#connormurphy

the studio is too quiet. it often is, lately, quiet and fluorescent and the perfect hallowed place for you to overexert and overextend yourself. your tights are torn where they meet your ankle and your skirt is ruffled from being shoved in your bag last minute. you tell yourself you don't care, that it's just rehearsal, but you're unsure how to really stop caring, even when it's killing you. you'd been practicing after hours so no one could see the stress fractures in your movements, so you could focus on only yourself in the studio mirrors, could push yourself to the edge without anyone telling you to stop. you push and push, spin until your head throbs, hold your spine straight and keep up your pointe even when it feels like your legs may snap. you tell yourself it's normal, that it's the price the of attending such an elite art academy, that the way your mind functions and misfires has nothing to do with it. you're ambitious, you remind yourself, not ill.

you don't notice anyone at first. not until you fall out of a turn and feel a presence, heavy in the air. connor's leaned against the wall, hoodie on and hands in his pockets, watching you through perpetually shadowed eyes. "jesus christ," you pull down your skirt self consciously, "do you mind?" "heard music, just came to see who was in here so late," he says it like it's obvious, like he wasn't watching you in your most vulnerable state, "you're good," you grab your water bottle, glaring his way, "yeah, i'd hope so," "swan lake, right?" he asked, eyes following your movements. "how do you even know that?" you grabbed your hoodie, pulling it on over your leotard. "i pay attention," he shrugged, "i'm assuming odile, yeah?" you hesitated, then nodded, "yeah, odile," you settled into a spot on the floor, untying your pointe shoes carefully, wincing at the raw skin on your feet as you set them aside. "you should be careful," "are you always this nosy?" you snapped slightly, blinking up at him. "only when i'm bored," "you should go find something else to do, then," "yeah, okay," he hesitated by the door, his eyes meeting yours, "shouldn't push yourself so hard," then he's gone, and you pretend it doesn't bother you. pretend the silence isn't louder than before he came.

you tell yourself he’s not coming back. people like connor don’t seem like the type to do anything twice, especially not things that require effort. but then it’s friday, and he’s there again. you’re curled up in the corner with a protein bar you’re not eating, legs cramping, head pounding, and he walks in like he belongs, like this is normal, like you’re normal. you don’t say anything. you're not even sure what you'd say, really. he slumps down against the wall. pulls out a sketchbook this time, flips it open and starts drawing like you're not even there, like this is his space to do as he wishes. you shift your position, glance over, and see it. your body on paper, sketched with expensive pencil, all low lights and shadows and a beauty you aren't sure is accurate. he’s sketching you like he knows you, like he’s trying to understand something you don’t even understand about yourself. you inhale, just a bit too loud. his head snaps up. "fuck," he says, almost under his breath, like a child that's been caught. you sit up, knees pulled to your chest.

"what is this?" his voice doesn’t change, quiet and hoarse, "it's you," "why?" "because i see you," it sounds so simple from his mouth, "you move like you're angry. i get that," your throat closes, your hands curled into fists. "that’s not your problem," "didn't say it was," you take the sketchbook, surprised when he lets you, your eyes scanning the page. small, at the bottom, there's messy handwriting, 'she dances like it's painful to stop.' you close the book, hands shaking slightly, and pass it back to him, "you shouldn't look at me like that," he shrugs, but there's a tightness to his jaw, "you shouldn't want people not to," "you hardly know me," "i get the impression that no one knows you," the ache of being known, even in this capacity, settles in your ribs. you just nod, leaning your head back against the wall, silence draping over the room. the two of you fall into an easy pattern after that. you dance, he watches, winces as you collapse with exhaustion at the end of each set, pretends not to care when you refuse to eat until you're trembling with hunger. easy.

the worst part of it all is that no one tells you to stop. not your instructor, not the girl who stretches next to you with knees that don’t crack, not the freshman who stares at you with worship in her eyes, like your pain is something to aim for. they see the bruises, the blisters, the limp you try to hide when you walk offstage. they see the hunger in your cheeks and the shadows under your collarbones. they call it dedication, while you call it survival, so you keep going. you rehearse until your toes bleed through satin and tape, until your vision fades at the edges and comes back shaky. you rehearse until you forget why you started. sometimes you don’t remember getting home. sometimes you don’t sleep, just stare at the ceiling and feel your heartbeat in places that hurt. when you eat, it’s out of necessity. not hunger. you don’t feel hunger anymore, not really. it's just guilt. somewhere in the middle of it all, connor keeps showing up, always after hours, always in the back of the room. sometimes he doesn't even speak, just watches and draws, the scratch of his pencil against the paper drowned out by your backing music. you try to pretend you don't care, that you don't need his presence. you fail, truly.

you’re mid solo when it happens. the black swan variation is sharp, vicious. it’s meant to seduce, to lie with your body, to control the room. you’ve done it a hundred times, you’ve done it better. but today, when you go to turn, your ankle gives out. you collapse. loud and graceless. the floor feels like it comes up to meet you on purpose. you bite down on a scream, your teeth tearing at your bottom lip. connor’s across the room before you realize he moved. "don’t," you snap, breathless, face hot with shame. his hand hovers near your shoulder, not touching, but lingering, "you’re hurt," "i’m fine," "you’re not," "i said i’m fine, murphy," he doesn’t move, just stares down at you like he’s looking at a burning building. you push yourself upright, blinking hard, throat tight. your vision tilts and you try your best not to let it show. "if you came here to play white knight or whatever, don’t bother. i don’t need saving," he lets out a quiet laugh, sharp and humorless.

"you don’t need saving," he repeats, something close to mocking, "right. because clearly this-" he gestures to the room, to you, to the blood on your tights, "this is all going great," you grit your teeth, glaring at him through damp lashes, "you don't get it," "no," he says, "i do. that’s the problem," his voice is low now, tired and raw. "you think if you just dance hard enough, break yourself clean enough, maybe you’ll finally be worth something. maybe you’ll disappear the right way," you flinch, just slightly. he sits down across from you, legs crossed, elbows on his knees. "you don’t have to do this," you stare at the floor, face hot, "yes i do," and the worst part is, deep down, you really believe that. he shakes his head, watches you try to stand and offers you his arm when he knows you won't accept it, and finally leaves you alone with the cloud of your thoughts. you tell yourself it's better that way.

you tape the ankle tightly. too tightly, honestly. you wrap it so it feels like pressure instead of pain. like control, like maybe if you cut off the blood flow, you won’t feel the damage under it. there’s a quiet panic in your ribs. not fear, just that too sharp edge of adrenaline when you know you’re about to hurt yourself and do it anyway. the dressing room is loud, full of people laughing, fixing hair, pinning feathers. you sit in the corner and stare at your reflection. you look the part, all pale and beautiful and hollow. dark eyes, red mouth, perfect posture. a lie in real time. you don’t see him from backstage, and you try not to look too hard. you dance it through. not well, not right, but hard, like you’re fighting something. your ankle burns with every step, with every jump. there’s a moment during the fouetté turns where you almost fall again. your foot slips just barely, but you hold it. god, you hold it. you finish the solo gasping, drenched in sweat, eyes wild. the audience claps like they don’t see it, but he does. he’s sitting two rows back. or at least, he was. when the lights come up, he’s gone.

you bow, smile, pretend you can stand still without shaking. you get flowers you don’t want. compliments you don’t hear. you tell them all you’re fine, lie to everyone the way you’ve been lying to yourself. but backstage, when you’re finally alone, you realize he didn’t come back. that’s what finally breaks you. not the pain, not the blood pooling in your shoe, not the fact that you’ll probably be out for months after this. it’s that he saw you destroy yourself and he just walked away. it’s after midnight when you get to his place. you don’t knock gently. you pound on the door like you’re mad. he opens it fast, like he was already standing there, like maybe he knew you'd come. his eyes scan you once. you're sure you look a mess; makeup still smudged, ankle swelling, hoodie zipped all the way up over your leotard like it'll protect you from yourself. he doesn’t say anything. "you left," his jaw tightens, ticks, "yeah. i did," "you didn’t even-" your voice cracks, and you hate it, "you didn’t even stay to see if i could do it," "you shouldn’t have fucking done it at all,"

"you don’t get to say that," "the hell i don’t," he snaps, stepping back, "i watched you limp through prep week like it was some kind of punishment. i saw your ankle give out in rehearsal. i begged you to stop-" "you don’t own me, connor," "i know that," his voice is cold now, dangerous, "but maybe i care. stupid, right?" you laugh, bitter and loud. "you care so much you couldn’t even stay. you left. like it was easy," "do you think it was easy watching you destroy yourself in front of an entire audience like it meant nothing?" "it didn’t mean nothing!" your voice rises, sharp, desperate. "it meant everything. that’s the only thing that’s ever meant anything," "jesus christ," he mutters, running a hand through his hair, "you really think bleeding for a spotlight is love?" "i didn’t ask you to understand," "no, you didn’t. you just wanted someone to sit there and clap while you fucking destroyed yourself, like always," you go quiet, hands shaky. he exhales hard, then paces his entryway, not looking at you. "i wanted to stay," he says, quieter now, "but i knew if i did, i’d end up screaming, or walking onto that stage and dragging you off myself. and i didn’t want to be another person who tried to fix you," "so you gave up," "i walked away because watching you choose pain felt worse than being left behind," you stare at him, something breaking wide open in your chest. "i didn’t think you’d care that much," he looks at you like he wants to hate you but can't. "yeah," he says, short, "well, there you go. i do," "maybe you shouldn't," "oh, fuck you," it's sharp, hurtful, "i hope you get home safe. get some fucking help," and then the door is closed in your face, and your heart breaks.

connor doesn’t text, doesn’t call, doesn’t show up outside the studio. or loiter in the back row like he used to. he doesn’t draw you anymore. he hides the sketchbook under his bed like it’s something shameful, like he can’t stand the sight of you on the page. you’re still on his mind constantly, but he’s too stubborn to reach out. too proud, too scared. he tells himself you’re better off without him. you keep dancing, despite everything. the show runs for two more weekends. four more performances, accompanied by a thousand more ways to pretend you’re fine. you wrap your ankle tighter, add more concealer under your eyes, tell everyone the limp is temporary, laugh when people call you dedicated like it’s a compliment and not a warning sign. you don’t expect to see him anymore. you don’t even look for him in the crowd. you dance harder, sharper, like you’re trying to make the pain worth it. like maybe if you’re good enough, it’ll retroactively make everything make sense. you get a standing ovation every night. people cry during the finale. you smile for pictures, you hold the bouquets like a prize, like anything could ever be enough, and then you leave through the back door. no cast parties, no drinks, no genuine smiles. every night you limp home alone, pull the tape off in the dark, and try not to cry while your ankle throbs under your palm like a secret.

he doesn’t come to closing night. he thinks about it, even sits on the edge of his bed with his shoes on, keys in hand, and tells himself he’ll go. instead he lays back, stares at the ceiling, and thinks about the way you looked on his doorstep, makeup smeared and voice shaking. saying you left like it meant something to you. he knows, distantly, that it did. he thinks about how easily it all came apart. he hasn’t drawn anything since. his hands shake now when he tries. after the final performance, you sit alone in the dressing room long after everyone else has gone. your ankle is done, completely shot. you know, somewhere in your mind, that you'll have to stop. you stare at yourself in the mirror and you don’t recognize the girl looking back. you whisper, "it’s over," for only yourself to hear, and then finally, you cry, because you don’t know who you are without the pain. he still doesn’t text. you don’t either, but you think about him. constantly. when you take your makeup off, when you wrap your ankle, when your fingers twitch like maybe they miss reaching for him.

you don’t tell anyone when you drop out of the running for the spring showcase. no dramatic announcement, no emails, no public goodbye or explanation. your name disappears from the call sheet, then your locker is emptied out, and your pointe shoes vanish from their usual place by the barre, like they never existed. you ignore the whispers as best you can. someone posts about it on the school site, buried in a blur of updates and rehearsals and cast changes. “we wish her a full recovery. injured during the swan lake run, she’s taking a break from performance and focusing on physical therapy this semester. her presence will be deeply missed.” it’s not dramatic or emotional, just a quiet erasure. he sees it on accident. he’s halfway through scrolling for some required attendance bullshit when your name flashes across the page, just once. he clicks the post, reads it again and again, then sits very, very still for a long time. he hears your voice in his head, the way it cracked when you said you left, the way you cried in his doorway and tried to make it sound like a threat. he shuts his laptop like it burned him.

he doesn’t reach out right away, even when he wants to. he opens his messages four times, types your name, deletes it. he stares at the blank text bubble and thinks about all the wrong things to say. “sorry.” “i saw the thing.” “i didn’t mean it.” none of it’s enough, because it doesn't change anything. he’s the one who walked out, he knows that. the one who left you on stage with a broken body, who slammed the door in your face. he can’t stand knowing you’re hurting alone. so finally, at 2:14 a.m., he sends it. i heard about your ankle. are you okay? then he throws his phone across the room and stares at the ceiling like it might answer for you. you see the message in the morning. you’re sitting in the waiting room of the physical therapy clinic, ankle already aching from doing absolutely nothing. you read it three times before you let yourself feel anything. your stomach flips, your chest tightens. you want to be mad, really you do. you want to be cold, but you’re so fucking tired of being angry. so you type back. not really. but i’m trying. he replies in an instant, can we talk? three days pass, and his phone screen doesn't light up again. it eats at him until he finally snaps.

he doesn’t even think. just pulls on a hoodie, grabs his keys, and goes. rain’s already falling by the time he gets in the car, windshield wipers shrieking against the worn glass. he’s mad, though he's unsure if it's directed at you or himself anymore. he'd been trying to stay away. to let you heal without him messing it up worse, but he’s done pretending distance is helping either of you. he needs to see you, even if it goes badly. especially if it goes badly. you’re home, obviously. hood up, socks on, a heating pad buzzing quietly against your ankle, scrolling through your phone without really seeing anything. everything feels like a blur lately, quiet in all the wrong ways. when the knock comes, you don’t move at first, until it comes again, louder, more urgent. you drag yourself to the door, swing it open, and there he is. he's drenched just from the walk from his car, his hoodie clinging to him, long hair dripping into his eyes. his chest heaves like he ran the whole way. "connor," you exhale, "why are you here?" he swallows hard, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorize it or make up for forgetting it before. "you didn’t answer," "i didn’t know i owed you anything," "you don’t," his voice is quieter now, nearly swallowed by a sigh, "you don’t owe me a thing. i just-" he pauses, looks down, "i can't do this. the space, pretending you don't mean something to me, pretending i didn't leave when you needed me. i won't do it," "why did you, then?"

he looks at the floor, rainwater dripping down his neck. "because i’m a fucking coward, alright?" he says it like it’s the only thing he’s sure of. you say nothing. your throat’s tight, and your fingers twitch like they want to slam the door and pull him inside at the same time. "i saw the post about your ankle, about you leaving dance," he’s breathing heavier now, almost panicked, "i hated seeing it that way. fucking hated finding out like everyone else," you laugh coldly, "what'd you want, connor? a front row seat to my mental breakdown?" "no, that's not what i-" his eyes snap up to yours, exasperated and tired, "i wanted to be there for you, okay? you just didn't want me there," "that's not even true," "you didn't call," "yeah, well, i was a little busy," you scoff, gesturing to your ankle brace, "you didn't call either," he winces as his eyes fall to the brace, "i thought you hated me," "fucking wanted to," his face shifts, his right eye twitching, "but you didn't?" you don't say anything, just barely shake your head. your ankle’s aching but it’s nothing compared to the burn in your chest. he steps inside, hesitant like he's silently asking, and you don't stop him.

you stand there, inches apart. he looks at you like you’re something he’s never going to deserve. "say it," his voice is low and deep, "say you don't want me here and i'll go. i won't come back, if that's what you want," you open your mouth, but no sound comes out. "you could've told me to fuck off," he takes a step closer, his eyes on yours. "i should've," "yeah, but you didn't," you look up at him, and something snaps. your hands are in his hair. his mouth is on yours. it’s messy, all teeth and fury and heat. he kisses you like he’s trying to apologize with his body, like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing that can fulfill him. you tug at his hoodie, and he lifts you without thinking, like you weigh nothing. your legs wrap around his waist and he carries you down the hall, still kissing, still hurting, still everything. his hands shake when they touch your skin. your breath catches when he whispers your name like a prayer he thought he forgot. you kiss him like you’re trying to punish him for leaving. he takes it like he deserves it. you break the kiss for a brief moment as he settles you onto your bed, pressing your forehead to his, "you left," "i know i did," his voice is thick, with shame or lust, you're unsure. "don't fucking do that again," you pull him back in without waiting for confirmation, kissing him and pulling him over you, his body draping yours.

“you’re so beautiful,” he says reverently, his lips brushing your neck, his hands exploring your body, “so strong,” your back arches as he ghosts his fingertips over your thighs, taking his time, gentle as ever. “want this,” your voice is heavy with lust, “you don’t have to be gentle with me,” “i know i don’t have to,” he trails his kisses lower, down your chest, “maybe i just want to,” you watch him through dilated pupils as he kisses down your chest, then your abdomen, his lips stopping at the hem of your leggings. he looks up at you through his lashes, “can i take these off?” you nod quickly, lifting your hips to help as he slowly pulls them off, careful to avoid your brace as he tosses them to the floor. his jeans are next, then your shirt and his own, until the both of you are left with goose bumped skin in your underwear. “i have to draw you like this,” he says it like he’s asking permission, watching you as you brush your hair off your shoulders, “you’re fucking incredible,” “are you gonna touch me? or make me beg?” you mean it sarcastically, but the way his eyes darkened, you doubt he’d mind the latter. “didn’t know you were so eager,” “only wanted it since that first night,” you murmur, pulling him over you, your legs spread to make room for him to slot between as you kiss him again.

your tongue tangles with his, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you off the bed until your chest presses against his, warm and heaving. you’re not sure when your last layers of fabric come off, but eventually he’s bare against you, still kissing you, still taking his time despite his obviously hard cock between your thighs. “want to appreciate this,” he tells you, voice raspy as he looks between your bodies, “i’m serious about you,” “please just-“ you almost whine, voice heady, “connor, please,” “okay, angel,” the pet name falls from his lips like he’s said it a million times, curls into your chest and makes a home for itself, aching and warm. he slowly smooths the tip over your clit, eliciting a sharp gasp from you as your back arches from the bed, your eyes on his, “ready?” “yes,” you nod embarrassingly quick, watching his face, craving the expressions you know he’ll make. he slides in, slow and gentle, thighs shaking with the effort of restraint. his brows furrow, lips parted, and you could come undone from the sight alone, paired by the stretch of him entering you. “oh, fuck,” he exhales, one hand on your thigh, gripping tight, “you’re so warm,” a moan escapes you, quiet and hoarse, coated in desperation, “oh my god, connor,” he takes the leg without the brace in his hand, pulling it up to allow himself more space between your thighs, his hair brushing your face as he leans down, kissing you slowly. he’s slow and passionate, nearly emotional as he fucks you, all slow kisses and gentle thrusts. you could cry from the tenderness of it all, the raw vulnerability you feel as he brings you to the edge, taking his time, making sure it’s good for you.

you come undone within minutes, finally letting yourself relax, muscles spasming around him as you meet your high, moaning into his mouth as his tongue slides against yours. “oh my god,” he gasps, pulling away to catch his breath, his thrusts slowing, “fuck- do you need me to stop? god, you’re so-“ “keep going,” you plead, holding his bicep in one hand, clinging to him, “want you to finish,” “you’re so fucking beautiful,” his voice cracks, and for a moment your struck by the realization that he’s feeling the same vulnerability you are, “god- can i cum inside you?” “on birth control,” you suck in a breath, tight around him, waves of overstimulation washing over you, “god, connor,” “i know, angel,” he murmurs, “god, im so close,” you tighten your thighs around him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him hard. his hips stutter before he spills inside of you with a muffled moan, hands gripping you tight, anchoring himself through it. he pulls away after a moment, breathing hard, face red, “are you alright?” “m fine,” you murmur, eyes sparkling as you blink up at him, “was perfect,”

you wake before him the next morning, stopping to look him over, heart aching at the tender sight of him still asleep in your bed, tucked into your lavender sheets. eventually, you slip out of bed and hobble to the kitchen, pull two mugs down with shaky fingers. you lean against the counter as the kettle heats, tapping your fingers absentmindedly. he pads down the hallway a few moments later, rubbing sleep from his eyes like a child, his hair in all different directions. "morning," he yawns quietly, coming to lean beside you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, "you feeling okay?" you shrug, leaning into his touch, "sore, but it always is. how'd you sleep?" "better than i ever have," he runs a hand over your stomach, down the zipper of his hoodie you've put on, "looks better on you," "mm, cheesy," you roll your eyes but crack a tired smile, "how do you like your coffee?" "black is fine," you scrunch your nose, pouring the kettle over the filter into each mug, putting sugar in your own, a small amount of cream and passing him his mug. "you have therapy today?" he asks, sipping the hot liquid. "yeah," you nod, "most days," "can i come?" you look up at him through your lashes, surprising yourself by nodding slowly, "yeah, sure,"

you give him his hoodie back eventually, and he helps you get dressed even when you insist you don't need it, resting your boot- free foot on his leg and lacing you converse. on the way there, he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh like he needs to feel you. you scroll through nothing on your phone, glancing out the window occasionally, over at him more often. he waits in the lobby while you check in, but you catch him watching you during stretches. you smile to yourself, pretend not to notice. afterward, when you’re sitting in his car outside the building, your leg pulled up in the seat, the brace tight and your water bottle sweating onto your palm, he looks at you like you're some sort of art. "you didn't have to come," you say eventually, figeting with the radio when he finally leaves the parking lot. "i wanted to," he says simply, looking over at you, "thank you for letting me," "was it weird?" you ask softly, picking at a stray thread on your sweater, "seeing me like that?" "like what?" he asks, brows knit. "weak," you say quietly. "weak," he repeats, half scoff, "you're the strongest person i know. don't give me that," "i feel weak when i'm in there," he reaches for your hand, envelopes it in his own, "don't say shit like that," it's not scolding, but something close, "you looked as strong as you always do,"