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Guess WHAT, they’re going on a DATE.
“Great, let me just grab my coat.”

Connor flashed him a smile before he headed to the back of the salon, leaving Hank to wonder how he kept tripping and falling into this guy’s good graces. People fell asleep or cried at his work, too, but he’d never asked any of /them/ out.
...Well, but he wasn’t here for carjacking, either.

Connor returned with one arm in his coat and the other one getting there, a package clutched in his hand. A little white paper sack, top folded down in a neat, even line. “Here, I threw these together for you, too.”
“What is it?”

“Samples,” Connor tilted his head and smiled, radiating warmth, “to tide you over until you come back.”

Until he came back. The words were a balm spread over the tension in his chest, he was as deft with his tongue as he was with his fingers.
Wait—shit.

He hadn’t meant it like that, but now he was thinking it.
Hank hoped it wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

“Oh, for a minute there I thought you’d packed me a lunch.” He took the bag and gestured something of a salute with it before stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket. “Thanks. You ready to get outta here?”

“Please, I’m starving.”
Connor lived only a couple blocks away and Hank had been more and more of a delivery and takeout kind of guy lately, so they settled on a place within walking distance. It was something of a relief—his car was a tapestry of Bad Choices and Connor didn’t need to see it yet.
Yet? Okay, Christ, he needed to cut that out.

Connor’s dinner choice was the first place they found that was still open this late on a Tuesday, a diner with retro chrome plating and chipped laminate tables. They got a booth by the window, far from the door. Simple. Quiet.
Conversation was anything but. When Connor told a story, it was like he was recreating it there in the booth. Constructing it around Hank such that he nearly saw what Connor saw in a gaze fixed somewhere far beyond Hank’s left shoulder. His egg white scramble sat forgotten.
He talked about his hometown in western Michigan, a rural life, his brother’s social media success after the rainbow spite-style he gave a shitty city council member. He said the story ran in the local paper for three months, just because there wasn’t anything else going on.
He’d been right when he pegged him as a talker. Hank couldn’t have said how much time passed, sitting there listening to him. Watching the way his hands moved, the way he wiggled his nose, trying to adjust his glasses without touching them.
All he knew was that at some point their plates were sitting empty and Connor fell quiet and did that thing he does when he’s thinking about how to say something, holding his bottom lip between his teeth. Like he was trying to hide his smile, because he knew it gave him away.
“Can I see your hand?”

“Uh,” Hank looked down at his palms in complete bewilderment, wondering what hidden value they had, “does it matter which one?”

“Your dominant hand, please.”
He nudged his plate aside with his elbow and reached his right hand across the little diner table for him. They both hunched forward nearer to each other, Connor taking Hank’s hand in both of his own. His touch was as gentle as it had been in his salon chair.

“Wow. Big.”
Hank couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing, either way his heart was galloping. “That all you wanted to find out?”

“Nope.” Connor glanced up at him with the softest, sugar-sweet smile, then down again. His thumbs pressed, working over his palm in slow, firm circles.
“Oh,” Hank breathed out.

Those thumbs chased away the ache in his joints, over his wrist, to the heel of his palm, then down the length of each finger, one by one. He turned his hand over and massaged along the ridge of each bone and tendon, over his knuckles. He was putty.
Connor met his eyes over the frame of his glasses at exactly the same moment Hank realized he’d just been sitting there blankly staring at all this the whole time. Whatever idiot expression he had on his face was at least enough to win another smile out of him. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah. It’s, uh, very okay.” Hank cleared his throat and reached for his drink, hoping to look the opposite of a guy who was dangerously close to thumping his leg under the table like Sumo with a belly rub. “Sorry, I was wondering if maybe I’m really still asleep in your sink.”
“What, because my technique is /that/ good?”

“No, it...” he hesitated, muttering behind the rim of his glass, “I guess I’m not sure what I did to deserve this.”

“Is it really that weird that I’d ask you to dinner? I mean, do you think I have some kind of ulterior motive?”
“Listen, I’m just gonna save you some time here, my liver and kidneys won’t sell for much.”

Connor laughed, genuine and full-bodied, it was the first time Hank had ever heard it. It was the kind of laugh that made you want to laugh, too, mostly because it was so goddamn dorky.
He couldn’t get enough of it.

“Is it your job that gives you that sense of humor?” Connor was still chuckling a little, trying to reign himself back in, “Okay. Would it make you feel better if I told you why I asked you to dinner?”

“Yeah, please, the suspense is killing me.”
“Well. When you first walked in, it was because you looked like I could climb you like a tree—“ Hank spit out his drink and Connor’s grin took on a playful edge, “—but after that... After that, I think it’s because I got to see you with your guard down.”
Hank’s eyes shot up from grabbing napkins to see Connor looking at him with the same gentle eyes that he’d given him at the row of sinks, at the end of his haircut.

His thumbs stopped their slow circles and they just sat there together for a minute, his hand in Connor’s.
Connor leaned closer over the table and Hank could hear his pulse dropping a dubstep track before the stylist whispered, “are those crumbs in your beard?”

“Oh, Jesus—“

He tried to pull away, but Connor’s grip kept his hand firm. He was laughing again. “Hank, I’m kidding!”
Connor’s hands stroked over his in apology, still beaming, “I’m kidding. Hank, I’m sorry. You just get flustered easily and it’s really cute.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned his elbows back down on the table, settling back in. “You think you’re pretty hilarious, huh?”
Connor grimaced; it probably wasn’t the first time he’d heard that. “Yeah, I know, it’s impossible to get me to shut my mouth.”

“Even when you aren’t talking, actually,” Hank mimicked Connor’s little head tilt, dishing it back out with a smirk, “it’s really distracting.”
Revenge was sweet as a sundae, and Connor was getting red enough to be the cherry on top. When he blushed, it spread to the tips of his ears, it vanished somewhere under his collar. Hank wanted to follow it all the way down. “Uh huh. Now who’s flustered?”

“That was underhanded!”
“Can’t believe you look so embarrassed, Connor—“

“I don’t. I don’t!”

“—I mean, you just gave me a ‘handjob’ in public.”

Connor laughed so hard he snorted, and then he was twice as red—he tried to pull his hands back to cover his face, but Hank wasn’t having it. Oh, hell no.
No way he was hiding that from Hank. He trapped Connor’s hands under both of his, pressing them to the table. Their eyes met over the table, the stylist’s shoulders still shaking with the effort of bottling in his laughter, and he found himself struck with overwhelming fondness.
Connor’s sunbeam smile pulled him into solar orbit. “Walk me home?”

“Yeah, I think the staff are about to kick us out after that one anyway.”
The November cold cut through them when they got outside, but it couldn’t cool the heat lamp warmth in his chest. He felt energized. His face /ached/ from smiling so much, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like he had tonight. Time rewound and took back his hurt.
Connor walked close beside him, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. Occasionally he’d bump elbows with him, accentuating some point said, some witty thing. Conversation with him came so easily, he didn’t think, he just spoke. He just trusted.
“So,” Connor said, the words puffing out of him in the frigid air, “do you want to talk about it?”

A little needle of nervousness pricked him. “About what?”

The stylist looked at him, patient, gauging his expression carefully, “About what happened in my shop tonight.”
Oh, that. Hank opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The door opened and let out the sunlight in his mood.

He didn’t know how to talk about what he felt when he left work today, how getting out of bed every morning—or afternoon—was like Sisyphus shoving that rock uphill.
He didn’t know how to say that he’d come out to run this errand because he was afraid of going home to an empty, filthy house, a visual collage of everything that was wrong inside him.
Hank squashed down the impulse to run. “Listen, the shit I’ve got going on right now’s too heavy for,” for a first date, he wanted to say, “having just met you six hours ago.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be right now, or ever, if you don’t want. But I’m here if you do.”
He couldn’t handle the sentimental bullshit right now, not when he was so close to feeling whole again. “So what is it with the armchair psychologist shtick, you billing my insurance after this?”

Connor flashed him a grin. “Depends—how’s your coverage?”

“Honestly? Not great.”
They shared a chuckle at that, then a quiet came between them, laid a somber weight across their shoulders. Pressing the unanswered questions down heavier the longer it went on. Connor broke the silence first.

“I guess I’m just really familiar with the rhetoric.”
It was the first time that night that Connor didn’t meet his eyes, wasn’t trying to coax a word or smile out of him. Everything he’d said at the salon—his tender care, the way he turned on a dime when Hank showed the slightest discomfort—came flooding back to the forefront.
The world tilted under the sudden shift in his perspective.

“You weren’t the doctor, you were the patient.”
He’d blurted it out without thinking, Hank, you fucking idiot. Connor finally picked his head up to meet his eyes and the smile he gave him was so shy, so lonesome, it broke his heart in half.

“I know what it’s like, to just...” he sounded so helpless, “...want to feel ‘okay’.”
Hank had this overwhelming urge to take him in his arms, to cup his face in his big hands and tell him he understood. He wanted to be for Connor everything that Connor, even barely knowing him, had been for him.

But he didn’t move. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Say something. Goddamn, you have to say something. “Connor, I—“

“It’s fine.” Connor reached out and rubbed his hand over Hank’s arm, back and forth, reassuring. How was he the one getting comforted now? “I’m fine, I’m... better. When you’re ready to share, I’ll share too. Okay?”
When that hand fell away from his arm, the night got colder. It didn’t sit right with him, Connor opening up, leaving himself raw, then still being the one to soothe Hank.

He reached out to gently cup the back of Connor’s neck, giving him a little squeeze. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Hank kneaded at the base of his neck, his hand spanned it easily. Up along the back, into his hairline, his carefully groomed undercut. Connor budged a little closer, used one hand to clutch at the back of his jacket.

“That feels fantastic.”

“Yeah, I learned from the best.”
Watching him relax under his fingers, eyelids fluttering closed... so this is what it felt like, erasing tension from a body from the outside in. No wonder Connor kept dishing it out, he could do this all day if he kept making that face. Did make walking a little awkward, though.
Hank reached up further to card his fingers through soft waves of chestnut, earning a soft sigh. He put his hand to rest on Connor’s shoulder. A frigid gust rushing down the street gave him the excuse he needed to pull him in against his side and keep him there. Keep him warm.
When Connor pressed his cheek against his shoulder, his racing heart tripped over its own shoelaces. The wind had the scent of him, tossing his hair around. His nose crinkled to adjust his frames again. He smiled, not at Hank, just at the evening, at living.

He was beautiful.
“This is me.” Connor pulled away, gesturing at the apartment building beside them. He walked backward a couple of feet, hand still fisted in the back of Hank’s jacket, tugging him along. He set himself right at the foot of the steps.

That bottom lip went between his teeth again.
“This was, uh,” Hank said, a master of romance, “cool, just, great day.”

Well, at least it made Connor laugh. The stylist looked up at him, doe eyes warm and patient, and reached up to fluff Hank’s new curls with his hands. His thumb stroked along the scruff of his beard. “Yup.”
“Hank?” Connor’s voice was barely a murmur, he had to hold his goddamn breath to make sure he didn’t miss a thing, “Can I kiss you goodnight?”

Was he holding his breath, or had he just forgotten how to breathe? Connor’s hand slipped down to rest against his chest, waiting.
Hank breathed out, “Yeah.”

The smile that got him was the brightest one yet.

Connor leaned in close and pressed his lips to Hank’s, gentle and chaste. Once. Twice. So careful and delicate, he almost couldn’t be sure it had really happened at all.
He stayed pressed close against Hank’s broad frame and whispered against his mouth. “Mmn. You smell good.”

“I smell like you.”

“Yeah,” Connor grinned up at him, that playful light glittering in his eyes, “you’re welcome.”
Hank couldn’t tear his eyes off of him, this was the closest they’d ever been. He committed the sight to memory, the curve of his jaw, the shape of his nose, each freckle a fucking gift from whatever angel up there designed him. Everything perfect, everything kissable.
Connor didn’t pull away. He tilted his head to the most inviting possible angle, an openness and a fondness on his face, and he might as well have reached into Hank’s chest and made a balloon animal out of his heart for all the control he had over it at this exact moment.
Hank was the one to kiss him this time, calloused knuckles tilting his chin up to meet him. Their lips met and Connor’s parted in a satisfied sigh and Hank tasted the wet heat of his mouth. When their tongues touched, it was electric. It sparked a sudden urgency between them.
Connor broke away to gasp for breath. Head tilted back, exposing the pale like of his throat; Hank couldn’t help kissing it, too. He closed his mouth over it and gave a gentle suck. The sound Connor made jumpstarted his old shitbag heart.

“So glad I didn’t shave the beard.”
He chuckled against his flushed skin and kissed a trail up to his jaw. His thumb stroked over Connor’s bottom lip. Fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him down and then their mouths crashed together again. Hank drank him in, he was dying of thirst and his lips were a spring.
“Hank,” Connor was breathless, murmuring his words out between hungry kisses, “Hank, come upstairs?”

That was all it took.
They could barely keep their hands off each other; Connor tripped halfway up the stairs and Hank swept him up in one arm, lifting him against his chest. He carried him the rest of the way. He struggled to unlock the door with Hank pressed up against his back, mouthing at his ear.
When they stumbled inside, Hank caught his mouth again and Connor, Connor tried to toss his keys into the bowl on the kitchen bartop and they wound up clattering into the sink. Hank bumped his leg against some furniture, he didn’t know what, but he heard it slide a good foot off.
Jacket and coat hit the floor, shoes got toed off and tripped over. Hank grabbed Connor by the back of his knees and hauled him up off the floor, letting him fall back to the bed with a startled yelp.

“Hank!”

God, he could make him shout his name just like that, a dozen times.
Connor’s thighs opened and Hank kneeled on the bed between them, hands instantly moving to help the stylist fumble through every button on his crisply pressed shirt. Every inch more that it opened was another freckle he wanted to kiss, another hint of how far down his blush went.
Movement along the wall caught his eye; for a second he thought maybe the brother was home, shit, maybe he’d gotten the wrong room, but no. There was a mirror on the dresser.

When he caught sight of himself, that cocksure Casanova he thought he was came crashing to the ground.
No new haircut could cover up the weight he’d put on the past few years, the damage done by bad diet and worse sleep and the binge drinking. Hunched over like he was, his tits looked bigger than his ex-wife’s.

And he was fucking old. Connor was easily two decades his junior.
And if he was that bad on the outside, well, Connor hadn’t even seen the inside yet.

“Hank?” The guy leaned up, nipping at his neck, his jaw. His hands pressed against Hank’s thick thighs and followed them up to his groin. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
One tug and Connor had him down against his slender frame, pressing him into the mattress. Hank couldn’t stop thinking about that image of himself, couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways he was gonna fuck this up. Look, he was already fucking this up, he was lively as a log.
Connor’s hips rutted up against him and he was hard and Hank was... nothing. Nothing was happening. Oh, god, this was the last thing he needed, for Connor to think he’d gone limp because of his age, like it was proof he couldn’t keep up with him.
Panic took that fact and broke it into endless fractal planes reflecting a hundred thousand futures in which Connor leaves him, or is disgusted by him. He felt it tangle in his insides, a knot wrapping tighter and tighter around his throat until he couldn’t breathe anymore.
“Fuck,” Hank jerked away from Connor, hot suddenly, but the wrong kind of hot, the kind of hot right behind his sternum. He shoved his hands through his hair, “fuck. I can’t.”

“Hey.” Connor sat up, alarmed, “Hey. Hank, talk to me.”
“I have to leave.” Hank’s eyes burned and he felt his chin start to quiver and the feeling of helplessness folded in on itself, compounded. “I’ve gotta go.”

He didn’t miss the sting of rejection that flashed across Connor’s face before he tamped it back down, Therapist Mode on.
“It’s okay. That’s okay.” Connor’s hands went to his shoulders, then cupped his jaw. He didn’t have anywhere else to look but those polished agate eyes. “Just—breathe first. Okay?”

His touch was so tender, thumbs stroking over his cheeks, knuckles brushing over his beard.
His hands slipped down and laid against his chest. “Breathe.”

He gasped down air, his lungs expanded. The pressure of Connor’s palms on him, the slight resistance versus the rise and fall, grounded him. He focused on that. Not what his mind was thinking, but what his body felt.
He closed his hands over Connor’s and held them there. Inhale. Exhale. Everything felt like it was spiraling out of his control, except for this one thing.

Connor leaned closer and pressed his forehead to Hank’s, gaze heavy with ache and understanding. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Yes you are, he thought. You will.

The floodgates opened.

He tore away from Connor in that moment, stumbled down from the mattress and right out of the room. Functioning on autopilot. Fueled by the distinctive kind of shame that only keeps you acting shamefully.

“Hank—“
“Sorry,” he blurted out, louder than he meant to, grasping blindly at his shoes and jacket on the floor, “I’m sorry.”

“Wait!” One word, so much distress.

Hank slammed the door behind him. The hallway was a blur through his salt lake eyes. Claustrophobic and closing in fast.
Shaking hands grasped at the stairwell railing, rushing headlong downward. He just wanted—distance. Room. Sitting at the bottom of the steps, cramming his idiot feet into his idiot boots, it all caught up with him, snapped on his heart like a bear trap. A sob choked out of him.
It wasn’t so much that he was letting himself cry as that he /had/ to, it was coming out whether he wanted it to or not. Sad? Sure, but mostly he was frustrated, frustrated that he didn’t have any control over himself. That he didn’t have all his fucking bullshit together.
Things had been so hard since losing Cole, since losing Leigh, the lifelines he’d cut with the razor edge of his grief. Something in Connor’s Bambi-brown eyes had him looking back at the chalk outlines of all his past relationships and he just couldn’t bear another... absence.
He barely remembered the walk back to the car or sitting in the dead silence on the drive back home, hands clenched around the wheel, teeth grinding under the full weight of his clenched jaw.

It hurt. God, it hurt, somebody was spinning the lever of the vise grip on his heart.
He sat in the driveway of his house, gasping down air, just trying to keep the pressure building in his barrel chest from busting him open.

He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to see the big empty, a bunker of takeout boxes and empty beer cans, a stench of sour milk.
A gun with one bullet.

He didn’t know how long he stood outside his front door, head pressed to the painted wood, listening to Sumo chuffing and his collar jingling just beyond the threshold. That stabilized him, enough to keep shouldering the burden of being. Sumo gotta eat.
So, he opened the door. Sumo wasn’t rushing outside, so the neighbors must’ve checked in on him. Probably thought he was on a scene. The overgrown fuzzball bumped his big head against his thigh, licked his hand.

“Hey, Sumo,” he gave him a halfhearted rub, “hey, buddy.”
Standing in the kitchen, listening to Sumo’s tags against the ceramic bowl as he ate, Hank stared at the mess he’d been dreading. His boots stuck to the floor as he stepped through it. It looked on the outside how he felt on the inside. The knot was back around his lungs.
There was half a bottle of Black Lamb sitting open on the counter, fuck. Oh, fuck, he wanted to drown himself in it. A part of him said, you’re not gonna get a guy like Connor if you keep doing this—but a bigger part said, you couldn’t get him sober either, so why bother?
He smothered down the shame and revulsion boiling in his gut enough to stumble to the counter and grab the bottle by the neck, make his brain shut the fuck up for a minute, leave him in oblivion.

He slumped against the counter.

There was a crunch of paper in his left pocket.
Puzzled, he pulled back. It wasn’t until he groped around in his coat that he remembered—the sample bag from the salon. White paper sack, the neat, precise line of the fold.

He didn’t know what compelled him to open it, why he didn’t just chuck it in the trash can, but he did.
Hank upended the bag onto the counter, a fistful of foil packets of conditioners and gels, and one travel-size plastic bottle that bounced against the laminate countertop. The label said “curl-boosting serum” but that wasn’t what caught his eye.
There was a splash of color in the dim, a vibrant neon blue attached to the bottle. A little square, a post it note, the handwriting on it clean and careful and beautifully uniform.

“you’re worth it :)”
A bark of laughter burst out of him, broken, sharp as glass. His knees went liquid. He held that little paper square in his hands like it was all that was holding him together. How could Connor, even now, across town, still find a way to wrap him up in his endless understanding?
How was it that he always /knew?/

(I know what it’s like to just, want to feel okay.)

Oh. Oh, that was why. Oh, it shot into his heart with all the abrupt force of a nail gun, pinning the guilt into him. He hadn’t been listening, he should’ve been honest, he should’ve told him.
He thought of the weight of Connor’s hands against his chest. Breathe. He swallowed down air, a sharp gasp that blossomed the ache across his chest. He’d been so afraid of ending up on his own again that he’d overlooked the basic facts:

Connor hadn’t left. Hank had left.
Who the fuck did he think he was, sitting here trying to say what Connor “deserved”, putting him on a pedestal and calling him perfect, but he was—

(I’m a person, Hank.)

—he was human. What, like Hank trusted some other fucking guy to take him out instead?
He thought of Connor’s bashful smile, the way he’d flinched when Hank had mocked him at the diner. Sometimes people didn’t let talkers talk. Hank could do that, he was capable of that much at least. He could listen, to his bright-eyed stories, to his cautious open-hearted words.
He thought of the way Connor had grasped at his shirt. Like he needed him to stay close.

(Hank.)

The image of him sitting in his apartment, alone, backhanded Hank.

“Okay,” he shoved the whiskey bottle into the sink and let it glug out into the drain. “All right.”
He just about tripped over Sumo in his absolute immediacy to get back out, swiping his car keys off the table. Hank slid back behind the wheel and smoothed the blue post it onto the dashboard with trembling fingers.

“You’re gonna fix this, Hank. You’ve gotta fuckin’ fix this.”
He threw it into reverse.

The whole drive back downtown, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Connor must be feeling, all the things he’d carried with him the last few years suddenly on those narrow shoulders. He’d do better this time. He’d give back the support he’d been given.
And if his dick quit on him again, goddammit, he was gonna eat that ass like Sunday dinner.
He sped around the blocks near the diner until he recognized the building, screeching to a halt on the curb, fire lane be damned, gotta use his clout for somethin’, right? It wasn’t until he got to the door that he discovered the flaw in his grand romantic gesture—it was locked.
And he, an idiot, tugged and rattled on the handle as though that would override an electric lock.

“Aw, shit, c’mon!” He kicked it with the toe of his boot and instantly regretted it, hopping on one foot like the world’s goofiest goddamn flamingo, “Fuck!!”
Panic set upon him again, tears stung his eyes, only this time they weren’t for his sake. He didn’t have Connor’s cell number, he’d never thought to look at what unit they were fumbling into. If he couldn’t get in there—Christ, what if he was hurting? What if he hurt himself?
He heard someone approaching and hope seized his heart; his hand went to his back pocket to pull his badge, anything to get through the door. “Hey! Listen, I need—“

There he was. Connor.
Standing on the walk, shirt half tucked in, the traces of tears streaked on his cheeks. They stared at each other, wide eyed, a stretched moment of surreal, dreamlike state where surely they were imagining what they wanted to see. Mirage in the desert.

Had he... come after him?
“Hank,” he heard, breathless and unbelieving.

Connor had come after him.

Raw emotion slammed into Hank like a freight train and splattered what was left of his resolve across the tracks. Relief flooded him. He was moving towards him instantly, irresistibly, irrevocably.
His hand closed around the back of Connor’s neck and hauled him in against his chest, arms wrapping around him tight, tight as he could. Tight enough that every square inch of pressure would brand Connor into him forever.
Tight enough that Connor might feel how fucking sorry Hank was for walking away.

And Connor reached up and held him back, clung in for dear life. He was shaking like a leaf.

“Hey,” he whispered against the other man’s hair, voice quavering but determined, “I wanna start over.”
THE END... of Part 2. :D
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