I feel bad about how long it's taken for the Attachments epilogue, but I can't finish it atm because I just moved and also start university this week so I'm busy af. I hope this little snippet of it tides you over and eases the wait a little bit:
Two years ago, he would have compared Connor's smooth, unblemished skin to the jagged pieces of his own and thought that they could never work. He'd have thought of the kids he grew up hating for their privilege and the men he grew up fearing for their power. He'd have gone to hands around his wrists, nails in his arms, and let a bitter, awful feeling well up inside him at the reminder that other people don't know what it's like to have hand-shaped bruises on their bodies. He'd have resented Connor.
God, how he'd resented him.
Now, though, he brushes the hair from the nape of Connor's neck and finds an odd kind of poetry in the contrast between them. Besides, Connor isn't perfect, not at all, and he might have had the white picket fence but he didn't have the picturesque, happy family. Connor doesn't wake up in the middle of the night dreaming of things that feel like acid in his throat, but he does stay up late worrying that something horrible could happen any minute to any of the people he loves. He doesn't know abuse or hunger or what it's like to feel like a foreigner in your own body, but Troye doesn't know loss or what it's like to watch someone you love fight a war against themself.
He thinks of Nicola and draws his hand away. The empty hole in his chest swallows a little more of his insides. All of a sudden, the bed feels smaller.