summary: connor does not find the distraction and comfort he seeks in a usual wild night of partying, but instead finds it with you.
warnings: omg, the angst. the Angst! & fluff.Â
the pulsing neons, the crowds, the deep bass feeling like a dark heart’s reverberations – connor didn’t expect anything less from one of kamski’s signature parties. no doubt that the music was composed by an android – the electronica was menacing, low and omniscient as it shook the floors. he was late, as he always was, so it was already in full swing. slowly moving through the throng of bodies, he kept an eye out for the host, time moving in stop-motion with each flicker of the lights.
      usually, this was his element – the alcohol, the hedonist abandon, the euphoria in forgetting oneself. he needed that; the rawness of the heart exposed but still clad in the anonymity of the masses. but tonight, he just couldn’t get into it. the sweat of the crowd made him grimace in disgust, the music was already causing a headache and goddamit it’s going to take ages to get to the bar–
      “connor!” called some voice, and he got dragged into a circle of friends, or acquaintances – he wasn’t keeping track anymore. warm vodka spilled over his fingers as someone forced two shots into his hands, and by way of greeting, he downed them in a heartbeat. a round of cheers, applause; it barely managed to quirk his mouth into a smirk. he stood there on the dancefloor, trapped by bodies, hands in pockets as idle conversation continued through shouts and yells. he tried to listen at first, contribute, but not even the deafening music could overpower the volume of his thoughts.
      he felt empty. and not the usual empty, which made him seek out events such as this in the first place, it was a different sort of vacancy; both within him and next to him. he stood still in the tide of writhing bodies, of talking mouths. the usual desolation on his shoulders felt even more pronounced, and he knew that however long he stayed at this loud, crowded house party, he would not find the distraction which he so longingly sought.
      when kamski finally emerged from one of bedrooms, shirtless and still fixing his pants, he was just in time to see connor’s curdory jacket catch the light as he left.
meanwhile, the only sound in your apartment was the clatter of your nails against the removable keyboard. you watched as your words appeared against the wall of the living room, the hologram projection rendering the use of a traditional screen useless. one by one, letters appeared in the air, your linguistic creation hovering in front of you. you would marvel at the magical quality of the technology, but you were pressed for time with this report.
every now and then a notification would float up in the corner of the projection, displaying the most recent social media post of those you followed. kamski was throwing yet another one of his legendary parties – and you knew, without a doubt, that’s where connor was. he belonged to that raw expression of youth, in that reckless abandon where inhibitions went extinct. he’d forsake everything for a party, for a free bar, for that opportunity to lose himself.
a knock on your door startled you, and the knocker even more so – it was connor, framed in the doorway. he was leaning against it, clad in dark materials – black heavy metal t-shirt, skinny jeans, and that ever-present, wasting corduroy jacket. his hair was ruffled so much that it was curling, and he was just running his hand through it when you opened the door.
he looked tired, as always, but for once he didn’t smell like his vices of alcohol and cigarettes; your eyebrows rose. “weren’t you going to kamski’s party?” you asked, surprised that he’d show up at your place, your quiet, boring place when there was an absoluterager going on across town, according to all the posts.
he did not answer you, instead letting his gaze wander across your body. you did not blush, even though you were already dressed for bed, because his eyes were not appraising – they were clouded with something else. “connor?” you prompted, confusion taking root now. you seldom saw him sober nowadays. as he stood in front of you, he looked relatively above the influence, and you wondered if you only thought this due to the look of unadulterated melancholy on his face.
“would rather be with you,” he mumbled, caught between looking sheepish and looking uncomfortable, fingers fiddling with the ends of his sleeves. “can i spend the night with you?”
you almost scoffed in disbelief. connor, self-destructive, sharp-tongued, self-sufficient connor anderson was shifting on his feet in front of you, asking, pleading, in his own subtle way, for you to give him back what he had lost almost a year ago: safety. happiness. love.you couldn’t give him all of these things, but you’d certainly try. Â
“of course, connor,” you said, pulling him against you. the tall man had to lean over you to embrace you properly, but he clearly didn’t mind – his arms caged you against him, his body curving toward you as he rested his chin on top of your head. you felt his heartbeat where your forehead rested against his chest, a sound so transient when put in the perspective of eternity. connor always troubled you; he managed to make his sadness unknowable, seemed to hold on to it, unable to let it go. when he began shaking in your arms, shoulders heaving alongside his heavy breaths, the only thing you could do was hold him tighter.
“what’s wrong?” you whispered, hoping that he’d hear the muffled words. his body tensed, and silence lingered for a few moments.
“i still feel alone when i’m surrounded, or when i’ve drank so much that i don’t remember my name. my identity might go away, but there’s an emptiness that stays.” he spoke into the crook of your neck, voice hoarse and breath hot. “sometimes i want to rip my heart out for making me feel this way. it’s too much.”
your blood ran cold. staring at the empty hall over his shoulder, you felt your heart race as you processed his words, trying to think of anything to say, but nothing felt appropriate. you only gripped him tighter, trying to convey through gesture that you had heard him, that you were grateful for him feeling comfortable enough to confide in you. the wetness on your neck didn’t bother you, but he kissed each of his fallen tears on your skin away, shifting so he could look at your face.
“but it’s a little more bearable when i’m with you.”
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i love reverse au connor with all his issues because as much as i love and relate to hank reverse connor is just more relatable because he is closer to me in age yanno. i don’t know if anyone’s headcanons of reverse connor have a cole equivalent but in my head he doesn’t, so he feels less valid in his depression because he doesn’t have that public event that other people can use to “explain” his problems
