[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
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.]