Leave

If the pain is as temporary as Connor McCall himself, Dylan might survive. But there is nothing fleeting about Connor except the man himself.

He is, by design, flawed. His smile, despite its compelling nature, sits lopsided to the left and a complicated relationship with himself leaves an arrogant stain on his personality. But somewhere between the perfectly styled hair and the expensive ties that suffocate him into designer suits, Connor is a disaster.

“You should feel lucky,” Derek says, voice soft with understanding.

Drinking in the shadow of a dive bar wasn’t Dylan’s idea but numbing himself is all he can do. He fiddles with the thawing glass of rum on the bar, almost afraid to meet his friend’s glare.

“What’re you talking about?” he sulks.

“To have that pain at all means that Connor was yours, if only for a little while.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I have the same hole in my chest.”

-

Connor doesn’t understand.

He can’t fathom how people find a love that only grows deeper. A love that begins as a seed and blossoms over two, five, ten years.

Connor enjoys liking people. The burn in his stomach. The churning need that feeds the void in his chest, his groin. But it never sticks. Never stays with him. It curdles, and sours until the smell is unbearable. Kisses that tasted of lust and excitement acidify into the tang of dread and repulsion.

It’s not that Connor wants to be alone, but he can’t ignore the tug in the back of his head telling him to leave.

-

The first time Connor obeys the urge, he’s five years old.

A drizzly Saturday morning and Connor stands, bored, in the cereal aisle, tugging on his father’s trouser leg.

“Give me a minute, kid,” he sighs, contemplating calling his ex-wife and relinquishing his responsibility again. But she’s tired, exhausted even, and it isn’t all Connor’s fault.

“Daddy, I’m bored,” Connor mutters, scuffing the tile with his trainer.

“We’ll leave soon, kiddo.”

“Wanna go now.”

“Well, we can’t go right now! Five minutes, alright?”

When Jeff reaches for a brandless box of cereal flakes, Connor spots his opportunity and darts.

“Connor? Connor!” Jeff abandons his cart, clutching the cereal in his hand. He speeds down the aisles, chest faltering. “Where is he? Where’s my son?” The beeping of the store alarm fades within the thud of his heart as he flees through the doors. “Connor!”

“Excuse me?”

An elderly woman stands beside a small, beaten car, Connor’s wrist in her frail hand. His son is pink in the face, his chest heaving as though he’d been running, and his wind-tousled hair says as much.

The sugarless flakes drop to the asphalt as Jeff rushes forward, scooping Connor by the armpits into his chest.

“Thank you so much,” he wheezes. “Why did you do that, Connor? God, don’t do that. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Daddy, that’s a bad word!”

“God, come here,” Jeff sighs, smoothing Connor’s hair. “Why did you run, Connor?”

“Didn’t want to be there no more.”

The sulk in his son’s face is unsettling - a lack of empathy or sorrow in his eyes, but Jeff is too relieved to care.

-

Bolting away from shopping carts is one thing, but Connor has an insatiable itch that no scratch will ease. It worms into his muscles, hence his ever-bouncing knee, until he practically vibrates with the need to move, run, leave.

When Connor is seven years old, he runs away from home for the first time, but not the last.

On his twelfth birthday, Connor escapes school at lunchtime, and Jeff toys with the idea of finding his son a therapist.

Just shy of Connor’s fourteenth birthday, the therapist labels his undeniable need. Drapetomania, she calls it. The overwhelming urge to run away.

It isn’t until Connor is sixteen that Jeff trusts him enough not to wait on the front porch, nails gripping the front door, eyes trained on the horizon for Connor’s return.

-

Ten years pass before Connor learns how to not pack his shit and leave at a moment’s notice. The need remains. Buzzing at the nape of his skull. Present in the tap of his fingers. But, more often than not, settled with a fast-paced, five-mile walk. He changes routes and patterns to trick himself into feeling lost. And by the time Connor returns home, the ache is quiet enough to stumble back inside.

-

At law school, Connor realizes he doesn’t always have to run away from where he is. He can run away from relationships too.

When he graduates, he leaves his boyfriend of four months in New York to return home to Philadelphia. He sends a brief, emotionless apology by text and blocks the number before it can respond.

Connor is home for all of two weeks before he lands an internship at a small firm where he meets Derek, the unlucky intern who is tasked with showing him the ropes. It isn’t long before Connor sinks his teeth in. He clings to every word from Derek’s mouth, eyes following the curve of the man’s lips, and as expected, Derek falls.

“It’s late, Connor, get yourself home,” he says one evening, watching the moon crowd above the clouds. “I’ll finish up.”

“I can stay,” Connor whispers, drumming his fingers across Derek’s makeshift desk. The consistent tapping once annoyed Derek, but it’s so inherently Connor that he almost craves it.

“There’s really no need. You were great today-”

Derek’s words hitch in his throat as Connor’s restless fingertips graze his elbow from behind. The boy’s breath barely tickles over his skin before Derek clutches the desk a little tighter.

“If you really want me to leave, I will,” Connor promises, looping his finger through Derek’s belt. “But I’d really like to stay.”

When the intern turns on his heel, Connor’s big, wandering eyes are there, blinking up at him, matching the coy blush on his cheeks.

Derek knows it’s an act, well versed in Connor’s personality, but he’s lost in the sway of the boy’s exploring hands before he can shake himself out of it.

Connor’s knees hit the ground, chased by a belt, and Derek is gone.

They become a thing after that. A secret. But it’s something, nonetheless. Derek loves it. The playful flirtation, the reserved smiles. And somewhere in between, he starts to love Connor, too.

“It’s been a long time since I felt like this,” he sighs three weeks later, tracing lazy circles on Connor’s thighs. He kneels between them, Connor resting atop his desk.

“Like what?”

The waver in Connor’s voice sends a shock of panic through Derek’s gut. The words stick in his throat, and he pulls away from Connor’s skin.

“Like what, Derek?”

Unable to escape from his own destruction, Derek drops his head.

“Like every moment is something special. You make me feel young again, Connor.”

Connor studies him, eyebrows knitted together.

“You’re not going to try and stop me from leaving.”

It’s a statement more than a question but it shatters Derek’s heart all the same.

“No, never. I wish you wouldn’t. But I know that won’t stop you, either.”

When he fucks Connor that evening, Derek knows it’s the last time.

-

One year later, on his twenty-seventh birthday, Connor thinks he’s found it. Maybe he can understand, maybe he can be like everyone else. The man across from him is a mumbling mess, as emotionally inept and unsure as he is, and for some strange reason, their arrangement works.

Dylan is a gentleman that finds Connor in the sweat of the dance floor of a dive bar. His glasses slide down his nose repeatedly and he clutches a glass of watered-down soda to ease the heat. He fumbles over his own feet and stumbles into Connor and just like that, Connor is addicted.

Dylan takes him home thirty minutes later and fucks him just how he likes, rough with a touch of softness, red marks on his skin chased by warm lips. They talk deep into the early morning, smothered in Dylan’s silk sheets, before they fall asleep in a mess of tangled limbs.

It isn’t a surprise to Dylan that Connor has this peculiar need to escape. Pretty boys always had something. And Dylan was no match for Connor’s strong jawline and expensive suits. He comes and goes as he pleases, collecting what he needs from him before disappearing into the bitter Philadelphia winter again.

But something has changed, he notes two months later. Connor hasn’t left his bed in almost three days. So, when he awakes the next morning to a full bladder and a cold bed, he isn’t surprised. What makes him stumble is the note on the kitchen table, sprawled messily like an afterthought, but he can’t help but smile. Progress.

Gone for a run – Connor x

When Connor crawls back into bed an hour later, his flesh freezing and nose hued pink, Dylan fights the urge to tell him how proud he is.

-

“I love you,” Connor says, two weeks before Christmas. They’re hanging decorations around the apartment and Dylan is wrestling with a particularly knotted bundle of tinsel. He drops the red and white mess and stares at Connor with a gawp.

“Huh?”

“I said I love you.”

They’re against the fireplace before Connor can finish pinning his stocking.

“I love you, too. God, I love you.”

That evening, Dylan makes them hot chocolate and they watch the moon through the window, tracing snowflakes in the condensation of their breath on the glass.

“You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever said that to.”

“Really?” Dylan whispers.

“Uhm. Does that make you feel special?”

“You have no idea,” he sighs, pulling them back into the comfort of the pillows.

-

They make it almost fourteen months, just shy of it. Dylan has a ring in his coat pocket and knows that this is it for him. Every evening when he comes home and Connor is still there, sitting at the kitchen table doing a crossword and drinking tea, Dylan knows he’s home.

They each share a birthday together and Dylan spoils Connor without the constant threat of panic and abandonment. Just a display of love and affection. Even Jeff shares his surprise at the most inopportune of times.

“You’ve really helped him,” he says, an unshed tear or two in his eye. “I thought- he’d never be happy. Never be settled, you know.”

“For the first six months, I was constantly holding my breath.

Waiting for the day I’d come home and he wouldn’t be here. But I don’t do that anymore. I don’t need to. Connor is my home.”

Christmas rolls around again, and December brings the first frost, and Dylan can’t help but notice the shift in the air. He knows what Connor is like, knows about the insatiable itch, so he isn’t sure why it hurts so violently when he opens the door to an empty apartment and a note, placed on the kitchen table like a perfectly thought-out nightmare.

I’m sorry.

Dylan spends two days by the window, watching the runners below, praying that one of them is Connor rushing back to him. The ring imprints on his palm where he squeezes it to feel the sharpness. He thinks he might forget how to breathe.

His phone rings incessantly but he knows it won’t be Connor, not now he’s gone, so he doesn’t bother answering it.

It’s Jeff who batters his door down three days later.

“I’ve been calling you,” he says, boiling water on the stove.

“He’s gone.”

“I know, son. I’m- god, I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”

“He’s safe?”

“He’s in Florida. Said he needed a change. Said it was too much here.”

“And Florida isn’t? I loved him. I love him!”

Jeff uncurls Dylan hand and removes the ring, tutting at the angry red circle left behind.

“I’m sorry he did this to you, Dylan. I thought he was finally alright.”

“I think he might never be.”

“Maybe. But he left you a note. He called me as soon as he got to Florida. I think maybe that’s progress.”

Dylan doesn’t say much more until Jeff leaves, and there’s a hollow agony in his chest that only seems to swell. He isn’t sure when Derek arrives, that knowing glint in his eyes, and guides his arms through the sleeves of his peacoat and his feet out the door.

He stares at Derek over the rim of his rum cocktail, jaw loose and forehead peppered with sweat.

“You loved him, too,” he whispers.

“Maybe. I think I almost did. Connor didn’t love me though, not like he loved you.”

“He wouldn’t have left if he loved me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s not that he wants to leave, it’s that he needs to.”

Dylan stews on the words before he meets Derek’s eye.

“Will the pain ever go away?”

“It’ll ease.”

“But it won’t ever go away, will it?”

Derek shakes his head and sinks his drink.

“But like I said, the pain proves that Connor was there. If only for a moment.”

-

Three months later, Dylan is tucked up in bed with a mug of tea and a tattered romance novel spread across his legs. His phone buzzes – the frustrating ping of a doorbell notification. He squints at the clock with confusion. It’s just shy of ten o’clock, and the sun had long since set, so who is hovering outside his door?

He opens the app and almost spills his tea. His hair is an inch or so longer, not confined by the cage of its usual gel, and though still groomed and neat, his beard is thicker.

“Connor,” he whispers, rubbing his exhausted eyes to ensure the mirage is real.

Despite the poor picture quality, Dylan can read the fight across Connor’s face. There’s a fist hanging at the bottom of the screen, darting back and forth as though it can’t quite work up the courage to do something.

“Knock,” Dylan whispers, flicking his eyes from the screen to his apartment door. “Come on, Connor, just knock.”

There’s a quiet rush of breath and Connor disappears from the camera, chased by the heated footsteps that echo along the hall.

Dylan locks his phone, curls into the sheets, and stares at the wall. He tries to remember how to breathe again. Until, so quiet and sharp he almost misses it, there’s a knock.

Then another.

He’s tangled in the sheets, cheeks flushed, and unlocking the door a moment later, his chest heaving as though Connor could whisp away into nothing if he isn’t quick enough.

“Connor,” he sighs, relief and frustration lacing his voice.

“Hi.”

It’s one word of complete destruction. One that make Dylan want to scream, cry, smack Connor’s pale, guilty face.

“Hi,” he says instead, the weight of his blanket suffocating him.

“Can I come in?”

Dylan doesn’t waste a second pretending he won’t allow it. Connor’s steps are hesitant as he scans the apartment, looking for what, Dylan doesn’t know. A sign that someone else had taken his place?

The silence is far more than they can handle. Dylan broadens his shoulders and drops the blanket across the sofa.

“How’s Florida?”

“Terrible. I left,” Connor says quietly.

“I wasn’t aware you leaving was an indicator of terrible things.”

The sting drops Connor’s head, brings a wince to his face.

“I deserve that.”

“Oh, you deserve more than that, Connor. You deserve that door in your face. The cold shoulder. You deserve to be alone. But then again, that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” Connor rushes, taking a step closer but falters behind Dylan’s outstretched hand.

“Just, stay over there. Please.” He fills his lungs. “You told me you loved me, Con.”

“I did. I do. I’m trying to explain, Dylan. But it’s hard. No one feels this the way that I do. It eats you up from the inside out. Like a fire that you can never put out. Leaving helps but it doesn’t fix it.”

“So then why come back? Why let me suffer for four months? I couldn’t sleep, eat, go to work. I barely kept myself together.” The anger boils in Dylan’s stomach as he advances on Connor, steering him into the small kitchenette. He doesn’t stop until the man’s shoulders are pinned to the refrigerator. “You left while I was asleep, Connor. Despite everything, I didn’t think you were so cruel.”

Connor’s fingers find a grip on his shirt.

“And I hated myself for it! I sat on the bus and hated every breath I took because all I could think of was what I was leaving behind. I called my therapist from my hotel room every day and pleaded with her to fix me. Make it so I can come back to you, Dylan.”

“And you thought that you could just waltz back in here like nothing had happened? Like those four months meant nothing. I had a ring, Connor. Do you understand? I wanted forever and you can’t even promise me tonight.”

“You’re right, Dylan. I couldn’t, not then.”

“But now?”

Albeit the cramped space of the kitchenette, Connor drops to his knee and fumbles in his jacket pocket. There’s a thin ring in his palm when he pulls it back out.

“You have no idea how hard this is, Dylan. How scary this is. I’m fighting myself. But I’ll tear myself to pieces every day if it means being here with you. I want to give you right now, tonight, and forever. I want to fight this with you.”

The ring slips over Dylan’s finger in the glint of the moon through the window.

“Then promise me,” he whispers to Connor. “That next time you want to run, we’ll run away together.”