Oliver’s shaky breathing leveled out after twenty minutes, the cloudiness in his eyes ebbing away. He sighed deeply, letting the warmth and weight of the man behind him calm his nerves. It was then that he was hit with another wave of tears, as he couldn’t remember the last time they held each other like this.
“When was the last time we did this?” Oliver croaked, playing with the seam of Connor’s shirt sleeve.
“I think four months ago, after my grandma died,” Connor replied, voice altered from his lips pressing against Oliver’s back.
“My mom called me and I was a wreck. So, we did this, for like five hours.”
“You were the little spoon then, right?”
Oliver hummed, “I missed this,” he said after a while.
“I miss it too.”
More silence, Connor’s response hanging in the air.
“How…how have you been after…after Wes?”
“Spectacular,” Connor said sarcastically.
“Right, dumb question.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“But, how are you? Really?”
Connor thought about his response, “tired, mostly, not sure what to do next. Michaela and Asher are never at their place anymore; they try to distract themselves by going here and there, though I doubt they enjoy wherever they go. They don’t tell me.”
“And what do you do?”
“Sit there and stare at the wall pretty much.”
“You can always come over here.”
“I didn’t know what was an option till recently.”
It felt weird, talking like this again after seven weeks of on and off conversation or no conversation at all. It was kind of baffling, how they could fall in a familiar routine of bouncing off one another like this. But, Oliver supposed, grief and dark times can bring out interesting things in people.