In Hell We Dance

Ruin

Heartbeats slow, fear fades. The intensity of your emotions flares for the explosion, but all flames must wither out before too long. In short, I was way too fucking scared to leave the house, let alone return to Isaac.

I kept justifying it as him being drunk. Lord knows why he was up at that hour getting smashed, but I don't think it's too egotistical to say it wasn't because of me. Because I am pretty freaking sure I was alright in bed. Not bad.

OK...?

Look, I don't know how to measure this kind of stuff. I know he must have a bucketload of guys to compare, but he wasn't exactly complaining after the fact. He did all of the work basically. I was just a passenger in my own body, enjoying the free ride.

Look at me, obsessing over this. We get it, it was a fucking big deal in my life. Let's move on. My point is, I'm not an emotional mess anymore. After I left, it was straight to the clinic. Got tested. No STIs. Thank the lord. Or condoms. Still, we had a long talk about preventative measures, my sexual history. Hah, more like nonexistent. Well, I guess it exists now...? Like, that wasn't a one-off. Fuck.

That wasn't a one-off.

Doc's got me started on PrEP. I still feel sore but at least it's not from some sexual disease. Rough, rushed sex (even with tongue-play acting as some kind of lube) fucking hurts, wouldn't you know? Which, yeah, I really gotta prepare properly next time. Note to self: order an anal douche, butt plugs and plenty of lube. Further note: make sure mum or dad or, god forbid, Oscar, don't read the labels.

Mum and dad only saw me for breakfast and dinner, so it's not like they knew I was curled up in bed 24/7 binge-watching Riverdale and Orange is the New Black. I heard they just released a new season of House of Cards...

Oh, my wrist is fine, BTW. I'm such a crybaby. It wasn't broken. That snap I heard was just little old me imagining things in the heat of sprinting for my freaking life. It was just sprained. I struggled to make sandwiches, but it wasn't too much of a hindrance when ice cream and motherfucking Archie Andrews, total man of my dreams was there for my viewing pleasure. I mean, girl, every time he took off his shirt, I was—gushes endlessly—if you know what I'm saying.

Miss Grundy may have been making sweet love to him in that Volkswagen Beetle, but I sure as hell pictured myself and—

Of course, you don't stuff yourself on ice cream and avocado toast unless you're hiding from something deeper. Fear makes you small, makes you cry. Guilt makes you numb, leaves you doubting every little thing.

I can't hold it against him if he was drunk. Isaac is a feral beast. I mean I know that for Archie's sake! He is still a broken guy. Like I'm a sorry mess, a cup of spilt tea, but he's a fucking smashed plate. I can scoop myself up, glueing him together is a job for some poor bastard I don't envy.

Oh wait, that's me. Duh. I chose that task. I've gotta... I don't know, stick to it.

Yeah, Connor. Tell me how that's working out for you.

Oh, I don't know inner Connor, let's sit here wasting time arguing when a poor young man is out there on a knife's edge, begging for help, and I'm not giving it to him.

Fuck! I don't know what the right thing to do was. Run? Probably. Safer too. No fingerprints on that crime scene. More like I didn't become the basis for a chalk outline.

Anything would be better than the fucking disaster I've put myself in. I mean honestly, it's a terrible business move. Trust it all to a hot stranger with a desire to exploit other people's darkness, including my own?

I had to think he did care about me. He opened up to me. He stayed. Judging by the state of him, it looked like that was a freaking impossible thing to do. He was running for too long, and when he stopped, I was all he had. So yeah, guilt ate me up. Ate me to the core. Just picturing that six-foot muscular slice of heaven fading away and weeping in a corner because he had nowhere to go got rid of the fear real fast. Somehow the problems the characters in Riverdale were facing didn't seem so crazy. They were preferable. Look at the Scooby Doo gang they'd assembled. I'm just one guy.