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They spend the night together, Connor slowing wiping Oliver’s tears away and quieting him until at last his choking sobs slow into steady breathing. His face is still tear-stained, shirt still wet, but he feels calm now, less volatile. He falls asleep like that, pressed against Connor’s chest, the beating of his heart lulling him to sleep. He dreams that his report was negative, and that he and Connor are once again in the same boat. The dream quickly turns, however, and Connor is leaving him, turning tail without looking back.
“I don’t do boyfriends,” echoes in his head over and over, and he wakes with the a start, sitting up in a rush, sweat-ridden and cold. Turning to the spot where Connor had been last night, he’s sad but almost unsurprised to find it empty. He really should have known. He wasn’t anything special, not in looks nor in personality. Why would Connor stay with him, especially after he had received a positive HIV test?
Oliver falls back against the pillows, eyes closing and mind racing. This wasn’t the end of the world. Of course not. He’d picked himself up from other break-ups. He’d managed to build a life for himself. Just because he was HIV positive didn’t mean that he was going to die immediately. Life expectancy was just as long as it was for the uninfected, provided he took his medication. Just because Connor had left him didn’t mean that he would never find anyone else. He’d gotten over plenty of break-ups before. He’d gotten on his feet in no time. Hell, when Andrew had left him for his underwear model ex, he’d barely batted eye. But was that because Oliver had really been mourning over Connor the entire time?
Anger rises unexpectedly and he grips the sheets where Connor had been. Why had he bothered to comfort him if he was just going to leave anyway? What was the point? Oliver grits his teeth, his eyes squeezing further shut as he tries to hold back the angry tears. God. God. He should have seen it coming. He should have known. That was Connor. He’d left him for another guy, had only used him for his crazy professor and her demands, and the sex. At least Oliver had been a good enough fuck that Connor had kept coming back, right? Right?
A cough from the bathroom makes him sit up again, guilt rushing to the pit of his stomach, like a pile of tangled snakes, writhing and sickening. Was Connor still here? Had he never left at all? Had Oliver really been that quick to think so badly of him? Shakily, he removes the blankets and swings his legs to the floor, propping himself up by his knuckles.
“Connor?” he tries tentatively, but there’s no answer. He tries again, standing, but this time a little louder, and the door flies open to reveal an exhausted looking Connor. A wet hand-towel is in his hands, and his face gleams with what is either perspiration or from having water splashed on one two many times. His eyes are red-rimmed with smudges beneath his eyes, like dark paint on a pale canvas.
“Yeah?” he says, looking at Oliver with those tired eyes. He shifts slightly, looking awkward, and comes forward as he does so, closing the bathroom door behind him.
“Nothing,” Oliver says softly, and sits back down quickly, the springs of the mattress squeaking slightly as he does so. “I just thought you left.”
“Why would I leave?” he says, and sniffs, raising his brows. Has he been crying?
“For a myriad of reasons.” Oliver looks down at his hands in his lap, clasps and unclasps them once, twice, and then stands, going for the closet. “Are you alright?”
“M’fine,” Connor responds immediately, but his voice is too certain, his response too quick. “Are you okay?”
He can’t answer that right away. Even he doesn’t know for sure. On the one hand, Connor still being here is a testament to how much he cares, and that sends Oliver’s heart soaring. On the other hand, well, he’s got a disease that could kill him if left untreated. The mixture of emotions in his chest is hard to interpret right away, so all he can do is sigh after a beat of silence and reply, “I’ll be okay.”
Connor is silent as Oliver starts getting dressed, meticulously buttoning up his shirt. He watches Oliver’s fingers with rapt attention, but it is without any desire. At least, as far as Oliver can tell. He seems to be focusing on his fingers while he dwells on something else, and Oliver can only hope it doesn’t have anything to do with the test results.
“There’s no way you have it, too,” he says eventually, and Connor snaps his head up to meet his eyes. “We haven’t had any sex since before your office expedition with whoever that was, and I know for a fact I didn’t have it then.” The words come out bitterly, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
His face looks confused for a moment, and then realization visibly hits him. “That’s not what I’m thinking about.”
“You don’t have to lie. I’d be worried about it, too, if I were you.” He takes a new pair of pants and slips them on, watching Connor but avoiding direct eye contact.
He only sighs and wipes his face with the towel and then drops his hand to the side, then reaches up to scratch the back of his head, searching for an answer. He does that a lot, when he’s nervous, or trying to be meaningful. Oliver kind of likes it. It’s cute.
“Even if I did somehow get it from you, I wouldn’t be upset with you. Or leave you,” he finally says after a moment. Oliver doesn’t look at him, but instead focuses on his socks. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls them on, staring as the dark blue cotton covers his feet. He can’t look at Connor. He’d hit it right on the head. His biggest fear in three words. It makes his chest seize up at the thought. He doesn’t want to lose him again.
“Oliver,” Connor says softly, but he refuses to look up. He can’t. There’s another awkward silence, and then, “Oliver, I. I wouldn’t--I can’t leave you. I… I need you.”
His voice seems on the verge of cracking with emotion, and Oliver looks up to see him taking a deep shaky breath. “I need you,” he continues, “I need you and I don’t know where I’d be right now without you. So don’t think that just because--just because you have HIV I’m not going to up and leave you. Because I won’t. I can’t.” He stops briefly and looks away, but Oliver can’t keep his gaze off him. “And I get it. Why you’d think I would. I’m a slut.” He stops and laughs at that, but it’s a bitter one. “I want sex. I like sex. But… You mean a lot more to me than that.”
The two of them have locked eye contact now, and a silence rests between them. It’s…It’s still not the “I love you” that Oliver wants to hear back, and that worries him, hurts him, but he’s not surprised. Connor wasn’t, had never been and could never be, someone who was able to admit to that so easily, but this… this might be just as close as Oliver was going to get. And he was okay with that.
Exhaling, he stands, and walks over to him, taking Connor’s hand into his own, and looks down at it, breaking eye contact. He can’t look him right in the eye, is still too scared to see a seed of doubt planted in his eyes if he searches too long, so he studies Connor’s fingers instead.
“Alright,” he says at last, and laces their fingers together. There’s the petal soft brush of Connor’s lips on his forehead, and he’s pulled forward into a warm embrace. Oliver can’t help but smile some and lean into it, their hands still firmly clasped. “Alright.”