them folded on the counter next to the extra toothbrush that was, it turns out, in his medicine cabinet. That done, he lingers for a moment longer in the bathroom, looking at Olive perched on the toilet lid, not looking at him.
Her face is splotchy, eyes red and swollen, most of the makeup around her eyes cried and rubbed away. Her lips are bitten. She keeps her head tilted down, hair fanning across her face, like a kicked dog afraid of a repeat offense. It breaks his heart all over again. He wishes he could do more. He wishes he could hug her.
Instead, he takes a step back. βIβll be right outside,β he says.
A little bob of a nod.
βYell if you need anything.β What could she even need you for in the fucking shower? He has to say it anyway, even adding: βSeriously, anything.β
She doesnβt nod again. She just turns her face away, pulling her knees a little closer to her body. Heβs embarrassing her, he thinks.
βOkay.β Connor makes himself leave before he can make it worse.
The air in his bedroom has cooled from the open window, the smell of the nightβsweet, earthyβmanaging to settle his nerves somewhat. Connor runs a hand through his hair and listens to the rattle of the pipes in the walls as the shower turns on. He rests his back against the wall, and before he knows whatβs happening heβs sliding down until his ass hits the floor of his bedroom. He goes on breathing, steady, in and out, and rubs a hand over his mouth.
Faintly, from beneath the door, he hears Olive start to cry. The shower isnβt quite loud enough to drown it out.
Thatβs what does it. His eyes sting and well up, and he thumps his head back against the wall. βFuck,β he whispers, and hides his face in his hand.
This sucks. It all just fucking sucks. Thereβs nothing more to say.
He feels a buzz and pulls himself out of it, blinking hard and sniffling as he shifts his weight to pull Oliveβs phone out of his back pocket. Heβs worried for a second itβsβ But itβs just Jazzy texting her.
Connor stares dully at the lockscreen for a moment more before turning her phone off. He leaves it on the nightstand.
He makes up the couch for himself, which just looks like tossing a pillow and one of his spare blankets onto it. He does the dishes in his sink, scrubbing with more fervor than is strictly necessary. He paces up and down the hall, gnawing at the hangnail on his thumb until it tears and bleeds. He tries to watch TV with the volume low but his mind is too scattered, turning the events of the night over and over in his head until he feels like heβs gonna go crazy. He has no idea what happens nowβhe has no idea what the future looks like. For the band, for his friends, for himself. For her. Even for Seven, the asshole.
He ends up wetting his face in the kitchen sink and changing out of his party clothes, wrinkling his nose at the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to them. He sits back down on the couch, leans his head back, and listens to the soft canned laughter drifting from the TV with his eyes shut.
The quiet wakes him. Connor blinks his eyes open, staring up at the light of the TV playing across the ceiling. He lifts his head and winces as the muscles in his neck seize.
Olive?
He twists in place, peering into the bedroom. He canβt hear running water anymore. How long was I asleep? Connor is back on his feet with no memory of standing, moving for the door with worry nipping at his heels.
He stands in the doorway and peeks inside, wary. βOlive?β Itβs dark. He doesnβt see her in the bedroom, but the light in the bathroom is still on, shining brightly from beneath the door. Connor crosses the room quietly and knocks. βHey, Olive?β
Connor hears a shuffle, but thereβs no response.
He puts a hand on the doorknob. βIβm coming in, okay?β He opens the door slowly, already wincing, praying heβs not walking in on anything heβll have to apologize for seeing. Also praying it for his own sake. The door bumps into something and he stops, peeking around it. He sees a foot, attached to it a leg swathed in his flannel pajama pants. Thank god, he thinks, sheβs dressed.
Olive sits on the mat beneath the sink, her back to the cabinet and her knees pulled up. Thereβs a towel draped over her head, like she was mid-drying her hair and gave up. He can hear sniffling muffled by the cotton.
Con just keeps discovering new ways for his heart to break into smaller and smaller pieces tonight.
He slips inside and shuts the door, breathing in the steam-laden air. He crouches and puts a hesitant hand on herβhead? shoulder?βshoulder, he decides. βOlive?β
She jumps, then a second later reaches for him. The towel slides away, falling behind her back, and Olive pushes her damp head into his chest. She smells like his shampoo, coconut and cocoa butter flooding his nose. Connor sits rather than risk toppling over, wrapping his arms around her, and stares up at the ceiling so the sound of her cryingβthe jagged sobs again, horrible, horribleβdoesnβt make him cry, too.
Fucking Seven.
After the heat of the bathroom the bedroom feels almost unbearably cold. Connor sets Olive down on the bed and folds the duvet over her, then shuts the window. He moves her water so itβs within reach. Even wrapped up in the blanket, sheβs started to shiver. He leans over her, pushing her wet hair carefully out of her eyes. βYou okay?β he whispers.
She gazes up at him for only a moment before shutting her eyes. Con moves to stand again, only realizing sheβs curled a hand into the front of his shirt when he feels the tug. He stops, unsure what sheβs asking of him. What he should do. But Olive goes on shivering, now miserably silent, and sheβs not letting go.
Con swallows. βOkay,β he says. βOkay.β
He climbs carefully into bed behind her, trying not to jostle her as he gets settled. Olive is just a lump in front of him, which heβs glad for; heβs not sure what heβd do ifβ yeah, heβs not gonna think about that. Haltingly, he puts an arm over her. Sheβs still trembling, he can feel it even through the thick blanket. Connor breathes out and gets a little closer, until he can feel the space between them warming. Then he holds absolutely still.
Eventually her shivering subsides, but Connor doesnβt dare move. He doesnβt even move when he feels her breathing deepen, the tension in her body relaxing. Connor lays in the dark, staring at the lump that is the back of Oliveβs head, his thoughts spinning him down a hole.
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anyone who uses the r slur at this point needs to just be recognized as a hateful bigot and we cant be quiet about it anymore. genuinely. get mad at people for this. point it out and be annoying about it. no you cant reclaim it you just want an excuse to be bigoted
i thought it was impossible (but you make it possible)
olive van cleve x connor rhodes (@tieflingwizard). 2.5k.
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One of the best things about dating Seven, aside from the obvious, was that Olive got to avoid this: casual dating.
It wasn't that she was a total homebody. (Or that she used to be one, anyway; she definitely was now.) And it wasnβt that she hated meeting new people, because she didnβt. She liked it! She genuinely liked finding out how many siblings people had and where they went to high school and if theyβd had the caesar salad here before! But she walked into every date feeling like the same blushing virgin sheβd been when she and Seven started dating, and that wouldβve been a hard sell to anyone who didnβt already love her so much. She also walked into every date knowing they werenβt Seven, period, which unfortunately meant that things were doomed from the start.
Take the man she was meeting tonight, for example: Nolan. He wasnβt a complete stranger like the last three people sheβd gone on dates with - sheβd seen him around town at gigs and concerts, and had followed him on Instagram before he asked her out. He was good at guitar and clearly loved being on stage, which she found endearing. And he had a very cute cat, which, honestly, was more of a selling point than anything else. But he decided on a fancy restaurant for their first date, one that had an average price per person rating of three dollar signs on Google, and she hadnβt been to a restaurant like that since her first date with Seven, after which she decided to never go to one again. So she had nothing, absolutely nothing, to wear.
She had nice dresses. But they were more βstand on stage and sing about your feelings while plucking a guitarβ nice and less βconvince a guy that spending 100 dollars on you when you wonβt even kiss him at the end of the night is worth itβ nice. She thought about asking Iris for help, but every time she showed Iris a picture of the guy she was going on a date with, Iris either started laughing or pretended to throw up, which meant approaching her was out of the question. Olive couldnβt ask Devyn for help, either, because then Iris would be offended she wasnβt invited, and she couldnβt ask Jazzy because she was busy with Chris. With no one else to turn to, she decided to ask Connor.
She felt a little weird about it. Firstly, she hated talking to the guys about her dating life, because the first time she did, Rowan said, βJust make sure he doesnβt want to kidnap you before you agree to go to a second location, Olive. You look very kidnappable. What? I meant it as a compliment!β Secondly, she was worried that Connor would feel uncomfortable about coming over and watching her try on clothes when he had a girlfriend. She couldnβt imagine how she wouldβve reacted if someone did the same thing to Seven while the two of them were dating; she definitely wouldβve thought the girl was making a move. But this was different, she reasoned - her and Connor were just friends. Best friends. Out of all the people in her life, she trusted him to be honest with her and, more importantly, knew that heβd be kind about it. (No matter how much he disliked something, it would never get to the point where he pretended to throw up about it, unlike some people.) And itβs not like she was going to change with him in the room! It was about as platonic of a situation as she could imagine.
That didnβt mean it didnβt still feel a little weird, emerging into the living room in dress after dress while said best friend sat on an armchair with one of her throw pillows in his lap.
The fifth dress she tried on - fifth, God, at this point and in this heat she was sweating buckets - was black and tight, with a high neck and a low back. There was a cute little charm that dangled between her shoulder blades that was cute in practice but had already bothered her for the minute sheβd been wearing it and the first thing she was going to do if Connor decided it was the dress was cut it off. She knew itβd distract her the entire night if she kept it on, and she didnβt want Nolan to think she was coming onto him if she asked him to move it or otherwise take care of it for her. When she came out of her bedroom wearing the dress, she did her fashion show due diligence and gave Connor a little spin.
βVery fancy,β he said, smiling warmly at her. Which did make her feel a little better, although she still turned away with a pout. βWhat? You donβt like it?β
βIt just doesnβt feel like me.β None of them really felt like her - thatβs what happened when you waited until the last minute and were forced to buy dresses at the thrift store with the sole requirement being that they were in your size or could become your size with the help of a couple of strategically placed pins. She stood in front of the mirror by the door and turned from side to side, looking at her reflection, running her hands over her hip dips, which were much more prominent than they usually were. β And I donβt know if itβs really βflattering my figureβ orβ¦ you knowβ¦ whatever the saying is...β
βOlive,β he replied. βCome on. You have to know that looks good on you.β
βNo,β she said, with a short, indignant laugh. βI donβt. I really donβt.β She rarely ever wore black to begin with, and on second thought, wearing black velvet in the middle of summer was probably not going to work, even if their date was at night and inside. And then there was the matter of the little charmβ¦ it smacked her back as she continued to turn from side to side, smoothing her palms over all the unforgiving parts of her body that the dress was highlighting in detail. She wasnβt usually an insecure person. At least not about this. All things considered, she liked the way she looked. But maybe that was because she never had to worry about Seven being turned off by her cellulite or her hip dips.
She never had to worry about anything with Seven, until she did.
βWell, I think you look great. Better than great, actually.β When she looked across the room, Connor was leaning back in his chair and smiling. βBut you look great in everything, so.β
She rolled her eyes.
βDid you just roll your eyes at me, van Cleve?β
βI did.β
βWhat the hell? Why!β
βBecause you have to say I look great in everything. Youβre my best friend. Youβre biased.β
βJust because Iβm biased doesnβt mean itβs not true.β
βThatβs the problem. You wouldnβt know whether or not itβs true because youβre biased.β
He grumbled something unintelligible in protest.
After some consideration, she figured out the thing she hated most about the dress: that it highlighted how small her boobs were in comparison toβ¦ wellβ¦ everything else. If she were alone in the apartment, she would be taking it off right here, right now, because she was starting to feel itchy just wearing it. (Hopefully that was because of her discomfort and not because it was riddled with bed bugs.) (Oh, God, why did she think about bed bugs?) But she couldnβt do that with Connor in the room, obviously.Β
βIt doesnβt look good on me at all,β she muttered.
βIt - Olive.β He said her name so sharply that she jumped as she turned around. βIf I didnβt know you and I saw you at a bar in that dress, I would be trying to get your number all fucking night. If we went on a first date and you were wearing that, I would spend the entire night hoping that I didnβt do anything to fuck it up so there would be a second. So, respectfullyβ¦ you donβt know what the hell youβre talking about.β
She stared at him for a long moment, long enough that she watched him blink and scratch his cheek and then look away. It was a nice thing to say - well, aside from him saying she didnβt know what the hell she was talking about, that felt a little unnecessary - and it wasnβt like heβd never given her a compliment before. Sheβd been on the receiving end of many of them, as had Rowan and Jazzy and Iris and Devyn and Seven and even Lucy, once, in high school, when she showed up to one of their gigs wearing an yellow cocktail dress. Connor told her she looked radiant; the rest of the band teased him about it for the next year. He was notoriously good at giving compliments that he really, truly meant.Β
But she didnβt know what to do with the idea of him trying to get her number at a bar. βAll fucking night.β
She turned away from him, in both the living room and the mirror, and reached for the clip in her hair so her arm would block his view of her face as much as possible. The last thing she needed was for him to see her blushing and compliment her again or do something else to try and fluster her, as people often did - although he was now very invested in something on his phone, which was a relief. She stood like that for a moment, hand in her hair, lamely sticking strands under her clip as best as she could without taking it out, until he said something again.
βWhat?β she asked. She didnβt hear him the first time because her heart was still pounding in her ears.
βYour phone's buzzing,β he replied, jerking his head towards where it was sitting on the arm of the couch.
She didnβt know whether she was upset or relieved to see that Nolan was texting to cancel their date. Not only their date, actually - he told her that she was beautiful and talented and hoped she wasnβt too disappointed, but he had someone else in his life he met recently that he wanted to pursue a serious relationship with and it wouldnβt be fair to them if he went out with someone else. She reread the message several times and then fired off a quick, understanding response, because when it came down to it, she wasnβt mad. He was cute, but he was a few years younger than her, and she needed to spend the next few years playing catch-up on what used to be her and Sevenβs ten-year plan and was now just hers. Plus, it meant she didnβt have to wear this dress or ask him to remind her of the difference between rare and medium rare or look just as interested as she would otherwise if he told her he had no siblings.
βWhatβs up?β Connor asked, looking pointedly at her phone.
βOh, justβ¦ he cancelled.β
βHe what?β
βHe met someone else. That he wants to be serious with.β
βAnd he still waited until the last minute to cancel your date knowing that?β Connor shook his head, disapproval sharpening his features. βJesus. What a douchebag.β
It wasnβt exactly last minute - she wasnβt supposed to leave for another few hours. And, again, she didnβt really care. She reached up to remove the hair clip from her hair and ran her fingers through it to shake it out. βItβs fine,β she told him, honestly. βIβm not mad. Iβm relieved, I think. I donβt know if I can do casual dating, anywayβ¦ I mean, Iβve been trying to, butβ¦ I think I have to be friends with someone first, you know?β
Of course he knew that. He had watched her last - and first, and only - relationship play out from start to finish, from friends toβ¦ wellβ¦ she didnβt want to think about that. If there was anyone who knew what Olive needed out of a relationship, especially after what happened last time, it would be Connor. She was sure she didn't need to explain herself further.
βYeah,β he replied, then cleared his throat. βYeah, I know.β
βAnywayβ¦β She smiled sheepishly at him. βIβm sorry for making you come all this way for nothing. Iβd ask if you wanna go get ice cream, but I know youβre seeing Grace laterβ¦βΒ
He chewed on the inside of his cheek and then shrugged. βNot for another couple of hours. And weβre just watching a movie tonight.β
βWhat movie?β
βField of Dreams.β
βYour favourite movie? Wow. You really like her, huh?β
βYeah. I really do.β
He smiled at her, but it seemed different than one of his usual smiles. It didnβt reach his eyes. And Connor had sad eyes, so when his smile didnβt reach his eyes, he looked especially sad. She knew he probably wasnβt, that she was being anxious about nothing (as she so often was) (at least according to other people, she could usually think of at least one pretty good reason); things were going well between him and Grace, as far as she was concerned, and as long as she didnβt find out about this and get the wrong idea, theyβd continue going well. Besides, Connor was hands down the best man Olive had ever known. The best person sheβd ever known. Probably the best person in the world. Did she know anyone else who would carve out an hour of their day to sit in her living room and watch her try on several dresses only for her to end up wearing none of them? Did she know anyone else who would drive her to get ice cream, probably end up paying for it, and then drop her off at home after, without asking for gas money, even though she was the person who invited them in the first place? Nolan probably wouldnβt. Jacob, Tanner, Emmanuel - they definitely wouldnβt. Just Connor. Grace was lucky to have him. Olive was lucky to have him too, even if it was in a different way.
βWellβ¦β She ran her hands over the dress one last time and then shivered unpleasantly. βGive me 5 minutes to get out of this thing and then Iβll be good to go.β
βSounds good. Iβll beβ¦ yβknowβ¦ here.β
With a laugh, she turned back to the hallway. But the sound of his voice stopped her. βOlive?β
βYeah?β
βYou should keep that dress.β When she opened her mouth to protest, he said, βI know, I know, you hate it. Butβ¦ it does look really good on you. I hope one day that youβll see that.β
Instead of staring at him like she did last time, instead of turning away to hide her blush, she beamed at him. βThanks, Connie.β
This time, his smile met his eyes. βDonβt mention it.β
Connor wrings the steering wheel in his hands as a suitable alternative to Seven Lawlessβ neck.
In the passenger seat beside him Olive has grown quiet, which worries him more than the jagged, heartbreaking sobbing had. He takes his eyes off the road to glance over quickly and sees her with her head resting against the window, her eyes tightly shut, mouth trembling. The glass fogs from her breath in unsteady little puffs. Her mascara has run and smudged where she tried to wipe her cheeks with shaking hands.
A lump in his throat, he returns his gaze to the road. His headlights cut glaring beams out of the dark, illuminating the sleeping houses and the cars huddled in their driveways, windows gleaming and fading as they catch the light. He drums his fingers on the wheel, chewing on the inside of his cheek. What is there to say? Nothing, really. Nothing that would help coming from his mouth.
Fucking Seven.
Con could have imagined any number of thingsβended friendships, petty bullshit, even leaving the bandβbut he never would have thought Seven capable of this. It seems unnaturally fucking cruel, taking the vote out on Olive most of all when she was the only one who voted to keep him a damn lead. He never in a million years thought Seven would break things off, and in such spectacular fashion?
Well, maybe the dramatics he should have foreseen. Fucking Seven.
Finally he pulls into his own driveway, putting the truck into park and turning the key, and the dark abruptly swallows everything. For a moment thereβs only the ticking of the engine and the sound of Oliveβs sniffling. Connor shuts his eyes, taking a fortifying breath.
She needs you, he tells himself. No bullshit.
He pops his door but doesnβt open it fully, glancing over at Olive again. βWeβre here,β he saysβredundantly, he thinks, until he sees the dazed way Olive blinks and straightens, eyes flickering nervously at their surroundings.
She sniffs and wipes beneath her nose. βThis is your place.β
Con unbuckles his seat belt, nodding. βYeah,β he says. βSorry. I didnβt thinkβ¦β He hesitates, uncertain how to phrase the next part. I didnβt want you alone in your apartment if Seven came back. Making that decision isnβt really his right, is it? But Olive had been worse than inconsolable, and the thought of just dropping her home and washing his hands of it turned Conβs stomach. The thought of staying over at their place with her was equally untenable. If Seven came back and found them both there togetherβ
Yeah, no. Heβd do a lot for Olive, but heβd sooner walk over broken glass than put himself in that situation. Or her, for that matter. Seven would give him an I knew it look and Connor would probably break his nose. Helping no one, and certainly making everything worse.
So: his place. Neutral ground, so to speak. Seven certainly wonβt be coming around here.
Not if he knows whatβs good for him, Con thinks darkly.
Heβs jolted out of his thoughts by a low, pained whine. When he looks over, Oliveβs face has crumpled again.
βI canβt even go home,β she says, and bursts into fresh tears.
Oh, god. He reaches for her across the center console, hesitates, and draws back. Without a word Connor opens his door and steps out onto the driveway, rounding the front of his truck and approaching the passenger side. He opens it and Olive turns away from him in her seat, hands over her eyes, making such horrible sounds. It barely sounds like crying, itβs so sharp and ugly, sounding like itβs tearing itself out of her throat. Itβs fucking awful. The kind of crying that makes you tear up just to listen to it.
He canβt start crying too or theyβll be out here until the sun rises. Careful not to touch her, he leans over her and presses the buckle of her seat belt, drawing it back carefully so it doesnβt hit her. βCβmon, Olive,β he says, feeling helpless. βLetβs get you inside.β
She doesnβt say anything in responseβsheβs insensible again, just crying and crying and crying. Like thereβs a well of sadness in her so deep sheβll never dry out. It might be the worst thing heβs ever heard.
Fucking Seven.
In an adjoining house a dog starts barking, and Connor takes that as his cue. βSorry,β he murmurs, and bends to gather her into his arms. He hoists her out of the car, one arm under her knees and the other around her back, and kicks the passenger door shut with the heel of his boot.
Olive doesnβt resist. He doesnβt even know if sheβs aware sheβs being carried. The sobs shake her entire body. Heβll be surprised if she can even speak tomorrow.
Heβll be surprised if she wants to.
Getting in through the front door is tricky, but Olive isnβt so heavy, and it only takes a minute of blind fumbling with his keys before he gets it in the lock. He wasnβt planning on anyone coming over tonight so heβs just praying the place isnβt in too bad a stateβthough, honestly, he doubts sheβll even remember this come morning. She has bigger problems right now anyway; sheβs probably not gonna judge him for having dishes in the sink. Not that she would even on a good day. Olive isnβt the judgy type.
The house is dark, the living room lying silent and still to his right with the kitchen just beyond it. He squintsβyes, there are dishes in the sink. Fuck. To his immediate left is the front closet, and further down the wall the door to his bedroom hangs open. He does some quick thinking as he shuts the front door behind them. Olive can have the bedroom, his couch is comfortable enough, and heβs fallen asleep on it enough times himself to know it wonβt hurt him for a night. Heβll have to strip the bed but he has a clean pair of sheetsβ¦ somewhereβ¦ and Olive can borrow some of his pajamas if she needs something to sleep in.
Olive in his shirt. No, nope. Heβs not thinking about that.
Sheβs curled herself into his chest, still crying but silently now, biting her lips so hard heβs worried theyβll bleed. Connor carries her into the living room and sets her down on his couch, the lump in his throat returning twofold as he pries her hands free of his shirt, trying to be gentle. He kneels in front of her, trying to get her to look him in the eye, but itβs no use. βYou can stay here tonight,β he says. βI donβt mind.β
βI donβtβw-want toββ
If he didnβt know her as well as he does he might have taken that to mean I donβt want to stay, but thankfully he knows Olive pretty damn well, so he knows she means something more along the lines of I donβt want to inconvenience you. Which is ridiculous, and also so her it hurts.
βYouβre staying, Olive,β he says, tone firm. βWe can talk about it in the morning if you want, but tonight youβre staying here. Okay?β He doesnβt wait for her to respond, standing and shucking his denim jacket. He tosses it onto the side of the couch opposite to her. βYouβll have my bed, the couch works for me.β
Oliveβs lower lip wobbles, tears welling up in her eyes. βNo, Connorββ
He sweeps a hand between them, sweeping away her attempt to argue. βNo choice. Sorry. I insist.β Con rubs his neck, sucking air through his teeth as he thinks. βThereβs fresh towels under the sink if you want a shower, and I think I have an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.β Truthfully he knows heβs just trying to solve little problems because the biggest one he canβt do anything about.
βWhy are youββ Now itβs her whole chin wobbling, and the tears spill over onto her damp cheeks. Olive pulls her knees up into her chest, seeming to do her level best to make herself small. βWhy are you being soβ¦ s-so nice to me?β
Because Iβm in love with you, and I have been since we were fifteen, and the thought of someone breaking your heart makes me want to tear my beard out, or do something really stupid that might land me in jail.
Obviously he canβt say that.
βBecause you deserve nice,β Connor says, which is the better thing to say, anyway.
β¦but apparently not, because all Olive does is burst into frantic sobs again.
βHey,β he says, a little panicked, and quickly sits beside her on the couch. βHey, hey, heyβ¦ Come onβ¦β She shakes her head, still sobbing, but doesnβt pull away when he puts an arm around her and tugs her into his side. He shushes her in what he hopes is a soothing way and lets her cling to him, her hands hot in the material of his shirt. Thereβs probably mascara smudged all over it, which he doesnβt have the first idea how to get out, but he can worry about that later. Heβd sooner burn the whole shirt tomorrow than ask Olive to let go of him right now.
They sit there for how long he doesnβt know, but it feels like a small eternity. Connor holds her as she cries, alternating between petting her hair and stroking her back, making small sympathetic noises in the back of his throat when it isnβt too tight to let him. Eventually Olive quiets to the small, jerking cries, and then the miserable sniffling. Even when your life feels like itβs falling apart, crying that hard for that long takes it out of you, he supposes.
Connor tries to stand but Oliveβs grip on him tightens, a small, hoarse noise of protest leaving her. βIβm just gonna get you some water,β he says quietly. After a moment, and with surprising reluctance, she lets go.
In the kitchen he takes a moment to breathe while he fills a cup with water from the tap. Jesus, this is not how he thought his night was gonna go. Itβs not how he thought any night was gonna go. The possibility of Seven and Olive breaking up never even occurred to him, it was so remoteβso absurd a thing to consider. Everyone knew they were going to be together forever and die hand-in-hand in the fucking nursing home seventy years from now a minute after one another. Everyone had known it even before they were together. And then they got togetherβfinally, everyone and their mother said, rolling their eyesβand that was it.
Connor bites at a hangnail on his thumb, brow furrowed, staring intensely at nothing at all. That was supposed to be it.
He brings Olive her water, setting it down on the coffee table in front of the couch.
βYou donβt have any coasters,β she says in a small voice, waterlogged and wobbly.
βWhat?β Con considers the table. Huh. He doesnβt. How did he never think of that? βOh, yeah. I live like an animal in here. Sorry you had to find out this way.β
His joke doesnβt get much of a response, but she doesnβt start crying again, at least. She sips meekly at her water as he watchesβhe gets the feeling she does it just because heβs watchingβand she sets it back down so carefully, like sheβs afraid to make a sound, right in the little ring of condensation where he placed it to start. So it doesnβt stain the table twice.
God, he loves her.
βOkay.β He clasps his hands, sucking in a breath to counter the ballooning affection in his chest. βI can get the bedroom ready. Do you wannaββ Connor pauses, hoping he can say this next thing normally. βYou can borrow some clothes of mine if you want. I mean, theyβll be too big, but, you know, whatever. If youβd rather not sleep in yours.β There. Totally fine.
Olive bows her head, a hand lifting as if to tuck her hair behind her ear before falling limp back into her lap without touching it. βYou donβt have to,β she whispers.
No, I do. He really canβt conceive of doing anything less. But heβs thinking about how he loves her too much and he always gets a little paranoid about it when that happens around her, like sheβll be able to pick up on his brainwaves or literally smell it on him somehow, so Connor forces a shrug. βWhat are friends for?β
Friends, he reminds himself sternly.
A tear drips off her chin. βI donβt d-deserve itβ¦β Softly she starts to cry again, shoulders shaking.
Heβs being a fucking jerk, worrying about his own bullshit when Olive is in this state. Connor sits back down beside her, getting a look at her hands in her lap, furiously picking and worrying at her skin. He reaches out to still them. βCβmon, Olive,β he says. βThatβs not true.β
She only cries harder, not responding. He sighs and sways to rest his head against hers, squeezing her hands, feeling the way they tremble under his.
He hopes, with a viciousness that startles him, that Seven is going through the same thing completely alone.
That makes him uneasy. Seven isβwas?βhis friend, too, just as long as Olive and the rest of the band. Thereβs years of history there, stretching all the way through high school and collegeβis this really where all that ends? With one messy, awful party, and Connor praying heβs in pain? He thought he was a better friend than that.
Then again, he thought Seven was a better person than this. Maybe theyβre all disappointed tonight.
Eventually he manages to coax Olive to finish her water, and after that she curls up on his couch with her arms wrapped around herself, legs tucked up so tight it seems like sheβs trying to make herself disappear. He leaves her there, though he hates to do it, to do what he said he would and get his bedroom ready.
He flicks the light on and immediately squints, screwing up his face. After his eyes adjust he hurries around the room picking clothes up off the floor, tossing them into the hamper thatβs there for a fucking reason but youβd never guess it by the way he lives. Suddenly the room that was perfectly fine for him this morning is too cramped, too dark, too dirty. Itβs impossible to picture Olive here, nevermind that sheβs just in the next room over; none of it is good enough. And why does he have so many magazines? Music, sports, TV, news, does he just grab the entire newsstand every time he leaves the house? An embarrassing amount of them are relegated to the space beneath the bed via swift kick. He doesnβt have time for that.
He cracks a window and sets about stripping and resetting the bed, pausing halfway through to glance through the doorway toward the living room. Olive isnβt visible and itβs been strangely quiet for a while, he realizes. βHey, Olive?β he calls, shaking a pillow into its fresh pillowcase. βYou okay?β
Thereβs no response, but he didnβt really expect one. He tosses the pillow onto the bed and wanders back out, brow furrowed.
Olive is still right where he left her, the glow of her phone illuminating her face. Sheβs staring at her lockscreenβa photo of her and Seven, cheeks smashed together. Olive is beaming into the camera and Seven is looking at her. Every time the screen goes to sleep she taps to wake it again and goes on staring. Her tears are soaking into the cushion beneath her cheek.
Connor reacts before he can think about it, leaning over the back of the couch and snatching the phone from her hand. βNope,β he says, shoving it into his back pocket. Olive doesnβt even get mad. She just hiccups miserably. βThisβ¦ isnβt helping,β Connor decides, rubbing a hand over his beard. βCome on, letβs get you up. Youβll feel better in some comfier clothes. Maybe a shower. Are you hungry?β Heβs grasping and knows it.
Olive makes a soft noise that might be an answer in the negative. Itβs hard to tell with that glazed look on her face.
βOkay,β he says, still rubbing at his chin. βThatβsβ¦ probably for the best. I have no idea whatβs in my fridge.β He sighs.
It turns out Olive is easy to coax out of the living room. He worried sheβd be something like comatose, but when the crying jags abate and she isnβt struggling to breathe, sheβs quiet as a mouse. He fetches her more water and she holds it cupped in her hands as she sits in the chair by his desk, watching him finish arranging the sheets on the bed. He fluffs his pillows for good measure, just to have something to do with his hands.
βIβm sorry,β Olive whispers. He glances over and sees her studying her glass of water, turning it carefully between her palms. She hasnβt drank any of it. βYou shouldnβt have to deal withβ¦β She doesnβt finish that sentence, her eyes welling with tears. βYouβre too nice.β
βNo more of that,β Con says, not unkindly. He gets the feeling nothing he says could convince Olive sheβs not a burden, that heβs happy to do all this, so he doesnβt try. He kneels in front of the chair so he can look up into her face, resting a hand on the arm. βWhat do you need?β he asks. βWhat can I do?β
Olive shakes her head slightly, avoiding his eyes, and takes a tiny sip of her water. She sniffs. βI just feel so stupid,β she says, so softly he doesnβt know if he was meant to hear it at all.
Youβre not the one whoβs stupid. He doesnβt say it; he has a feeling badmouthing Seven wouldnβt go over well, even now. βYou arenβt,β he says instead.
She tries to smile, tremulous and weak, and gives up quickly. She wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand, holding the glass on her bent knee, feet tucked up beneath her. βYou might be right,β she says. βMaybe a shower wouldβ¦ help.β
They both know it wonβt, but itβs a nice thought.
Connor pulls fresh towels out from beneath the sink and picks out one of his band shirts and a pair of pajama pantsβthe good flannel, so old theyβve gone soft. He leaves them folded on the counter next to the extra toothbrush that was, it turns out, in his medicine cabinet. That done, he lingers for a moment longer in the bathroom, looking at Olive perched on the toilet lid, not looking at him.
Her face is splotchy, eyes red and swollen, most of the makeup around her eyes cried and rubbed away. Her lips are bitten. She keeps her head tilted down, hair fanning across her face, like a kicked dog afraid of a repeat offense. It breaks his heart all over again. He wishes he could do more. He wishes he could hug her.
Instead, he takes a step back. βIβll be right outside,β he says.
A little bob of a nod.
βYell if you need anything.β What could she even need you for in the fucking shower? He has to say it anyway, even adding: βSeriously, anything.β
She doesnβt nod again. She just turns her face away, pulling her knees a little closer to her body. Heβs embarrassing her, he thinks.
βOkay.β Connor makes himself leave before he can make it worse.
The air in his bedroom has cooled from the open window, the smell of the nightβsweet, earthyβmanaging to settle his nerves somewhat. Connor runs a hand through his hair and listens to the rattle of the pipes in the walls as the shower turns on. He rests his back against the wall, and before he knows whatβs happening heβs sliding down until his ass hits the floor of his bedroom. He goes on breathing, steady, in and out, and rubs a hand over his mouth.
Faintly, from beneath the door, he hears Olive start to cry. The shower isnβt quite loud enough to drown it out.
Thatβs what does it. His eyes sting and well up, and he thumps his head back against the wall. βFuck,β he whispers, and hides his face in his hand.
This sucks. It all just fucking sucks. Thereβs nothing more to say.
He feels a buzz and pulls himself out of it, blinking hard and sniffling as he shifts his weight to pull Oliveβs phone out of his back pocket. Heβs worried for a second itβsβ But itβs just Jazzy texting her.
Connor stares dully at the lockscreen for a moment more before turning her phone off. He leaves it on the nightstand.
He makes up the couch for himself, which just looks like tossing a pillow and one of his spare blankets onto it. He does the dishes in his sink, scrubbing with more fervor than is strictly necessary. He paces up and down the hall, gnawing at the hangnail on his thumb until it tears and bleeds. He tries to watch TV with the volume low but his mind is too scattered, turning the events of the night over and over in his head until he feels like heβs gonna go crazy. He has no idea what happens nowβhe has no idea what the future looks like. For the band, for his friends, for himself. For her. Even for Seven, the asshole.
He ends up wetting his face in the kitchen sink and changing out of his party clothes, wrinkling his nose at the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to them. He sits back down on the couch, leans his head back, and listens to the soft canned laughter drifting from the TV with his eyes shut.
The quiet wakes him. Connor blinks his eyes open, staring up at the light of the TV playing across the ceiling. He lifts his head and winces as the muscles in his neck seize.
Olive?
He twists in place, peering into the bedroom. He canβt hear running water anymore. How long was I asleep? Connor is back on his feet with no memory of standing, moving for the door with worry nipping at his heels.
He stands in the doorway and peeks inside, wary. βOlive?β Itβs dark. He doesnβt see her in the bedroom, but the light in the bathroom is still on, shining brightly from beneath the door. Connor crosses the room quietly and knocks. βHey, Olive?β
Connor hears a shuffle, but thereβs no response.
He puts a hand on the doorknob. βIβm coming in, okay?β He opens the door slowly, already wincing, praying heβs not walking in on anything heβll have to apologize for seeing. Also praying it for his own sake. The door bumps into something and he stops, peeking around it. He sees a foot, attached to it a leg swathed in his flannel pajama pants. Thank god, he thinks, sheβs dressed.
Olive sits on the mat beneath the sink, her back to the cabinet and her knees pulled up. Thereβs a towel draped over her head, like she was mid-drying her hair and gave up. He can hear sniffling muffled by the cotton.
Con just keeps discovering new ways for his heart to break into smaller and smaller pieces tonight.
He slips inside and shuts the door, breathing in the steam-laden air. He crouches and puts a hesitant hand on herβhead? shoulder?βshoulder, he decides. βOlive?β
She jumps, then a second later reaches for him. The towel slides away, falling behind her back, and Olive pushes her damp head into his chest. She smells like his shampoo, coconut and cocoa butter flooding his nose. Connor sits rather than risk toppling over, wrapping his arms around her, and stares up at the ceiling so the sound of her cryingβthe jagged sobs again, horrible, horribleβdoesnβt make him cry, too.
Fucking Seven.
After the heat of the bathroom the bedroom feels almost unbearably cold. Connor sets Olive down on the bed and folds the duvet over her, then shuts the window. He moves her water so itβs within reach. Even wrapped up in the blanket, sheβs started to shiver. He leans over her, pushing her wet hair carefully out of her eyes. βYou okay?β he whispers.
She gazes up at him for only a moment before shutting her eyes. Con moves to stand again, only realizing sheβs curled a hand into the front of his shirt when he feels the tug. He stops, unsure what sheβs asking of him. What he should do. But Olive goes on shivering, now miserably silent, and sheβs not letting go.
Con swallows. βOkay,β he says. βOkay.β
He climbs carefully into bed behind her, trying not to jostle her as he gets settled. Olive is just a lump in front of him, which heβs glad for; heβs not sure what heβd do ifβ yeah, heβs not gonna think about that. Haltingly, he puts an arm over her. Sheβs still trembling, he can feel it even through the thick blanket. Connor breathes out and gets a little closer, until he can feel the space between them warming. Then he holds absolutely still.
Eventually her shivering subsides, but Connor doesnβt dare move. He doesnβt even move when he feels her breathing deepen, the tension in her body relaxing. Connor lays in the dark, staring at the lump that is the back of Oliveβs head, his thoughts spinning him down a hole.
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seven has been pissing me off whenever i think abt infamous lately but this has reminded me that they are absolutely right to be mad i just haaate that (in the case that mc voted to keep them lead) they aren't angry at the people who are actually responsible !!!!!!! but that's why it's so juicy !!!!!! thanks for ruining my life amy !!!!!!!!
(writes something) god this sucks so bad. this is awful. i'm the worst writer ever. this is nothing. (rereads it a while after writing it) oh dude this is fire. i'm the god of writing. (writes something again) god this sucks so bad. th
friends romans countrymutuals who play infamous. i am asking you all what you think would happen in an alternate universe where the vote was about whether or not mc should stay lead or become back up instead of seven and how they would react (to the vote in the first place, to a scenario where they were in fact voted to become back up, etc)
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friends romans countrymutuals who play infamous. i am asking you all what you think would happen in an alternate universe where the vote was about whether or not mc should stay lead or become back up instead of seven and how they would react (to the vote in the first place, to a scenario where they were in fact voted to become back up, etc)
izzy806
kianamaiart
prguitarman
titsay
janainaart
blakekathryn
tangentwithtanner
