Archive of Our Own ^beta

At twenty-one, Conner has never had a girlfriend. 

At twenty-one, he’s also still a virgin. 

“Shut up. There’s no way that’s true!” Tim cries, sprawled out like a starfish on the floor of the tiny living room of their cramped and shoddy apartment. 

Conner, leaning against the wall furthest away from the drunk mess Tim has become, takes a tiny sip of the beer he was handed… too long ago, given how warm it is. He grimaces at the bitter taste and sets the bottle back down on the floor. He stays quiet.

After a few seconds, Tim raises his head and narrows his eyes at Conner. “You’re lying,” he accuses. 

Conner hugs his legs to his chest and shakes his head. “I’m not,” he protests right away, then pauses. “Lying about what, though?”

Tim huffs. He sits up and reaches for his red paper cup. There’s a bottle of cranberry juice, some vodka and a few more beer bottles around him. There are already splashes all over the floor. Conner knows he’s the one who’s going to have to wipe that mess up after Tim passes out later. 

 “Either. Both,” Tim announces, waving his hand and chugging back more of whatever concoction he’s made for himself. 

Conner doesn’t think it tastes very good, but it’s not like either of them have had a proper or a mixed drink before. Tim had been his fellow alcohol virgin until a few months ago, when Conner had turned twenty-one. Once Conner had gotten his ID, Tim had begged him to get them both some alcohol so they could make their college experience more complete. 

Conner did not condone underage drinking, but he also couldn’t say no. Tim was the only good friend he had in Central City, which was still too big and unfamiliar of a place to him. 

They’d moved in together at the end of their freshman year. Or rather, Tim had moved in with him, saying Conner was for sure a better roommate than the asshole he’d been assigned to at the college dorms. 

Tim walked with him everywhere. Tim talked to him during classes and outside of them. He apologized to people with a laugh if Conner said something that was ‘too rude’. He also bitched at people who rolled their eyes or laughed at things Conner said that weren’t meant to be funny. 

Still, underage drinking didn’t sit right with him, so Conner had found the two of them a compromise. He would go and buy all the alcohol Tim wanted, and he’d let Tim drink to his heart’s content… but only if Tim drank at their apartment, where Conner could keep an eye on him. And if Tim wanted to head out for any reason, be it to get some food or to go talk to someone else while drunk, then Conner had to go with him. 

 At this point, Tim is used to being babysat by a guy who can’t drink more than four sips of beer and two of any other crappy combinations he makes. He’s also used to asking invasive questions, because poking Conner is fun, and it’s boring being drunk in a controlled environment. 

“You’re lying,” Tim says again. He drags himself and his paper cup across the floor until he’s sitting in front of Conner, legs crossed, upper body swaying slightly. 

Conner reaches out with one hand to steady him. “I’m not lying,” he insists. 

Tim squints at him and takes another swig. “But I didn’t tell you what you were lying about, did I?”

Conner huffs, feeling a tinge of irritation. Tim can be annoying when he’s sober, and the alcohol doesn’t really help. “I asked, and you said either, or both. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m not lying.” 

“How can you not be lying? Come on. There’s no way you’ve never dated a girl. And there’s for sure no way you haven’t fooled around with someone. You must have had a high school sweetheart back in Smell— Stan— Smack—”

“Smallville,” Conner finishes, frowning. 

“Yes, that!” Tim snaps his fingers in front of his face. Conner’s frown deepens. 

“So, this sweetheart of yours,” Tim goes on. “You probably met each other in freshman year of high school. Probably took you until sophomore or junior year to start dating. You probably had sex during prom night, and then you had a lovely summer affair before parting ways. She probably cried a ton. You don’t strike me as a crier, though. I bet you just brooded and grieved in your heart.” He wags his finger in front of Conner’s face. “Am I right, or am I right?” 

Conner slaps the finger away. “You’re wrong. About everything.” 

Tim shakes his hand like Conner’s slap actually hurts, then gulps down some more of his drink. “Oh, please. There must have been a special girl in your life back home.”

“There was no one,” Conner bites out. There really hadn’t been. He’d been too big of an angry weirdo all through high school, and it’s not like he’d ever given his romantic life more than a passing thought. Most kids steered clear of him. The ones who were civil and amicable still kept their respectable distance, or maybe he was the one that chose to keep them at arm’s length. It always seemed better that way.  Girls had never really been on his mind, no matter how pretty or popular they were. 

Tim lets out a hum. He narrows his already hazy eyes at Conner, then snaps his fingers again. “I got it!” he cries. 

“Got what?” Conner asks, though he doesn’t really want to hear the answer. 

“Did you have a special guy back home? Were you like a football linebacker fooling around with the quarterback under the bleachers? Or were you the quarterback? You’re pretty big. You look quarterback-sized.” Tim takes another swig. “So do you only like guys? Or are you like me? I like boys and girls, you know.” 

Conner rubs his temple. “I know,” he mutters. Tim has a bisexuality flag hanging inside his room. Conner has seen him kiss one guy and one girl since he’s met him. 

“So you’re like me,” Tim chirps. His eyes light up. “Hey, I didn’t know that. Do you wanna kiss me?”

Conner fights the urge to bash his head against the wall. 

Tim can be a very marvelous and frightening creature, sometimes. Then again, he’s only nineteen. Even though it’s his sophomore year in university, being away from home without parental supervision is still a novelty to him. From what Tim himself had said, it’s not like he hadn’t kissed boys and girls back home, and it’s not like his parents didn’t know. Still, a part of Conner understands that Tim feels a lot freer now, especially after having a lot of fun… experiences the past year.

“I’m not like you, and I don’t want to kiss you,” Conner says, trying his best to sound patient and kind. 

Tim scrunches up his nose. “Rude,” he sneers. “Gosh. You’re so rude sometimes, CK.”

 Conner’s blood turns to ice. Ironically, his face turns hot with embarrassment. He pushes away from the wall, almost knocking the stupid bottle of warm beer onto the already questionable carpet. 

“Sorry,” he grumbles, annoyed both at Tim and himself this time. 

He manages to grab the bottle with one hand before it tips over. He squeezes it so hard his whole arm shakes. He’s about to stomp away when Tim grabs the hem of his shirt with one hand and one of the belt loops on his jeans with the other. 

 “What the hell? Where are you going? Sit down. Sit, sit,” he orders. He pulls on Conner’s clothes hard, and Conner has no choice but to sit back down because he’s wearing one of his favorite pair of jeans. 

Conner folds himself to the ground. He grits his teeth and looks at the wall on the other side of the room. He counts to ten. Then he counts to twenty. 

“Stop ignoring me,” Tim says. 

Conner’s fingers twitch around the beer bottle. He sets his jaw even more. “But you haven’t said anything,” he bites out.

“But you’ve been ignoring me anyway,” Tim complains. He takes a couple of sips from his paper cup. “Okay, so, are you not like me or are you just being a homo— holo— hono—”

“Homophobic,” Conner says, voice dry. 

“Yes! So, are you a homophobic asshole or are you just in denial?” 

So much for being patient and kind. 

“How could I be homophobic? When have I ever made any sort of mean comment towards you or about you?” Conner snaps. He knows he shouldn’t argue with a drunk Tim. It’s not like Tim will remember a lot once he sobers up, but he can’t help it. Tim is truly so annoying, sometimes. 

“Okay, then you’re just in denial,” Tim says. 

“I’m not in denial about anything!”

“So you do like women?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know!” He yells the last sentence, and he almost throws the bottle across the room. He catches himself at the last second and lets the bottle fall to the floor instead. It tips over, and the sight of the stinky beer soaking into the not-so-clean carpet only makes him angrier. 

“Disgusting!” he hisses at it, then turns to glare at Tim. “Are you happy now?” 

Tim gives the mess on the floor an uninterested glance, then shakes his head. “No,” he says, unaffected by Conner’s little outburst. “No, no, no. I’m not happy. What do you mean you don’t know? How can you— who doesn’t— one always knows,” he says, and it sounds like a lecture. 

Conner glares at him harder. “Great. You know. Do you want a prize or something?”

“Rude,” Tim repeats, voice light. 

Conner’s stomach drops to the ground again. The urge to punch Tim rears its ugly head, but before he can consider it for more than two seconds, Tim leaves his paper cup aside and reaches out with both hands. 

“You’re so prickly,” Tim coos, giving Conner a drunken grin and squishing his cheeks with his palms. “You’re so serious, and so prickly. I like you a lot, CK,” he announces, then throws his head back and laughs. 

Only after hearing those words and Tim’s genuinely amused laugh does Conner realize that Tim’s earlier comment might not have been as mean-spirited as he’d thought a few seconds ago. 

A wave of shame hits him. He tries to turn his head away, but Tim only laughs again, squishes his face even harder and tuts at him. 

Conner feels his eye twitch. He goes still and stares at the growing stain on the carpet until Tim stops laughing. 

“Do you really not know?” Tim asks once he’s calmed down. He lets go of Conner’s face, pours himself more vodka and cranberry juice, then takes a sip and look at Conner with unabashed curiosity. 

Conner purses his lips. He picks the beer bottle back up. “No,” he mutters. He’s never put a lot of effort into knowing, after all. It’s never really mattered, either. 

“That’s…” Tim starts. 

“Weird?” Conner supplies, jaw tense. He’s heard this all before, one too many times. Might as well get over it as soon as possible. 

“Interesting,” Tim corrects. He glances at Conner over the rim of his filthy paper cup. “‘Cause… is it just me, or do you happen to… like Megan, a little bit?” 

Oh, fuck. 

Conner freezes at that. His whole body goes rigid, and the world swims for a second, even though he’s sitting down. 

He sways, hands twitching, but then Tim’s hands land on his shoulders. 

“It’s okay,” Tim says, tone firm. “It’s okay. Don’t forget to breathe. Breathe, big guy. Liking a pretty girl is not the end of the world. Unless you’re gay, of course, then we might have an issue.”

I don’t like her, Conner wants to say, but his lips aren’t moving, and he’s not sure if that is just a reflexive reply or if he actually means it. 

Because… well. Megan. Megan Morse. 

His… friend Megan. 

Of course he likes her. He wouldn’t call her his friend otherwise. 

But to say that he likes-likes her… 

How is he supposed to know?

“She’s very pretty,” Tim offers. 

Conner glances at him glumly. “She is,” he agrees. 

When Tim looks like he’s waiting for more, Conner frowns. 

“She is,” he repeats, because saying Megan is a very pretty and attractive girl is… just stating a fact. 

“She seems to be very sweet,” Tim goes on. 

“She is,” Conner agrees again. Megan is sweet. She’s kind. She’s gentle, and Conner likes people like her. She always smiles at Conner when she sees him. He finds that weird, but she has a lovely smile, so he doesn’t worry about it too much. 

“She’s always hanging around you,” Tim says, nodding. 

And that is another weird thing. Ever since she first sat across from him at his favorite coffee shop at the beginning of the previous semester, she’s been hanging around Conner almost as much as Tim. He and Tim attend all classes together, and he and Megan see each other in three different courses over the week. She often asks them to have study or review sessions together, and somehow, Tim manages to weasel his way out of nearly all of them. 

Conner apologizes every single time he shows up without Tim in tow, but Megan never seems to mind. They’ve spent a lot of time in the library in companionable silence at his request, or sitting on many grassy areas around campus. Megan talks non-stop if they’re not in the library, and because he thinks she has a very nice voice, he doesn’t mind hearing her chatter about a dozen different things at the same time.

Conner always takes her out for coffee afterward. It’s the right thing to do, given that Tim is always rude, never learns, and Conner feels like apologizing isn’t enough. His parents raised him to be responsible, and not just for himself, by the looks of it. 

He’s also met several of Megan’s friends and has hung out with them a few times. There’s Mal and Karen, who tend to look at each other in a way that Conner thinks is embarrassing to anyone else in their vicinity. There’s also Wendy and Marvin, whom Megan says she loves but also complains that they make her want to pull her hair out with their antics sometimes. 

Conner knows where Megan lives because she has asked him to come over to help her choose outfits for weekend outings with her girlfriends. Her roommate rolls her eyes whenever Conner shows up, but he’s used to people doing that around him. 

He’s been over at her dorm a couple of other times when she’s been sick and he offers to drop off books and notes for her. He’s made her his Ma’s chicken soup and brought it over, too. She’s loved the soup, and also the lasagna and curry he’s packed for her to try during their outings. 

All in all, he likes Megan quite a lot. He likes being around her and spending time together. He makes her laugh (somehow) and he likes it when she smiles. 

Then again, he also likes making Tim smile. He feels a little proud of himself when he makes Tim laugh with him instead of at him. 

And that’s the thing. He hasn’t had many good friends throughout his life, but isn’t one supposed to feel comfortable and good around his friends? And isn’t that what friends do? Hang around each other all the time? That’s what Tim does, and Conner quite enjoys being around Tim, too, even though he does want to punch his pretty face sometimes. 

“I… like being around Megan,” is everything Conner says out loud, weighing his words very carefully. 

Tim pouts at him. “Well, I like being around you too, but it’s not like you want to kiss me, right? I mean, you rejected me just now. ‘Cause you're, like, straight and homophobic or something like that.” 

Conner gapes at him, incredulous. “How do you even— that’s not what I— I’m not homophobic!” he sputters. 

He can’t say he’s not straight, because he doesn’t know whether he is or not. 

And then something else occurs to him. “And who says I want to kiss Megan?” he asks with a frown. 

Tim clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes at him. “Don’t you?” he challenges. 

“She’s my friend.”

“And you can’t kiss your friends?”

“... No? I mean, if people greet each other with those silly air kisses, that’s still kissing. But it doesn’t mean—”

“What if I want to kiss you? On the lips?” Tim poses. 

This conversation is moving too fast, and Conner has no idea where it’s going. 

“... Do you?” he wonders. He’s never kissed anyone. He’d rather his first kiss not be with a drunken Tim. But also… it’s Tim. It could be worse. And it’s not like he’s saved his first kiss for anyone special or something childish like that. The opportunity has never popped up, and he doesn’t think much of it anyway. 

“I would kiss you,” Tim declares. 

Conner, at a complete loss, can only croak out a weak, “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” Tim nods. “But I won’t kiss you.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then smiles, and Conner just knows what he’s about to say is going to be terrible to hear. 

“Because you’re homophobic, and you like Megan,” he says, then dissolves into a fit of giggles as he falls against Conner’s chest, alcohol concoction splashing all over his hand and… onto Conner’s shirt. 

Conner wants to punch something so bad.  

“What is wrong with you?” he whispers instead, horrified. Coming from him, that’s saying something. 

He snatches the paper cup out of Tim’s hand and lets his friend collapse and curl against his chest like an overgrown and very drunk cat. 

“What is wrong with you?” Tim snaps back. He must say something very funny inside his head, because a new wave of laughter washes over him and renders him speechless. 

Grimacing, Conner places the stupid paper cup as far away from them as he can. 

“Too much,” he mutters under his breath. He lets Tim laugh like an idiot for a few more seconds, then lets out a sigh and shifts them both around. Tim is mostly dead weight, but he’s also quite short and wiry, so it’s easy for Conner to sling Tim’s arm over his shoulders and get them both to their feet. 

“I’m hungry,” Tim announces once Conner has dragged him to his unmade bed in his unkempt room. 

“I wonder why,” Conner can’t help but say, making sure Tim has enough pillows under his head so he doesn’t… chokes in case… something happens. 

“Make dinner,” Tim orders. 

“That was already my plan,” Conner informs him. It’s his usual plan. Tim’s parents send him a hefty allowance every month, but within the first few weeks of living together, Conner had spoken up and offered to do the grocery shopping and cooking for them both. Tim overspends, has no regard for quality ingredients or for making something that is tasty instead of just edible. Also, Tim is a messy cook, and Conner likes keeping the kitchen spotless. 

Besides, with Tim’s allowance, Conner has to worry his parents and brother less when it comes to money. 

“CK, I want chili.” 

“After everything you drank? No.”

“But—”

“I will make myself some noodles. You’ll get congee.”

“Ew.” 

“My congee is pretty good,” Conner argues, then huffs. “Get some sleep. I’ll make the congee… and clean up the stupid carpet.”

Tim whines, then sits up in bed, his movements slow and careful. 

“CK!” he half-yells. 

“What?”

Tim points at him. “You’re the bestest best friend ever. I’m glad you’re my best friend, even if you’re homophobic,” he says. He sways, lies back down in slow motion and closes his eyes. His breath evens out not a minute later. 

Conner, rooted in place by Tim’s sheer audacity, opens his mouth to reprimand him, then thinks better about it. 

“Screw you,” he says instead, but he’s smiling as he turns around and heads back into the kitchen. 

Conner is also twenty-one when he gets his first best friend. 

At twenty-two, Conner asks Megan if she would like to be his girlfriend.  

He almost doesn’t do it during the dinner and movie date that Tim had insisted on helping him set up. He sees the chance to ask the question after they’ve finished eating and Megan beams at him in expectation. 

It doesn’t quite feel right, though, so instead he offers her his arm and his best smile. 

Her own smile falters, but she slides her arm through his. They walk like that all the way to the movie theater, and after the first minute, Megan picks up the dinner conversation where they had left off. 

Conner listens to every word she says. He likes the way her eyes light up when she shares fun or light stories, the way she purses her lips when she shares something she doesn’t like or doesn’t approve of. He watches her delicate, slender hands moving back and forth in enthusiastic gestures.

Above all, he likes the feeling of her arm in his. 

He likes it very much. He likes how close they are. He likes the understated scent of the perfume she’s wearing today. It’s fresh, citrusy, and slightly woodsy. She tends to favor sweeter notes, is a big fan of vanilla and coconut, and while Conner thinks those are… nice, he allows himself to bask in her presence as much as her scent tonight. 

“I’m really glad you asked me to come watch this movie with you tonight,” she says as they’re waiting in line to buy their tickets. She bounces on her feet, her grip still firm around his arm. 

“I’m glad you came, too,” he says. “I know you’ve been wanting to watch it since it came out.” Choosing the movie had been the easiest part about this whole ordeal. Megan had watched the trailers for this one since they started coming out. She’s been talking to her friends about it but trying to keep the spoilers to a minimum. 

“I did tell you, didn’t I?”

“No, but I remembered.” 

Megan brightens. “You remembered,” she echoes. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, puzzled. He remembers a lot of things about Megan, taste in movies and tv shows included.  He knows which shows she’s currently watching and which ones she’s dropped. He sits next to her every week for a couple of hours so they can watch reruns of her favorite sitcom, an older series from her mom’s childhood that both Megan and her mom grew up watching and loving with all their hearts. Megan is named after the main character in that show, which Conner thinks is a funny little detail. 

“You’re the best, Conner,” she says. She presses her chest against his arm and bumps her head against his shoulder, letting out a quiet and contented sigh. 

Conner lets her do it, his shoulders loose and relaxed. He keeps most of his attention on the promotional posters all around them, and doesn't jump when Megan starts rubbing one of her hands up and down his arm. 

Megan is a very touchy person. Conner doesn’t know at what point she started being so close to him whenever they spent time together, and he doesn’t know when he started liking that, either. Conner isn’t that good with physical touch. He doesn’t like shaking hands or doing the silly air kiss thingie Megan does with most of her friends. He doesn’t like when strangers step too close to him. He doesn’t like it when people squeeze his shoulder or grab his arm out of the blue. 

His parents and Clark have always been exceptions, of course. Tim is an exception, too. He doesn’t mind when Tim drapes himself over his shoulder or collapses against his chest, or when he tackles Conner to the ground for the fun of it. He’s okay with it because it’s Tim…

And he’s more than okay with Megan holding his arm, or his hand, or hugging him when they meet up. She’s kissed his cheek a few times, and he quite enjoys being the shoulder she falls asleep on whenever a study session goes on for too long, or she’s too tired and slowly zones out when they’re watching something together. 

Conner really likes Megan. That’s why he’ll ask her if she wants to be his girlfriend, hopefully tonight. He’s very curious to know if she likes him too. 

He wants to like her more. He wants to like her in the way that matters, because with her, it seems to be a very easy thing to do, and a very pleasant thing to feel. 

The line moves. Their turn comes. Conner pays for the tickets. Megan lets out a squeal, snatches them out of his hand, and uses her grip on his arm to pull him down the hallway and to their assigned showing room. She tells him again that she’s thrilled they’re there, that he asked her to come with him tonight. 

Conner almost asks the question then, but after a second of consideration, he realizes it doesn’t feel like it’s the right moment, either. 

The movie is fun. Conner had already read a few summaries online. He’d looked at the trailers too, so there’s nothing that really surprises him or catches him off-guard. He likes knowing what’s coming and instead entertains himself by gauging the audience’s reaction, Megan’s included. 

She gasps several times, never having expected certain twists and turns. She coos at certain scenes and sighs in endearment. She holds his hand or his arm all through the movie, snuggles as close as the arm seats will allow, leans in to share funny commentary on what they’re watching on the screen. 

Conner has a wonderful, wonderful time. He feels warm and cozy all throughout and enjoys the film itself as much as one possibly can. Tim had made some garish comments (Conner thinks they were meant to be jokes) about taking the highest seats in the room and also having fun in the dark. Conner is sure this isn’t what Tim meant at all, but it’s fun for him like this, and he hopes it’s fun for Megan, too. 

Conner tells her he will walk her home after the movie. He asks if she’d like to stop by somewhere for a coffee just when they’re about to exit the theater, which makes her laugh, the sound light, bell-like, and as lovely as her. 

“It’s kind of late for the coffee shops to be open,” she points out. 

Conner glances down at his watch. Indeed, it is too late for her to get coffee, or for him to get some warm tea somewhere. 

“Maybe tomorrow, then?” he says instead. 

“Breakfast and lots of coffee?” she offers. 

“Breakfast, coffee, and tea.”

She laughs again. “I don’t know how you survive without coffee,” she says, shaking her head. “I’d love to. Pick me up at nine?”

Breakfast at nine sounds like a great plan. “Happy to,” he says, offering his arm. 

She nods in approval, slides her arm through his, and they set off like that back to the campus’s dorms. They take their time, and Conner thinks they’re both okay with that. 

Megan lingers when they make it back to her dorm building. Her hands linger on his arm, on his jacket. She orbits around him somewhat anxiously, and Conner is pretty aware of why she’s doing it. He knows, because he sees the perfect opening after they’ve exchanged pleasantries and talked too many times about what a good time they both had tonight. 

“Well, I guess I’ll head in,” Megan says with a short and somewhat embarrassed laugh. She rubs her hand up and down her arm, shoots him a glance that even he understands pretty well this time around. She’s waiting for something. Maybe she’s been waiting for a while now. Tim has told Conner time and time again that Megan has liked him almost from the moment the two of them met (Conner has no idea how Tim would know that, or how Megan could feel anything so soon), but the truth is that Conner hadn’t really known what he’d been feeling before. 

It’s not like he understands everything right now, but looking at her under the dimmed street lights, freckled cheeks and nose scrunched up in a somewhat nervous smile, warm brown eyes bright and hopeful and so, so darn tender…

Oh. 

All right. 

So… maybe he already likes her that way. 

Maybe he’s liked her like that for a while.

…Huh. 

Who would have thought?

“Megan?” he hears himself ask. 

Megan turns her head right away. Her cheeks turn pink. “Yes?”

Adorable, Conner thinks. 

“May I ask you something?” he goes on. 

Her eyes widen. She takes a step closer to him, nods her head with too much enthusiasm. “Yes! I mean… of course. I’m all ears. Ask away. Yup. Please do,” she babbles.  

Conner doesn’t know if she sounds a bit nervous or if it’s his own nerves suddenly talking. He’d been fine a few seconds ago, but now he feels his own face burning, and he wipes his now-sweaty palms down the front of his jacket. 

“I was wondering if—” he starts, and as soon as those words come out, he loses every and all traces of intelligence he has ever possessed. “Well, if you wanted to— I think that maybe we could— it’d be a good idea if— I’d like you to— if you’re interested in—”

Megan giggles, but she doesn’t stop him. Instead, Conner is the one who shuts his mouth and eyes, knowing his face is much redder than before. It burns as much as the shame in his belly. 

 “Yes?” Megan prompts. Another amused sound escapes her, and Conner shuts his eyes tighter. 

“Crap,” he mutters. 

He counts to ten, then takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. He finds her standing closer than before, a huge smile on her face. 

So pretty, he thinks, and in a burst of clarity, he figures out which words he should use. 

“May I be your boyfriend?” he asks. 

Megan’s breath catches in her throat. She freezes, and Conner watches her go from pink to red. 

There’s a beat of silence, a beat of… something he can’t name, something he isn’t sure if it’s only in his head or if it’s real…

And just when he’s starting to think that both he and Tim must have misread the situation and Megan sure as hell doesn’t like him that way and doesn’t want them to be more than friends…

She throws her arms around his neck, presses in close, and kisses him on the lips. 

Fireworks don’t explode around them. They don’t explode inside his head either. The sky doesn’t open up with bright and golden light, and he’s not filled with divine knowledge or realization either. No torrent of hot, uncontrollable feelings courses through his body and spills out through his lips. 

He does, however, jump. He freezes in surprise, his knees do go weak, and although somehow he hadn’t seen that coming, heat explodes inside his chest because…

Oh. 

This is… nice. She tastes nice. 

Warm. Soft. Sweet. Vaguely like buttered popcorn and strawberry. It must be her lip balm. Or is it lipstick? 

Shit. Is he smearing her lipstick? 

Conner pulls back from the kiss with a very faint gasp. He opens his eyes without realizing he’d closed them, finds Megan’s flushed face inches away from his. 

She blinks at him, looking a little bit disoriented. Her arms around his neck tighten, and Conner takes a couple of seconds to make sure her makeup isn’t smeared.

Once he’s made sure of that, he settles a very gentle hand on the small of her back and leans in to brush their lips together again. He does it slowly, experimentally, because he’s seen people kiss all his life but it’s the first time he’s doing it himself. 

“Am I—?” he starts, pulling back again. “Is this— if there’s something I should be do—”

“I knew it,” Megan interrupts with glee, and that’s the last thing she says before she goes on to teach him the proper way to kiss someone.  

They have sex almost two months after they kiss for the first time and give their relationship a name. 

It happens at the end of their junior year. Tim had dragged him to a party to celebrate them surviving their freshman year, and Conner had accompanied Tim to a second one at the end of their sophomore year after much whining and complaining. 

This year, Tim flat out tells Conner that he plans on going alone and getting black-out drunk the first weekend after the semester ends. Given that Tim is still a month shy of twenty-one, Conner has no choice but to go with him. Tim seems very satisfied when Conner says he’ll attend and make sure he doesn’t drown in someone’s pool. He also tells Conner that since he has a girlfriend now, he has to invite her and her friends to the party, too. 

Megan is ecstatic when he asks. 

“I would love to!” she cries, clapping her hands. She does sound super excited. “You didn’t have to make up any excuse about watching over Tim, though. I’d love to go to a party with you. I’m happy to go anywhere with you, you just have to ask! I’ll probably always say yes.”

Conner stops stirring the vegetables he has in the pan in front of him. He blinks, lowers the flame, then turns around. They’re in his and Tim’s tiny but spotless kitchen. Megan has been visiting their shoddy apartment a lot since they became a couple. It hasn’t been very long at all, but a lot of things have changed since then. Before, Conner would come to her dorm more often to pick her up or walk her back. Now, Megan tends to come to their apartment unannounced most of the time, or she texts or calls him when she’s outside the door. 

Conner would appreciate a bigger and better heads up, but he always feels happy when he sees her, and Tim doesn’t seem to mind, so he never brings it up. 

“Thank you for trusting me, but it’s not an excuse,” Conner tells Megan with a shy smile. “I would love to spend more time with you, but if I had to choose, I wouldn’t take you to a party.”

Megan tilts her head to one side and takes a sip of the coffee Conner brewed for her. He’d bought some fancy beans from Central America for her on his last grocery run, given how often she’s been coming around, and how crappy Tim’s usual coffee is. 

“Why not?” she asks. “Don’t you like college parties?”

He wrinkles his nose and turns back to the vegetables. “No.”

“How come? They’re super fun!” 

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Too many people. Too much noise.”  

He knows two parties isn’t a big  sample to go on, but Tim has been to countless more with other friends (Conner’s had to pick his sorry and lonely ass up several times), and they’ve all been the same: dim-lit places with strangers laughing and dancing to music that is way too loud. The crowds have been too big. The scents of alcohol and other things have been too strong. People seem to cling to each other whether they know one another or not. Tim’s also ended up with a few one-nights stands at some of those parties and Conner has walked in on scenes he would rather forget. 

And it’s not that Conner disapproves. It’s not his place to judge the way others have fun, despite people rolling their eyes when he says he cooks or goes to the gym for fun. It’s not his place to tell Tim to do or not do stuff, either. Tim is his best friend, but he’s not a child. Conner just has to make sure Tim makes it back to their apartment alive and doesn’t do too much stupid shit that he’ll regret for the rest of his life when he sobers up. 

Which is why he agreed to go with Tim to this third party in the first place. 

Megan chuckles behind him. “Isn’t that the whole point? Like, dancing to music that is too loud and having a really fun time with your friends? Or you know, with your girlfriend?”

“I’m having a lot of fun right now, much more than I’ve had at any party I’ve been to so far,” Conner offers. 

“Well, maybe you haven’t had fun at parties because you didn’t have me!” she teases. “Maybe now that I’ll go with you, you’ll have a ton of fun and you’ll want to do it again.”

Conner snorts. Having Megan at a party makes the whole idea sound more appealing than it had a few minutes ago. Knowing she’ll be there holding his arm, or knowing that she’ll be there if Conner wants to hug her to his side is… reassuring. He likes the idea of knowing she’ll be there in case he gets too antsy (like it’s happened before) and he can lean down and kiss her to feel better. 

Still, knowing she’ll be there doesn’t mean he thinks the party will be… pleasant or much fun anyway. 

“It’s all about the attitude!” Megan says when Conner admits this out loud. 

“Attitude,” he echoes, amused. He loves Megan’s optimistic outlook on life. She always knows how to make the best of a situation. She always finds the silver-lining. Some people might call her naive, just like they would call him naive, albeit for different reasons. 

Conner just thinks the world needs more people like her. 

“Attitude,” she confirms. “You’ll see. We can always put in music suggestions, and there are fun games to play, and I’ll make sure to bring friends and introduce you to everyone.” 

That sounds like a nightmare on a whole different level. 

“Do you know which party we’re going to? Tim didn’t give me any details,” he says, deciding to keep the negative comment to himself. 

“No, but…” she brushes her bangs out of her eyes, looking quite satisfied with herself. “I like making friends. It’s easy, and I think I’m good at it.”

How anyone could be good at talking to strangers and befriending them within five minutes, Conner has no idea. He knows she’s telling the truth, though. That’s how they met, after all. 

“You’re very good at it,” he agrees. He walks over to the table and leans down to press a kiss to her forehead. He likes this about dating someone. He gets to hug her when he wants to. He gets to kiss her whenever he feels like it, too. It doesn’t always have to be on the lips, and sometimes it’s nice to just rub his hand up and down her arm, or brush her hair away from her face. 

Megan lets out a contented hum. She places her hand on his cheek and tilts her head back so she can kiss him on the lips instead. He tilts his own head further and enjoys the gentle brush of their lips together. Megan is always warm, and today, she tastes of coffee and coconut lip balm. 

“I promise you’ll have fun at the party,” she mumbles. 

“I promise I’ll bring my best attitude,” he replies, and pecks her on the lips before he goes back to make sure the vegetables in the pan don’t end up charred. 

Conner has a headache by the time his third hour at the party rolls around. It’s an hour longer than what he lasted last year. That in itself is a win. 

Everything else is… well, it is. 

Rubbing his forehead and feeling like he’s very close to hitting his limit, Conner does his best to enjoy the music blasting across the entire sorority house. He’s tried moving to three different locations and the volume doesn’t seem to get any better no matter where he is. The songs themselves are fine. He doesn’t recognize half of them, but the melodies still sound nice, and some of them have interesting lyrics, too. He just thinks he might enjoy them a lot more if it didn’t feel like his skull and ears were being pounded from how loud and jumbled everything is. 

It’s been over an hour since he last saw Tim. He’d lost his best friend to a group of guys in varsity jackets half an hour after arriving at the party, but he’d still caught glimpses of Tim dancing and laughing with at least five different people. Maybe he hit it off with one of those people. Maybe they went upstairs to make use of one of the bedrooms, or maybe Tim let them take him away from the party and somewhere more private. If that’s the case, he supposes he’ll find out in a few hours. He hopes Tim isn’t missing a shoe if he has to go and pick up his best friend from somewhere. Tim had ended up with a cut on his foot the last time that happened. 

Megan, on the other hand, is still at the party. Turns out she knew the girls who were hosting, and she had in fact introduced Conner to a lot of the sorority members and their friends when they’d arrived. Conner had done his best to remember faces and names, to make a decent amount of small talk, but he hadn’t lasted very long. He’d wandered over to the drinks pretty quickly and had been sipping soda ever since. 

Megan had pulled on his hand so they could dance three times. Despite the instinct to dig in his heels and stay the hell away from the makeshift dance floor, Conner held on to his paper cup and did his best to dance with her every time. He hadn’t been very good at it, had stepped on her foot twice and almost knocked over another couple the one time he tried spinning around. She relented after the third attempt and instead took him around the different rooms while she talked to a whole other bunch of people. Conner had found that even more stressful than dancing. 

He’d assured her many times that he was fine sipping his soda away from the crowds, and although she’d looked quite disappointed, she’d gone off after he kissed her and told her to have fun on his behalf. 

He’s kept an eye on her ever since, though. Not because he’s jealous -why should he be?-  just because that’s his girlfriend, and he doesn’t really know anyone else at the stupid party, and there’s nothing better to do around here. 

God, he hopes three hours are enough. He’s already given it a fair shot, and for the third year in a row, he gets reminded of why he doesn’t like these events in the first place. What he really wants right now is to go back to his apartment, take advantage of the fact Tim isn’t there and maybe put a pillow over his head to drown out the softest of noises. 

And he would leave… but what is he supposed to do? Leave Megan on her own? Sure, she’s surrounded by people she knows, but he’s not sure that’s the safest thing to do. 

Should he make her leave with him? 

Why would he do that, when she’s having so much fun?

Goddamn it. 

Annoyed, Conner drinks the last bit of soda in his cup and crumbles it in his palm. He shoves it onto the closest and overflowing wastebasket he can find and rubs his forehead with both hands. 

His head hurts, but now it’s not only because of the noise. 

Should he find someone to keep an eye on Megan?

… Should anyone even keep an eye on her? She’s an adult. She’s been to as many parties as Tim, maybe even more. She can take care of herself, he knows she can. He knows she doesn’t need a guardog, or an overprotective boyfriend or anyone that treats her like a bumbling child. 

Still, it doesn’t feel right to—

“Here! You’ll like this for sure, I just know it!” 

Megan’s voice makes him jump. 

He opens his eyes and finds her standing in front of him, two blonde girls behind her. They all look pretty flushed. Megan’s entire face is red, her eyes hazy, her smile bigger and brighter than usual. She’s holding out another paper cup at him. 

He grabs the paper cup and sniffs it. It smells cloyingly sweet and of coconut, but also… it smells like alcohol. 

“Thank you,” he says. He proceeds to place it on top of the closest table. 

The blonde girls behind Megan let out surprised, confused noises. 

Megan’s smile slips a notch. “Hey, you need to try it.” 

“I’m full of soda at the moment.” He pauses, then repeats, “Thank you.”

The other girls make more weird little noises. Megan’s smile slips another notch. “Just give it a shot. I promise you’ll like it. It’s very sweet.”

“I can smell the liquor,” he points out, as quietly as he can given the music in the background. 

She gives a good-natured eye roll. “Well, yes, but you won’t be able to taste it.”

Everyone always tells him the same thing. He can taste it every time.

“I’m happy to give it a try in a few minutes,” he says, which isn’t a lie. He will try it in a few minutes, and he’ll be happier about it than he is right now.  

The two girls behind Megan huff and snort. Megan’s smile disappears, and she pouts at him instead. “Conner, baby, come on, you just need to—”

“For heaven’s sake. He doesn’t drink, Megan. How come you don't know that by now? Leave him alone!” Tim slurs, popping out of nowhere. He slides his arm around Conner’s shoulders right away and beckons for the three girls to go away before turning to Conner and saying -with the most pitiful expression-, “CK, I think I lost my phone.” 

And even though Conner’s head starts pounding harder the moment he hears those words, and even though Megan doesn’t move, he lets out a very surprised and sudden laugh. 

“Well, that’s a new one,” he comments. He pulls out his own phone, relieved to have something to do. “When did you last have it with you?”

Tim narrows his eyes, trying very hard to think. “Dunno. I had it when I arrived… right?”

“Yes.”

“‘Kay. Call me? We’ll find it. Unless someone stole it. Then they won’t pick up and I’ll have to get a new one. What phone do you have, again? You like yours, right? I can get the same one and—”

“Let’s try to find it first,” he interrupts. He presses his phone between his shoulder and his ear, hesitates… then reaches out to grab the paper cup Megan had handed him. 

“I’ll let you know,” he promises, and salutes her with it before he moves away with Tim to go and try to find the damned phone. 

It takes the better part of an hour to find it. Tim had indeed disappeared into one of the upstairs bedrooms with a girl after leaving the guys in the varsity jackets. Conner is forced to step with Tim into several rooms with the flashlight of his own phone on. When that doesn’t yield any results except for making his headache worse, they wander back downstairs and go search the pool area and the kitchen. 

Tim is sniffling by then. He looks… kind of miserable.

“My parents are going to kill me when they find out,” he whines. Conner doesn’t contradict him. Tim might practically be an adult, but his parents are strict, which is why Tim doesn’t talk to them much about anything other than grades and classes, and why they talk once every blue moon. Given Tim’s hefty allowance and lack of a job, they also have… expectations for him. 

“Can we tell your parents?” Tim asks while they sift through stacks of used and unused paper cups on a table near the pool. 

“Why would we?” Conner asks, trying very hard to keep his voice neutral. He’s got a splitting headache, he feels both anger and pity towards Tim, and he’s still carrying around the fucking paper cup Megan gave him. He hasn’t had a single sip, but can’t bring himself to leave it somewhere random. He promised he’d taste it. When Megan asks him how he liked it, is he supposed to lie? 

“‘Cause your parents are, like, always so sweet to you,” Tim hiccups. “Your mom calls you all the time and she always asks how you are and she still sends us those goodie baskets. And you and your dad laugh on the phone. You never laugh that much around anyone else, not even around Megan. And your brother… your brother sounds like he’d strangle you in a hug if he could. He sounds like your second dad and like… like he has pictures of you as a baby on his wall. They wouldn’t be mad at you if you got drunk and lost your phone. They’d be like, ‘oh no, poor CK, poor baby. He’s young and shit happens. It’s okay, you’re so good that we’ll buy you a new one and we won’t say—’” 

“I would never lose my phone because I’m drunk at a party,” Conner bites out. “They know that.”

Those words make Tim shrink on himself. He sniffles again. “Right. ‘Cause you… you have your life together, right? You’re not a mess, like me. You’re always like, super composed and reliable. You wouldn’t to stupid shit like me. You’re better than this.”

Conner almost crumbles Megan’s paper cup at those words. He grits his teeth, and although a pang of guilt hits him for making Tim look like that… he doesn’t have enough patience left. 

“Shut up, and keep looking,” he growls. “If push comes to shove I’ll help you tell them. Or we’ll put enough money together to get you a new one. I don’t know, Tim, we’ll figure it out, just keep looking for the damned thing.”

And because everything has already gone to shit, he lifts the paper cup to his mouth and gulps all of it down. 

It sucks. Just like he knew it would, ‘good attitude’ be fucking damned. 

He chokes on the cloying sweetness and bitter taste of whatever alcohol Megan put in there. His body rejects it right away, and he coughs and sputters after swallowing nearly all of it, as if somehow he can push everything back out. 

He throws the paper cup onto the table. It tips over and the last bit of liquid spills out, but he can’t bring himself to care. What is one more mess on that table? On the house? On the entire night?

Tim gasps when Conner knocks the drink back, then steps in closer to pat him on the back until he stops coughing. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Tim says, a little horrified. “You don’t drink, CK. You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.” 

Conner would snort if his head wasn’t pounding so much. Tim had urged him to get drunk with him the first few times he’d gotten drunk in their apartment, but it’s been almost a year since Tim has offered or prompted him to drink anything he doesn’t voluntarily pick up. He’s gotten good at taking Conner’s silences and pointed looks as ‘no’s, and at not asking questions he already knows the answer to. 

But again, Conner is too tired to be very considerate right now. 

“Too late. Keep looking,” he snaps, and off he goes, with his phone flashlight on, to do another search in a place where he knows he won’t find the stupid thing. 

Ten minutes and three phone calls later, they find the phone. 

Some guy that looks much older than most of the people he’s surrounded by is holding it in his hand. He looks bored  as he watches Conner’s name flash across the screen. Conner ends the call, and the guy only smirks and shoves it into his pocket. 

The two of them exchange glances, and then Tim dashes forward, all smiles and puffy red eyes. “Hey thank you, dude! You found my phone! You just saved my life, you have no idea.” 

Maybe it’s because Conner knows how he would react if he’d found a random phone at a party. Maybe it’s because he’s already fraying at the edges and he so wants to leave this hellish place and unpleasant night behind. Maybe it’s the fact that the guy reacts like a complete douchebag, pretends he doesn’t know what Tim is talking about and quickly snaps that he doesn’t appreciate being accused of a crime, least of all by a snot-nosed freshman that is clearly bothering him and his friends. Tim lost his phone? Too bad. Must have left it somewhere else. That’s his own phone in his own pocket, that’s all. 

Conner’s headache gets worse by the second. Tim tries to reason with the man, but the other guy is drunk, probably high too, and he has no interest in being reasonable. All over a phone. One phone. 

For fuck’s sake. 

Conner pulls out his phone and dials Tim’s number. The nonsensical arguing comes to a halt when Tim’s ringtone reaches their ears. 

Conner hangs up. He calls again to prove his point. 

“Not your phone,” Conner grits out, and everyone looks at him. It’s the first time he speaks. He pockets his phone and takes a step forward. “Hand it over.” 

The guy looks at him in surprise for a second, then the look turns into a glare, followed by a snort. 

“And who the fuck are you? And what’s it to you? It’s my phone, and it’s not my problem if your boyfriend—”

Conner’s fist connects with the guy’s nose with a sickeningly wet sound. 

The guy stumbles back, landing hard on his ass on the ground. There are gasps, screams, a few yelps, and the group around them pulls back into a small and loud circle. 

“What the— you didn’t— fuck!” the guy on the ground sputters, dazed. He brings his hands up to his face. His voice already sounds wet, the shape of his nose is bent in a way it hadn’t been before. Blood is already pouring out of his nostrils as he glares up at Conner and yells, “What the actual fuck!”

Conner, blood roaring in his ears, can’t think. His head feels like it’s full of cotton, and he’s filled with an eerie type of calm that he hasn’t felt in a while. 

Fuck. 

Movements stiff and robotic, he kneels down and pulls the guy up by his shirt. 

“Phone,” he says, tone empty. He knows the calm won’t last. He knows this is the last chance either of them will have to keep things civilized. If he doesn’t get Tim’s phone back right now, if the man utters another word of nonsense—

The guy spits at him. Saliva and blood hit Conner in the face. 

“Or what?” he sneers. 

The dam breaks. Conner feels his whole body go up in flames, and next thing he knows, he’s pulling an arm back and slamming it into the guy’s face again. Hard. 

Once. The crowd around them goes silent. In shock or disgust, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care. 

Twice. The screams start. His head pounds. His anger spikes. 

Thrice. Hands land on his shoulders, around his arms. People start pulling him back. 

His body goes tense. His blood runs hotter in his veins, and his head feels like it’s about to split in two. He starts turning around, one hand still balled into a fist, the other reaching for whoever has the audacity to try and stop him. 

Why are they yelling at him? He didn’t start this. 

Why are they trying to keep him from hitting the guy again? The guy deserves it. 

Why are they mad at him? He’s not the asshole here. 

He’s— 

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

What the hell is he doing?!

He isn’t supposed to do this type of thing anymore. He’s not supposed to be like this anymore. 

That’s why his dad had gotten him into wrestling. That’s why he’d taken up boxing during his first year in Central City. He’d been tasked with finding alternatives, and he’d found one he liked. He’d found one that helped. 

He can’t do this. He shouldn’t do this. 

It’s not right. It’s never been right. 

He promised his Ma he wouldn’t do this ever again. 

He promised Clark, too. 

He promised he would—

With the blood in his body turning to ice like a switch has been flipped, Conner drops his arms and allows his body to go slack. 

He’s jerked back harshly by two pairs of arms. Someone slaps him on the face as soon as he’s not on top of the guy anymore. They yell an insult he can’t quite make out. A second later, someone else’s shoe lands on his shoulder and shoves him to the ground, yelling something else that’s just as nasty and rude at him. 

Heaving, and with his headache worse than ever, Conner braces his hands on the ground and doesn’t lift his head. He can’t. He shouldn’t. He needs to keep his head down and focus on breathing. He needs to count to ten, a hundred, a thousand if needed. 

He has to remind himself of why he has no right to hit people no matter how terrible they are. It’s not his place. He’s no one’s personal executor, and he knows this doesn’t help. It never has. People are still assholes after he beats them up, and whatever fleeting relief he gets from the hits themselves disappears as soon as it arrives. This doesn’t solve anything. This doesn’t help. He knows he shouldn’t—

An arm slides around his waist, and Conner jerks, almost jumps away before he hears Tim’s mortified, “I’m sorry, CK. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. Let’s go home. Let’s go. I’m sorry.”

The words don’t make the most sense to him, but it doesn’t matter. It’s Tim. This is Tim, and they’re leaving. 

Finally. 

Thank God. 

With how scrawny Tim is, it’s not like Tim can move him if he doesn’t want to be moved, so Conner tries to remember where his legs are. He lets Tim help him to his feet. He keeps his head down as Tim moves them… he doesn’t know where, just that they’re leaving the people by the pool, the guy whose nose he just broke, and the chaos and noise around them. 

“Y-Your phone,” he whispers, his throat as dry as sandpaper. If Tim didn’t even get his phone back after all this…

“I have it. It fell out during the fight,” Tim says, voice panicked. 

Conner wouldn’t call that a fight. He’d call it an embarrassing loss of control. His loss of control. Fuck. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He is sorry. Very much so. About the entire night, if he’s honest with himself. 

Tim lets out a frustrated sound. “What? No, no. CK— CK… I’m sorry you had to do that. Fuck. I’m sorry. If I’d— it’s my— and I shouldn’t think that you can always— that you’ll always be— that wasn’t your problem to—” He sniffles. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise it won’t. I—”

“Oh my God, what happened?”

Megan’s voice pierces through the haze of numbness and guilt in his head. It cuts through him enough that he lifts his head and finds a very pale Megan rushing over to them. 

“What happened?” she asks again. She reaches out, almost as if to settle herself under Conner’s arm. 

He tenses right away, takes a step back, which makes Tim stumble.

Don't, he thinks. Don’t touch me. You shouldn’t touch me. Look at what I just did. You don’t need to deal with this.

He can’t bring himself to say the words, and both her and Tim mistake the step back for him losing his balance. 

“Oh, what happened to you? There’s blood on your face!” Megan says, distressed. She hurries to settle under his other arm, and the two of them pull Conner along as they rush towards the front doors. 

“It’s my fault,” Tim says. 

It’s not. 

It’s mine. 

It always is. 

“What happened?” she asks again, her voice shrill. 

Tim babbles something about him being stupid,  slow, and letting Conner fix his own messes. Megan asks questions in quick succession, and Conner wishes the two of them would shut up. He wants to go home. He aches for his room, for peace, quiet and to be alone. He wants to put a pillow over his head and pass out until next week, or until someone presses charges and they drag him to jail. 

Is that too much to ask?

Given that they’re stopped just as they’re about to leave the house, and by a barricade of three guys and one girl, yeah, it is too much to ask. 

“Where do you think you’re going? This brute broke Brandon’s nose! He might have knocked out a tooth!” she yells. “You're not getting out of here that easily!”

Megan gasps. She stiffens, shoots him a quick, scandalized look, and Conner wishes he could knock himself out cold instead. 

Tim, for his part, slips out from under him and gets right up on the girl’s face. 

“The only brute here is that fucking Brandon! He started this!” 

“Your weird ass friend didn’t have to attack him like that! Brandon was fucking around! Can’t you assholes take a goddamn joke?”

“A joke? Are you fucking stupid?”

“It was just a phone, for fuck’s sake! Like you can’t get yourself another one? Come on. You certainly didn’t have to sic that oaf on—”

God fucking damn it. 

Conner pushes away from Megan. She gasps, tries to grab onto his arm and pull him back, but she’s also small and thin, and he just wants to leave. 

“Did you call the cops?” Conner demands. He grabs Tim by the shoulder and shoves him back to where Megan is with relative ease. 

“Hey!” Tim squeals, but Conner ignores him and keeps his attention on the girl, who takes a step back, then balls her hands into fists. 

“I haven’t— but I will if you—” she sputters, and a new wave of anger rolls over her. “Fuck you! You think I’m afraid of you? You lumbering asshole! If you so much as lay a finger of me—”

“Call the cops. Call your lawyer. Call that loser’s lawyer,” Conner says through gritted teeth. “My name is Conner Kent. Write down my address if you want to. Send everyone my way. You think I care?” 

Just let me through. Just let me go back to my apartment. Just give me some space. 

The girl comes to a sudden halt. She peers up at him, clearly scandalized, maybe even afraid. “We’ll see if you’re so tough and brave when I make sure your ass is dragged to—”

“I’ll be waiting,” he interrupts. Very careful not to touch her, Conner steps past her and glares at the three guys blocking the door. 

“Move,” he growls. “Move, or I’ll make you.”

Please don’t make me. 

His face must look scary. He must look scary, given the three of them give him long and calculating looks before they move aside, much to the girl’s dismay. 

“What the hell? Some friends you are, you pieces of—” she starts, but Conner walks out the door and sets down the street as fast he can without running. He doesn’t catch the rest of her words, and he couldn’t care any less. 

He hears his name being called a few times as he keeps walking. He hears Tim’s voice, Megan’s and a couple of others; Megan’s friends, most likely. 

Great. Karen and Mal and Wendy and Marvin and who knows how many other people either witnessed what happened tonight or already know about it. Just what he needed. 

Shaking his head and deciding to worry about that later, Conner walks. He walks, so he doesn’t turn back around, and so he doesn’t tear his own hair out. 

The night breeze does him a lot of good. The walk is long, at least twenty minutes, and he takes a few extra turns to catch some additional fresh air. 

Since he’s alone, and the voices calling his name vanished a while ago, he gets to walk at his leisure without uttering a word to anyone. 

It’s nice. It’s exactly what he needed. It’s exactly what he should have been doing instead of being in a party that made him want to crawl out of his own skin from the very beginning.

He ends up walking around for another half an hour. He wanders through new streets around the city and wanders back into some of the campus’ city buildings. He tunes out the traffic noises until they’re more of a comforting hum in the background. His headache lessens with each round he makes, and by the time he makes it back to his and Tim’s building, he feels…

Like the person he was at the beginning of the night. Like the person he should be. 

He climbs the stairs up to their floor, shoulders loose, feeling calm in the way that counts and ready to face whatever comes next, whatever consequences his actions in the past couple of hours will bring him.

He half expects to find cops staked out in front of the door when he gets there. 

What he does not expect to find, however, is Megan sitting on the ground in front of their door with a thermos between her hands. 

Conner stumbles over his own feet, and that draws Megan’s attention.

Her face lights up, and she springs to her feet.  “Hi!” she says, relieved. 

He takes a step back almost out of reflex and schools his face into what he hopes are pleasant lines. 

“... Hello,” he murmurs, and straight away he wonders if he should say something else. 

He’s grateful when instead of having to figure that out, Megan bolts forward in the next second and envelops him in a warm and tight hug, trapping his arms at his sides and burying her face in his chest. 

He stiffens, fingers twitching. 

“I was so worried,” she says, raising her face and standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. The touch is and feels sudden, and Conner’s hands twitch again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. It comes out before he can even think what he’s apologizing for. Maybe for worrying her, for causing a scene. for not making it until the end of the party or for storming off like he’d done earlier. 

Maybe he’s apologizing for all of it. 

“That’s okay. Tim told me about the whole situation. You did the right thing,” she says. 

I didn’t.

She scrunches up her nose. “Well, maybe not the best thing, but I don’t blame you for fighting. He really started it, and it’s not like you didn’t give him chances to back down,” she says, and pecks him on the lips again, as if to reassure him. 

That wasn’t a fight. 

“To be honest, I’m a little surprised. I didn’t think you were that type of person,” she says. 

I’m not. I try really hard not to be. 

I’m sorry. 

Her light and bell-like laughter cut through his spiral of thoughts, as does the next kiss she gives him. 

“I have to say, I am a little bit impressed. I guess you’re quite the heavy-hitter, aren’t you?” she says, smiling up at him. It’s a beautiful smile. It reaches her eyes, makes her full and pink lips curve back to show her white and even teeth. Her smiles tend to warm him up from the inside, but at that moment, all he feels is a cold chill down his spine. 

“Sorry for making you wait,” is all he replies. He looks away, because he can’t bear to see her smiling anymore. 

“I haven’t been here long,” she assures him. “But I brought you some warm tea. Let’s go inside and have dinner. Let’s order something if you don’t have any leftovers around.” 

Conner’s continued wish for peace and quiet vanishes just like that. 

He holds back a groan, looks at the ground, then at the thermos she’s holding. After a few seconds of silence, he gathers enough courage to look at her face again. 

“Sure,” he says, exhausted. “There’s plenty of stuff in the fridge.”  

Dinner is a quieter affair than usual. 

Conner tends to chat with Megan almost as much as he chats with Tim and Clark. It’s become easy and fun to chat with them. Most of the time, he doesn’t even have to talk much, anyway. His counterparts tend to ramble on and on about an endless myriad of subjects, and he doesn’t mind it. In fact, he prefers it that way, is happier humming along and offering commentary in strategic places. 

Today, though, he can’t bring himself to do anything but heat up the food, eat and nod every once in a while. He also drinks the warm tea Megan brought him, even though it’s white tea (her favorite) and he much prefers green tea and other infusions. 

Megan stops talking halfway through dinner, and sadly, Conner is happy for the silence.

“They won’t drag you to jail. You know that, right?” Megan says when they’re done. 

Conner finishes cleaning the table. He carries all the dishes to the sink and starts washing them straight away. “I don’t know that,” he says, voice quiet. 

“They won’t,” she insists. “Tim stayed back and said… I don’t know what he said, but he had everyone looking kind of terrified. He was so angry, and I didn’t know either that he was so… witty, and like… quick on his feet. He—”

Conner places a plate in the sink with too much force. 

Great. Of course Tim had stayed back. Conner wonders how that will affect the situation. He wonders if that’s why Tim still isn’t at their apartment. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, and goes back to scrubbing. “It doesn’t matter what Tim says or does. It doesn’t matter if they press charges or not. I shouldn’t have done that… and nothing any of us says will change the fact that I did.” 

There’s silence behind him, and while a part of him itches to look over his shoulder and check on Megan after that comment, he keeps his head down and keeps scrubbing. He finishes scrubbing, rinses all the dishes, and has just finished stacking them in neat piles when Megan wraps her arms around his waist from behind and leans her cheek against his back. 

“I’m sorry that happened,” she says, voice muted. “I’m… right here if you want to talk… or not, I guess.” 

She doesn’t say anything else. She just holds on to him in silence for a few more seconds, her presence warm and soft and everything that is right, everything that feels right, everything that’s good… 

Relief floods through him in a sudden and soothing wave. His shoulders droop, and he turns around in her arms, leaning his butt against the sink. She moves closer right away, and Conner wraps his arms around her shoulders, brings her against his chest and presses his lips to her hair. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, because his chest is tight, his throat is closing up, and he can’t say any other words, or speak any louder. 

They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Conner rubs his cheek against her hair, trails his hands down her shoulders and back. He inhales her scent, still too sweet, tinged with remnants of what she drank earlier in the night, but still very her. 

Endeared, Conner presses a kiss to her forehead. She tilts her head back, and he kisses her lips this time. He does it several times, as if to make up for the kisses she’d given him earlier, the ones he hadn’t been able to return. 

It’s easy to get lost in the haze of soft and lingering touches after that. He runs his fingers through her hair, traces the lines of her body with trembling fingertips. Her hands roam all over his face, his shoulders, his chest. The kisses linger, stretch out. Her tongue slips into his mouth, and he enjoys the sensation. 

He likes touching her. He likes feeling her body pressed against his own. It feels good to feel her in his arms, to feel her caressing his face, rubbing their noses together. Her hands lift up his shirt, and the feeling of her palms against his stomach is firm, nice, reassuring. 

He should have seen it coming then, but he doesn’t, too lost in Megan’s presence to figure out where this is going. Even when she wraps her arms around his neck and laughs, a low and throaty sound… it doesn’t click. 

It doesn’t click, until her hands trace his neck, and she digs her teeth into his ear and murmurs, “I think I know exactly how to get your mind off this whole party business for good.” 

She pulls back as she says the last. She grabs one of his hands and intertwines their fingers, a mischievous glint in her eyes. 

Conner blinks at her. His fingers grip hers. “Do you?” he asks, somewhat confused. This is fine. He doesn’t need anything else right now. He’d been having a really good time just holding her and kissing her and basking in her presence. In fact, he’d been loving that moment. They don’t have to—

“Yes,” she says. She pulls him away from the kitchen and towards his bedroom, throwing him a look over her shoulder. 

Conner almost stumbles over his own feet. 

The gentle, warm haze in his mind recedes, and all the blood rushes to his ears. His hands start sweating, and he suddenly feels his heart pounding at the back of his throat.

Now? His brain asks. Are they going to—? Why would she think—? Is that why her hands were wandering so much? 

… Is that what the moment in the kitchen was building up to? 

Is that what he’d… signaled for? 

What had he done? Had his hands wandered too low? Had he held her too close? 

What signs had he given? When had he crossed the line? 

And if they’re going to— 

What is he supposed to do? He doesn’t have condoms. He has no practical experience. He barely has any theoretical one. He knows where things should go and he knows foreplay should get them there, but he isn’t sure he wants to— 

He hadn’t meant for this to be— 

He really hadn’t wanted to send her this particular message. 

“Megan,” he blurts out. 

“Hmm?” she replies, opening the bedroom door. 

I don’t know how to do this. 

I don’t think I can make it very good like this. 

How do I make it good? 

Does it have to be now?

“I haven’t—” he babbles. 

She pulls him into the bedroom, closes the door and wraps her arms around his neck again. 

“I have,” she assures him, and kisses his chin. “We’ll go slow. I know you’re a little shy about all this.”

… Shy? 

He bites the inside of his cheek. 

He’s not shy. He’s not shy of showing her his body. He isn’t particularly worried about seeing her naked either. He knows she’s got a beautiful figure. He knows that skin to skin contact is enjoyable, and he knows people have sex all the time because it’s pleasurable, enjoyable, entertaining and fun. 

He just doesn’t think about it very often, or very hard. He doesn’t fantasize about having Megan naked and spread out on his bed. He doesn’t stay awake late at night wondering how he’s going to get her out of her preppy clothes or how he’ll make her scream in ecstasy. 

He doesn’t… but judging by the spark in her eyes as she removes her jacket and gives his shirt a very pointed look…

She does think about all that. She does think about it often. She believes this will make him feel better. 

And… 

He trusts her, so…

Swallowing hard, Conner gives a jerky nod. “Okay,” he says. He clears his throat and looks up at the ceiling. He counts to five, and takes a deep breath. 

“Okay,” he repeats. Pretending his hands aren’t shaking, he pulls his shirt over his head. 

When Conner wakes up the next morning, he’s curled around his biggest pillow, gripping it in a tight hug. There’s a hand resting on his bare thigh, and a warm presence tucked against his back. 

Megan. 

A shiver runs down his spine.

He rubs at his bleary eyes with one hand, then brings up his wrist and squints at his watch. It’s early, very early, but he always wakes up around this time. However, when he sees what day it is, he realizes he’s already running late for his usual Sunday morning affairs.  

Cradling the pillow to his chest, he reaches for his phone and pulls up his messages. 

Clark has already sent him a couple of texts double-checking that they’ll have their weekly video call over breakfast. Conner hasn’t missed one since he’d been forced to go to Central, but he appreciates the fact Clark keeps checking in even three years after they started doing this. 

He shoots back two quick messages apologizing for the tardy reply and asking for an additional ten minutes. He leaves his phone aside, and after considering his options for what feels like a very long time… 

He turns around and faces Megan. 

She’s lying on her side, facing him. Her eyes are closed, and her perky chest rises and falls in such a steady, solid rhythm that can only mean she is truly and deeply asleep. 

Which is… good. 

Keeping his movements very careful and slow, he scoots a few inches away, places the hand she’d had on her thigh on the mattress… then puts the pillow he’d been holding under her arm. If she still has something to hold, it’ll take her longer to notice he’s gone. 

Once he’s out of her reach and she hasn’t even stirred, Conner sits up on the bed and takes a proper look at… everything. 

Megan is naked. She’s covered from the waist down by the bedsheets, but he knows she’s not wearing anything underneath. He can see all of her clothes either on the floor or thrown over the open door of his closet, mixed with his own. 

The lines of her arms and waist are gentle, supple. Inviting, many would say. Her long eyelashes brush her cheeks, her fiery red hair is spread all over the pillow and half of her face. Her full lips are half-open, her rosy nipples are hard. 

She looks beautiful, ethereal, and very much like a fantasy come to life. 

What he thinks fantasies are supposed to look like, anyway. 

Conner glances away. He finds the condoms they’d used on the floor and picks them up. He throws those away, then picks up all the clothes and leaves hers folded in a neat pile at the foot of the bed. He sees goosebumps erupt down her arms as he does that, so he grabs an extra blanket and throws it over her bare chest so she can stay warm and sleep for another long while. 

Once he’s done with that, and still being as silent as a mouse, he grabs random clothes and a towel from his closet, reaches for his phone and exits the bedroom. He closes the door behind him with the softest click he can manage. 

The apartment is silent as he pads across the hall and towards Tim’s room. He pushes the door open, just enough to see whether Tim is in his bed or not. 

As soon as he catches a glimpse of Tim curled into a little ball on the bed and snoring, -Tim refuses to acknowledge he does such a thing- Conner closes the door and heads for their little shared bathroom. 

His mind is pretty quiet as he showers. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t add to the few thoughts floating around in his head. 

He remembers everything that happened yesterday. 

Or rather, he remembers that yesterday had certainly… happened. 

He’d lasted an hour longer than last year at the annual party he attended. Ten brownie points for him. 

He’d broken a guy’s nose, knocked out one of his teeth, and who knows whether the rude girlfriend would press charges or not. Minus a million brownie points for that. 

He’d lost his virginity to his first-ever girlfriend. He’d had sex for the first time. Or was it for the first three times? Did it all count as a first? Or was one supposed to count the rounds? 

Either way, the sex had happened. By the time the third round came around, Conner felt like he knew a bit better what he was doing, what he was supposed to do, and what to do better next time. 

So… five brownie points, because it had happened, but not ten, because he’s sure it could have been a lot better? 

Good question. He supposes he’ll get to find out sooner rather than later. Now that he and Megan have crossed the line, it’ll happen again. That’s how it is, unless it’s Tim and his one night stands. In that case, then it’s a one-time thing. Or one time per round. Who knows. 

Whatever. He’s running late for his call. 

He steps out of the shower, gets dressed, and gives himself a very quick look in the mirror. His own face stares back at him. He looks… well-rested. That’s good. 

Nodding, he hangs his wet towel on one of the racks and opens the bathroom door with one goal in mind. 

Breakfast. He’s got to make breakfast. Worst case scenario, he’ll still be cooking when he and Clark begin their call, but that’s okay. His brother sometimes calls when he’s making dinner. Clark knows that he’ll still be paying attention to whatever he says even if his hands are—

“Hey. Good morning.” 

Conner looks up. His fingers tighten around the doorknob, but he steps out of the bathroom and closes the door behind him. “Hello. Good morning.”

Tim, in his silly train pajamas and with his hair sticking up in every which way, gives him a nervous smile. He grabs the hem of his shirt and twists it around with his hands. “Hi. You’re awake.”

Conner nods. “I always am at this hour,” he points out… then frowns. “You are, too. Are you okay?” He thinks back to checking in on Tim before he showered. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Tim lets out a very sudden and dry laugh. “You? You’re always so quiet. Like, even sometimes when you’re standing next to me you’re so silent that I have to turn around and make sure you’re still there and haven’t vanished into thin air.”

Conner waits. When Tim only keeps twisting his shirt between his hands and doesn’t say anything else, he clears his throat. 

“Are you okay?” he repeats. 

 “I… uh, no. No, I don’t think I am.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. Scratch that. No, CK, I’m not okay.”

Conner figured. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

Tim lets out a sound of frustration. “What do you mean what’s wrong? Everything is wrong.”

Conner sighs. ‘Everything’ is a very broad term, and Tim can be a little dramatic sometimes. “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he admits. 

Tim’s face crumbles. “How can you not—? CK, this is— I—” He cuts himself off and shuts his eyes. He lets out another sound of frustration, then opens his eyes and glares at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. It sounds less like an apology and more like… 

Conner doesn’t know what it sounds like. 

“Okay?” he prompts. He’s feeling very confused right now. 

“Don’t look at me like that, CK!” Tim whines. He stomps over to him, squares his shoulders and says, “I’m sorry, CK. I owe you a huge apology. Probably more than one. I’m… I’m very sorry.”

Conner stares back at him. 

Tim tugs at his hair this time. “I’m… sorry about the party. And about the phone. About yelling at that girl and making things worse. I’m sorry about all of it, CK. I’m sorry I got you involved.”

Oh. Well, that… helps narrow down Tim’s ‘everything’. 

“That’s okay. I shouldn’t have hit the guy in the first place. I shouldn’t have left on my own. I’m sorry, too,” he offers. 

“What? No! No, shut up. Don’t apologize. What the— why would you— hey!” Tim stamps his foot like an actual child and glares at him harder. He purses his lips, then reaches out with both hands and grips him by the upper arms. 

“Look at me and listen to what I’m saying,” he barks. 

Conner’s eyes widen. 

I’m looking. I’m listening. 

The words almost slip out, but he manages to hold them back. He has an inkling the answer would only make Tim angrier, so instead he raises an eyebrow and nods for him to continue. 

Tim’s face crumbles a second time. “I’m sorry, okay? CK, I’m so sorry for getting you involved in my shit yesterday. I know you didn’t really want to come to the party, and I… I think I knew that you wouldn’t have a good time, but you still came. And with Megan there I thought… I figured that you would… I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought, but I was wrong, and you deserve an apology for putting up with my bullshit all the time.”

At the mention of Megan, Conner’s eyes skid to his bedroom door. He drags his attention back to Tim just as fast, and nods again. 

 Tim takes that as encouragement. “I really have to thank you for coming with me to try and find the stupid phone. You didn’t have to. You could have kicked my ass and I would have toppled over because I was that drunk, and I probably deserved it. You didn’t have to come and babysit me, but you always do, and I always know you’ll be there, so I worry a lot less, and I think a lot less and that’s not… that’s not fair to you, CK. I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll do better, I promise. You always have my back, and you don’t ask questions. You’re my best friend, but I think… I think I haven’t been the bestest friend back to you. I’m sorry.” 

By the time Tim finishes rambling, Conner is starting to feel conflicted. It’s impossible to miss how distraught Tim is by what happened, and it’s also impossible to miss that Tim is distraught not because he lost his phone and Conner ended up punching a guy, but because… 

Conner isn’t sure what Tim seems so distraught about, but he doesn’t doubt the apologies are genuine. He doesn’t doubt that Tim feels guilty about the whole situation, but he doesn’t think that’s fair either. 

He agreed to go to the party. He was the one that knocked out someone’s tooth and sent someone to the hospital. He’s the one that threatened the girl and the guys with more violence if they didn’t let him through. 

It’s his fault more than anyone else’s, and that’s just a fact. 

Still…

“Thank… you…” he says, voice soft. It’s hard to get the words out. He looks at the ground for several seconds, then takes a deep breath and meets Tim’s gaze. 

“Thank you,” he echoes. 

He’s thankful Tim is willing to share the blame. He’s thankful Tim talked to him. He’s thankful Tim has apologized. 

It’s… comforting. Relieving. Nice. 

“Oh, shut up, big guy. You don’t have to thank me,” Tim grumbles. He lets go of his arms and envelops him in a very hard hug instead. “I’m sorry, CK. I promise I won’t make you go to any other parties. I promise I’ll keep myself in check. And if I’m ever idiotic enough to lose my phone again, I promise I’ll sort it out on my own.”

Conner lets out a very small huff. He shakes his head, but he can’t help the warmth that spreads across his chest, or the vague sense of amusement he gets from Tim’s antics. It drives him mad, sometimes, but he also thinks his life would be very boring if Tim weren’t in it. 

“Please don't,” he says, giving Tim awkward pats on the back. “You can probably get me out of jail, but if you assault someone, I can’t.  I’m not a very good liar, and I don’t know any good lawyers, and I know you would have done everything they accused you of,” he says. 

“Hey!” Tim protests… then chuckles. “Fair enough, though. But no one will come knocking to take you to a station or anything, okay? I made sure of that. That asshole got what was coming to him and the girl knows better than to try and press charges.”

Conner pauses at that. “What did you… do?”

“Nothing illegal,” Tim defends himself right away. “I promise I didn’t. But you know, being the son of John Drake, senior partner of Drake, Stirling and Johnson… well, we’ve got some real good lawyers on our side, and I made sure she knew that.” 

 “I don’t think your parents would be happy if you had to use one of their lawyers to get their son’s violent friend out of jail for hitting a guy at a frat party,” he points out. 

“No,” Tim agrees, still hugging him. “But it’s not like the asshole or the girl needed to know the details.” 

Conner considers this. After several seconds go by, he laughs. 

Tim looks at him in wonder when he hears the sound, and Conner tries not to roll his eyes. 

“Thank you for keeping my butt out of jail,” he says between chuckles. 

“That’s what best friends are for, CK! And I owe you like… a lot.”

“You don’t.” Conner raises an eyebrow. “That’s what best friends are for, no?

Tim scoffs, but he doesn’t contradict him. “You dare use my words against me,” he mutters. 

Conner shrugs, then says, “By the way… don’t beat yourself up about it. You’re… very young, Tim, and getting blackout drunk is part of the normal college experience.” 

Tim seems touched by his words, but just as quickly, he scrunches up his nose and glares. “Well, if you’re going to say sentimental stuff like that, I’ll say this: you’re young too, and you’re allowed to go wild sometimes, CK, no matter how much you like to pretend you’re already seventy-something, retired, and done with life on this planet.” 

The humor seeps out of him as soon as it had come. He grimaces, then pats Tim on the back again. 

“I have to make breakfast. Clark will call soon,” he says. 

Tim lets him go without a fight. “What are you gonna make? Can I have some?”

“Uh, I don’t know yet, but sure. I have to make… a lot, anyway.”

“Oh, right. Cause Megan stayed the night, didn’t she?” Tim asks. He waggles his eyebrows as he says the last. 

Conner glances at his bedroom again. “Yes,” he says, then turns around and heads to the kitchen without further word. 

“Hey!” Tim protests, trailing behind him. “I’m not going to ask for details or anything like that! I think the sounds Megan made yesterday are pretty self indica—” 

Conner stiffens. He starts looking for the pancake flour. “Keep it down, Tim. She’s still sleeping.”

“Ah, tired her out, didn’t you?” Tim laughs. “Who would have thought! Well, her probably. I mean, she’s looked like she wants to eat you whole since you guys first met. Which, kudos to her. You’ve known each other for… what? More than a year at this—”

“That’s enough, Tim.” He finds the pancake flour. He almost drops the box as he pulls it out of the pantry. 

Tim groans. “Oh come on! I really won’t ask for details. I’m just saying—”

“Tim.” 

His voice comes out harsher than he means to. 

He winces at his own tone, glances over his shoulder to see how Tim will react. 

Tim doesn’t seem all that affected. He crosses his arms, then sticks his tongue out at him. 

“Fine,” he relents, and lets it go just like that. “Can we have bacon with the pancakes? Make sure you add the chocolate ships, too.” 

Conner feels a pang of relief. His shoulders sag.  “Sure,” he mutters. “I’ll make you pancakes. And bacon.”

“With chocolate chips?”

“With chocolate chips.” 

Tim has wandered back to his room with his bacon, pancakes and coffee by the time Conner is finished stacking fluffy pancakes onto a plate. He makes some eggs, gets his tea ready, and is about to sit down with his breakfast when Clark’s call comes in. 

“Good morning,” Conner greets. 

The first and only thing he sees on the screen is a big and mostly toothless grin, followed by a joyous and high-pitched laugh. 

“Morning!” Clark calls. “Jon, say hi to uncle Conner!” 

The baby squeals. He babbles something that isn’t a word, and Clark’s laugh rings out as he pulls Jon back and he comes into view. He wears a smile that is identical to his eleven-month old son’s. 

“He’s got another tooth, did you see? He looks like a little vampire now,” Clark announces, proud. 

Conner squints at the screen. “Congratulations,” he says. A genuine smile curves his lips. “He’s the scariest vampire I’ve ever seen, Clark, that’s for sure.”

“Scary? Jon, did you hear that? Uncle Conner thinks you’re scary,” Clark tells Jon, bouncing the baby on his leg. “But you’re not scary at all, are you, buddy? You’re the cutest little vampire ever!”

“He is the cutest,” Conner agrees. 

Clark laughs. He hugs his son tight and smiles at Conner. “Darn straight he is. You were just as cute as a baby, you know. You pouted a lot and when the neighbors came to talk to you you’d just grab on to Ma’s or my shirt and hide your little face away. You were adorable, still are, I’d say. It’s just that now you frown instead of pout, but it’s just the same.”

Clark is the only person in the world who could call him such things with a straight (smiling) face and mean it. He’s the only person who would dare use words like adorable to describe him as an adult now, too. 

Conner is aware that all mothers believe their children are the most beautiful, most adorable, most precious individuals in the entire galaxy. He always wonders if any older sibling ever feels like that about their younger siblings, or if maybe in the family it wasn’t Ma but Clark who got stuck with that silly and blind belief. 

“I don’t think I could ever compete with Jon,” he says. 

“It’s not a competition,” Clark admonishes right away. “I love you both to death. You’re both the cutest kids I’ve ever seen.”

Conner lets out a snort. “That’s not—”

“I’m going to stop you right there. I’ll tell Ma that you don’t agree with me. She won’t like that, because she agrees with me.”

“Clark, Ma thinks the three of us are the cutest kids she’s ever seen. It’s Ma,” Conner protests.

“Exactly, and you know she’s always right.” Clark rubs Jon’s tummy, then leans in closer to the screen. “Anyway. How are you doing, kid? You okay? How’s school? How’s Tim? And Megan? What did you make today?” 

Once again, what little amusement Conner had gained seeps away with each question his brother asks. 

By the time Clark stops asking, Conner doesn’t feel hungry anymore, and he’s gripping his fork too hard. 

How is he?

Conner thinks back to last night. 

He thinks back to the too-loud music at the party, at the dim lights and the scent of alcohol. He thinks back to his pounding headache and the bitter taste of whatever concoction Megan had handed him. 

He thinks about Tim whining about his phone. He recalls the guy he’d punched calling Tim a snot-nosed freshman. 

He remembers the feeling of his fist connecting with the guy’s body over and over again. He feels the cartilage bending after the first punch. He feels the guy’s spit and blood hitting his cheek. 

He thinks about Megan sitting him down on the bed, cupping his face tenderly and kissing him with the same gentleness. He sees her behind his eyes: removing her clothes, helping him remove his. He listens to her gentle voice telling him where to put his hands, and what she’s about to do with hers. 

He thinks about Tim’s apologies, and also about the fact that Tim had heard Megan’s… sounds. 

How is he?

Well. He’s not at a police station or waiting for a court hearing. He’s at his apartment, having a hefty breakfast and talking to his loving but overwhelming brother and adorable nephew. His best friend is happily munching away at his breakfast in his own room. His girlfriend, who he’d had sex with the previous night, is still sleeping in his room, which probably means she’s comfortable right where she is and he can get through the call without waking her up. 

So all in all..

“I’m fine,” Conner says. He loosens his grip on his fork and stabs it into the biggest piece of pancake on his plate. 

He is fine. 

He’s twenty-two, and…

“Everything is fine,” he amends.