[That night rises from his memories into the present, a drip at first, then a trickle, a stream, a torrent engulfing him in the darkness. The stampede of their feet down the stairs, the terrible crack of Sam's body striking the floor below. The worse crack of the trophy against his skull, the bloody crater left behind. The weight of him rolled up in the rug, tossed onto their amateur pyre, divided into trash bags.
Connor doesn't know where his thoughts stop and his words begin: all of it bleeds together, twisting out of his control. He thinks he might throw up, but what comes out of his mouth instead is an answer.]
It all happened so fast-- He fell over the banister, and we thought that killed him, but then he grabbed Rebecca so Wes--
[He chokes on the words but in the darkness makes a gesture in imitation of striking with an object.]
I didn't even see it happen, I just saw his head...it looked like all this smashed, rotten fruit or meat or something.
[He sits up suddenly, drawing himself into a knot with his head between his knees and his arms folded over his head. His breath falls roughly as if telling all of this exerts him. But whereas before he was afraid to talk, now he is afraid to stop, because doing so would open him to Oliver's judgment.]
I didn't even want to be there-- You've got to believe me. It was all part of Wes's stupid crusade to prove Rebecca innocent - to prove that it was Sam who killed Lila. I didn't want to do any of it--
[But he had. It was he who helped roll the body up in the rug, and he who delivered it to the woods, and he who hacked Sam Keating to pieces.]
[He stares in horror, expression masked by the darkness, but the way he flinches when Connor mimes striking someone he flinches back. He can't help it.]
So why did you?
[His mind's abuzz, overloaded with the information Connor's giving him. He'd begged for this at times, but now he's hearing it he doesn't want to. Half of it he's already blocking out, unable to believe that Connor could really be involved with this.
Not even just Connor... Connor's friends. His friends. People he's laughed with. Shared drinks with. Even welcomed into his home.
He knows none of them are angels. He's broken the law for them numerous times. He's tried to prove to them he's just as capable of being involved in the same situations they are. But this? This is way beyond anything he'd considered a serious possibility.]
[He does not lift his head, and the shadows obscure all, but even so he imagines the revulsion that must be contorting Oliver's expression. He hears the disbelief quaking in his voice and waits for that disbelief to either soften into consolation or harden into censure. The long moment of waiting for Oliver's feelings to pull toward one side or the other is like the long moment in which one teeters on a precipice and knows that he will either hold his balance or topple.]
I told you, everything happened so fast-- I was scared. We were all terrified. And once we started trying to cover up-- what happened...we couldn't stop.
[As all the fear he had kept locked up inside of him for so long flies free, his voice trembles from the force of it, and his words pitch forward trying to keep up with his racing mind.]
I wanted to go to the police. Afterward, both Michaela and I tried to tell the police. But she-- but Annalise stopped us. I tried to do the right thing, I did.
[Ultimately, Connor's chosen to conceal this for the entire time. This isn't a small thing. This isn't even like any of the other crimes the two of them have committed, either separately or together.
This isn't something Oliver had ever seriously considered Connor capable of. It had crossed his mind, but not as a real possibility. Now that he knows what happened, he doesn't know what to think.]
[Oliver's cool words penetrate him like ice does the cracks and crevices of rock, and as if by the forces of erosion something inside of him crumbles. His tears are hot and sudden on his cheeks; they dampen his voice. His fingers dig into his legs as he tries to hold himself together.]
I couldn't. My car - we used it to...to transport Sam. His DNA is all over the inside of it. And only Annalise knows where it is - or Frank, I don't know which. But don't you get it?
[Sam had been only the beginning. He had had to break more laws and tell more lies; he was no murderer, but blood stained his hands nonetheless.]
She owns me. And she could have ruined me, worse than she already did. Now do you get why I hate her so much?
[Oliver doesn't answer. He doesn't know how to. Even if Connor didn't do it himself, even if he didn't do it willingly, he was still involved in a way he never should have been.
His car had to have been used before that. He's not an innocent in this. He screws his eyes shut, shaking his head as he tries to process the enormity of what he's told him. This is too much. He's not ready for this. He was never going to be ready for this.]
[Then what had begun to crumble inside of him turns to dust and is blown away in one rattling gust. The act of breathing becomes manual. His fingers buzz with numbness. His eyes frantically seek Oliver in the darkness, just discerning the edges of him, so close by yet beyond a chasm. He tries to reach for him.]
Oliver...please don't do this.
[He trembles: his voice, his hands, his heart. He suddenly wishes he could reach the lamp and douse them in its light. In the darkness he feels lost, untethered as if in space, with his heels over his head and nothing for his hands to hold. Was it really only minutes ago that they were laughing together, resting against one another's bodies?]
I know I screwed up. I screwed up so badly, I know. Trust me, I hate myself more than you could ever hate me. But this...this isn't fair. You asked me to be honest, and I bared everything to you. You don't get to just send me away. This doesn't just go away.
[Concealing the evidence doesn't undo the crime, nor does it erase his guilt or purge his memories.]
I-- I don't know what I'll do if I have to be alone.
[Oliver jerks back abruptly, shaking his head in the dark. He doesn't want to be touched. He doesn't want to be swayed. Not now. Not about this.]
I don't hate you.
[He does sound scared though, and his voice is cracked with grief. He's not ready to process this with Connor. He knows that distance is the last thing that Connor will want right now, not when they've only just started to repair their relationship, but once again it's exactly what Oliver needs.]
Please, don't guilt me right now. I can't deal with that.
[The reassurance that Oliver does not hate him warms him little: the words are a mere match Oliver passes him, when what he needs is shelter from the dark and cold.
What about me? he wants to ask. Am I supposed to deal with this alone? He had unloaded this burden, these leaden secrets that have sat inside him for so long, in the fragile hope that Oliver would help him bear the weight. But he find himself buckling beneath it instead.
He struggles for an answer in the terrible silence. There come the soft shuddering sounds of a breakdown that he tries to lock away, but he is weak. When he does finally speak, his voice is as thin as a shadow.]
Fine...I'll go.
[Then he pulls himself to the edge of the bed and fumbles for his shoes in the darkness. He is adamant in avoiding the lights he had just moments ago wanted to flick on: now they would ruin the mask of darkness that hides him from Oliver. The darkness is broken only once he opens the door, letting in the light from the hallway.]
I'm sorry.
[He doesn't know if Oliver can even hear him. He doesn't turn or hesitate at the doorway; he simply leaves, and the door falls shut.]
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no subject
Connor doesn't know where his thoughts stop and his words begin: all of it bleeds together, twisting out of his control. He thinks he might throw up, but what comes out of his mouth instead is an answer.]
It all happened so fast-- He fell over the banister, and we thought that killed him, but then he grabbed Rebecca so Wes--
[He chokes on the words but in the darkness makes a gesture in imitation of striking with an object.]
I didn't even see it happen, I just saw his head...it looked like all this smashed, rotten fruit or meat or something.
[He sits up suddenly, drawing himself into a knot with his head between his knees and his arms folded over his head. His breath falls roughly as if telling all of this exerts him. But whereas before he was afraid to talk, now he is afraid to stop, because doing so would open him to Oliver's judgment.]
I didn't even want to be there-- You've got to believe me. It was all part of Wes's stupid crusade to prove Rebecca innocent - to prove that it was Sam who killed Lila. I didn't want to do any of it--
[But he had. It was he who helped roll the body up in the rug, and he who delivered it to the woods, and he who hacked Sam Keating to pieces.]
no subject
So why did you?
[His mind's abuzz, overloaded with the information Connor's giving him. He'd begged for this at times, but now he's hearing it he doesn't want to. Half of it he's already blocking out, unable to believe that Connor could really be involved with this.
Not even just Connor... Connor's friends. His friends. People he's laughed with. Shared drinks with. Even welcomed into his home.
He knows none of them are angels. He's broken the law for them numerous times. He's tried to prove to them he's just as capable of being involved in the same situations they are. But this? This is way beyond anything he'd considered a serious possibility.]
no subject
I told you, everything happened so fast-- I was scared. We were all terrified. And once we started trying to cover up-- what happened...we couldn't stop.
[As all the fear he had kept locked up inside of him for so long flies free, his voice trembles from the force of it, and his words pitch forward trying to keep up with his racing mind.]
I wanted to go to the police. Afterward, both Michaela and I tried to tell the police. But she-- but Annalise stopped us. I tried to do the right thing, I did.
no subject
[Ultimately, Connor's chosen to conceal this for the entire time. This isn't a small thing. This isn't even like any of the other crimes the two of them have committed, either separately or together.
This isn't something Oliver had ever seriously considered Connor capable of. It had crossed his mind, but not as a real possibility. Now that he knows what happened, he doesn't know what to think.]
no subject
I couldn't. My car - we used it to...to transport Sam. His DNA is all over the inside of it. And only Annalise knows where it is - or Frank, I don't know which. But don't you get it?
[Sam had been only the beginning. He had had to break more laws and tell more lies; he was no murderer, but blood stained his hands nonetheless.]
She owns me. And she could have ruined me, worse than she already did. Now do you get why I hate her so much?
no subject
His car had to have been used before that. He's not an innocent in this. He screws his eyes shut, shaking his head as he tries to process the enormity of what he's told him. This is too much. He's not ready for this. He was never going to be ready for this.]
I... I need you to leave.
[He feels like a traitor already.]
no subject
Oliver...please don't do this.
[He trembles: his voice, his hands, his heart. He suddenly wishes he could reach the lamp and douse them in its light. In the darkness he feels lost, untethered as if in space, with his heels over his head and nothing for his hands to hold. Was it really only minutes ago that they were laughing together, resting against one another's bodies?]
I know I screwed up. I screwed up so badly, I know. Trust me, I hate myself more than you could ever hate me. But this...this isn't fair. You asked me to be honest, and I bared everything to you. You don't get to just send me away. This doesn't just go away.
[Concealing the evidence doesn't undo the crime, nor does it erase his guilt or purge his memories.]
I-- I don't know what I'll do if I have to be alone.
no subject
I don't hate you.
[He does sound scared though, and his voice is cracked with grief. He's not ready to process this with Connor. He knows that distance is the last thing that Connor will want right now, not when they've only just started to repair their relationship, but once again it's exactly what Oliver needs.]
Please, don't guilt me right now. I can't deal with that.
no subject
What about me? he wants to ask. Am I supposed to deal with this alone? He had unloaded this burden, these leaden secrets that have sat inside him for so long, in the fragile hope that Oliver would help him bear the weight. But he find himself buckling beneath it instead.
He struggles for an answer in the terrible silence. There come the soft shuddering sounds of a breakdown that he tries to lock away, but he is weak. When he does finally speak, his voice is as thin as a shadow.]
Fine...I'll go.
[Then he pulls himself to the edge of the bed and fumbles for his shoes in the darkness. He is adamant in avoiding the lights he had just moments ago wanted to flick on: now they would ruin the mask of darkness that hides him from Oliver. The darkness is broken only once he opens the door, letting in the light from the hallway.]
I'm sorry.
[He doesn't know if Oliver can even hear him. He doesn't turn or hesitate at the doorway; he simply leaves, and the door falls shut.]