Home is a Four Letter Word

chapter fifty-one

The First Week of July

Connor was a pale gray in the moonlight, absorbed in his navy bedspread like a cold winter's evening. But when morning came, Connor was golden in the sunlight, something so innocent and safe with the way the sun's rays shone off his body like a star. Jake reclined in his bedroom's desk chair, arms crossed over his chest so he didn't impulsively reach out and swipe the strands of hair that fell out from behind Connor's ears as he slept. It was so rare to see him so vulnerable, Jake wouldn't have dared to do something to interrupt it.

Every time Jake had stayed over, Connor had purposefully woken up first, despite the fact that Connor Morgan was not a morning person. Jake pretended he didn't notice, but he did. He would close his eyes—stealing a fluttering glance every so often—while Connor got up, allowing him those first few moments to be alone to sneakily make coffee and sit in this very same chair checking his phone while he waited for Jake to wake up. Sometimes Connor would curl his knees up to his chest and watch Jake with gentle precision, analyzing all the features and flaws of Jake's face with a small smile. And Jake let him. He would never tell him, but he let him. It gave him a sense of comfort. He knew Connor would never admit it to his face, so Jake would never make him.

When Connor's eyes opened, the sun poured into them like a candle ignited with flame. His pupils shrank infinitesimally small as the crisp green lines that defined the browns along the edges of his eyes came to life. Jake found a home in the forests outlined in those viridescent glares. The brown forest floor that held the darkest shades of pine and the brightest clips of green grass below. They reminded him of his childhood—days tucked away in the woods behind his house finding an escape in the way the trees consumed him whole. Connor was an escape for a while. Now his forests were catching fire and if Jake couldn't stop the flame from being lit the least he could do was redirect the wind.

"Were you watching me sleep?" He grumbled awake, his hand falling over his face to block the sun out.

A smug smile snuck onto his face as Jake turned slightly in the chair to change his glare.

"Creepy."

Hypocrite. Jake smiled, but Connor would never know why.

He shuffled underneath the bed sheets, pushing his hands over his face as he cleared his hair away with a single swoop. Jake watched the way his chest rose—and then fell—under the thin black t-shirt he had slipped on while Jake dug his face into a pillow last night, face tight with dried tears. Jake faintly remembered mumbling 'oh no, don't get dressed on my account,' while he was trying to convince Connor that he was okay, but Connor wasn't ever one to believe his bullshit. He took Jake's attempt at loopy flirting as an insult and smacked him over the back with a blanket that Jake then curled to his chest for the rest of the night.

That blanket fell to the floor now as everything on the bed shifted from Connor's stretch.

He yawned. "How did you wake up before me?"

I always wake up before you.

"Did you get any sleep?" He continued.

Jake squinted at the question as if it was a trick, swinging the chair back and forth ever so slightly.

"Tell me you got at least two hours, Jesus Christ..."

"I think I got five." Jake answered honestly. There was no point in lying to him now.

"Wow, a whole five. Consider me impressed." Connor raised his eyebrows.

Sarcastic little shit.

Jake smiled and shook his head, abhorring the thought of Connor's snarky comments someday holding real malice. The day Connor hated him would be the day he would curl up and die. He knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of someone's hate, he had grown quite used to Hunter's expression of it. What he knew he couldn't handle was Connor's expression of it. Connor was merciless. Indifferent. Dignified. Cold, controlled, and collected. You'd know he hated you, but you'd never see his full rage. He was too strong to let something petty get the best of him. He might taunt and torment to amuse the agitator, but he would never once land the first blow. He was steps ahead of that. The knife was already lodged between their ribs, all he had to do was push.