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Usually, he’d just blame the dark cloud over his head on a tangible problem: the state of the team, the media, the breakup; anything that he could point to and collectively the people in his life would stop asking questions. Anything conditional, temporary. Whatever, he’s never claimed to be the healthiest person in the world.
Since the moment Connor was thrust into the spotlight, picked up by Erie when he was only a teenager— fucking fifteen years old and carrying the expectations of the hockey world on his shoulders— he’s perfected the art of wearing the mask full time, until even his own parents looked at him and couldn’t recognize the seams of the placated expression overlapping his own face. It felt easier to sweep anything that would take the focus away from his hockey into a compartment that stayed locked until he had the liberty to open it back up. There is a rare brand of people that, despite Connor’s years of practice, can see underneath the mask, or at least can sense the cracks around the edges. They’ve always been the ones who spend the most time around him, that have been around long enough to notice the inconsistencies and slips in Connor’s facade: Mitch, Dylan, his brother. But they’re always kind enough not to point it out.
Except, of course, his girlfriend, who had spent enough time pushing and prying until she’d given up with the realization that she couldn’t make Connor open up, couldn’t make him take care of himself. He doesn’t blame her, honestly, she didn’t deserve pouring her entire heart and soul and compassion into that relationship when Connor could give her nothing to recharge with, to compensate her for the lost energy. He’d felt guilty about the relief that spread through him when she finally had had enough.
Despite no longer having her around, that locked compartment still pulses loudly in the corner of his mind, no longer able to be ignored. It just makes him cave further into himself, pressing himself harder into the corner he’s hidden himself away in. He’s thankful for the breakup, an easy excuse for the sunken look to the skin around his eyes and the tightness in his shoulders at every skate. The guys don’t worry too hard.
At least, he’d thought he was doing well playing his part, until Leon corners him in the empty locker room after a particularly draining skate.
“Want to get lunch?” He asks, casually enough, and Connor opens his mouth to give some lazy excuse when Leon huffs and holds a hand up. “Too bad. You look like the only time you go outside is to come here.” He interrupts him firmly, making Connor feel a little sick. Maybe he hasn’t been as inconspicuous as he’d thought.
“Fine. Lunch.”
Despite what Connor had been expecting, Leon doesn’t drill him the moment they sit down. There’s no lecture about taking care of himself or accusations of stifling team chemistry off the ice. Actually, they don’t talk about Connor at all. Leon tells him about the nice seafood place Nursey had shown him, Kailer’s adjustment to the league despite not being a rookie anymore, Juju’s considerations of piercing his ears, anything. Connor feels a little guilty, reminding himself that Leon isn’t his ex: he won’t force him out of his shell before he’s ready. It does feel nice, to not have to think for a little while. He finds himself exhausted the moment he climbs back into the car, but it’s not the perpetual type of fatigue that follows him around like a shadow, always running under his feet. It kind of feels like falling into a clean bed after a tough workout. Leon drives him back to his car without another word, letting the radio sing in the background.
“You don’t have to go home, you know. You could come over, if you’re up to it. We could just watch a movie or something.” Leon offers, as the engine of his car putters until it’s one with the silence of the empty parking garage. Connor glances at himself in the side view mirror, lips pressed together as he considers his options. His whole body is telling him to refuse, begging him to take himself home, to retire to the stale, stagnant corners of the bland walls of his apartment. His stomach twists at the thought, but his limbs are starting to feel heavy. The silence feels like cotton in his ears, and in a moment of defiance he finds himself nodding his head. He tumbles out of the car without another word, before he can change his mind on the way there.
Connor wakes up from what at first appears to be what Mitch calls a depression nap. It isn’t an uncommon occurrence, afternoons that feel slow as molasses, far too light out to just go to bed for the evening are made much easier when he does so. As he comes to, he realizes the little differences in his surroundings, like the fact that this couch is suede instead of leather, and that the blinds are pinned open to let in a wide wave of golden sunlight. Next, he registers the gentle rattling of silverware from another room.
“Hnngh,” Connor groans as he sits up, digging a palm into his eye until he sees fireworks. He blinks until the fog in his head dissipates and the open kitchen comes into view. Leon is bent over dishwasher, sleeves of his flannel rolled up to his elbows. He appears to have noticed the noise announcing Connor’s wake, peeking over his left shoulder.
“You’re alive.” He teases gently, setting his handful of plates in the cupboard above the sink. Connor just watches with hazy eyes, trying to piece together the details of earlier this afternoon. He feels rested, comfortable, and it takes him a moment to get used to the feeling. It’s not for a lack of sleep, Connor’s daily routine usually consists of naps in the early afternoon, but he always wakes up feeling nauseous and sticky and too hot. This doesn’t feel like that. It’s pleasant.
“What time is it?” He asks, folding his arms over the back of the couch. Leon checks his phone, closing the dishwasher with his hip. The rich golden light pouring in through the windows casts beautiful shadows over his face, highlighting his prominent cheekbones and jaw, reflecting in the crystal blue of his eyes. For a fleeting moment, Connor lets himself look.
“Almost five. You could just stay for dinner? I’ll end up with leftovers anyway.” Leon offers, voice steady. Connor tries to convince himself that he’s imagining the wavering hope so quiet underneath the question. For the first time in however long its been, Connor accepts without a second thought.
It becomes their routine, on slow unproductive days Connor spends his time at Leon’s place, or accompanying him on some trivial errand. It’s nice, it keeps the deafening silence that fills his lonely apartment out of his ears for just a little while. The last person he’d spent this much time with regularly was his ex, and she spent half of that pressing him about how distant he’s being or how she practically has to force him out of the house or how practice is the only thing that gets him out of bed before noon. In the back of his head, Connor thinks Leon knows those things too, but he doesn’t poke and prod like she had. It’s the little things, like he stops asking Connor to hang out, just waits by his stall and walks him to the parking garage or shoots him the ‘I’m here’ text when Connor hasn’t gotten out of bed yet. He’d never admit it, but he likes not having to make that decision. He’d probably say no if he had the choice, despite how good he feels when he’s not at home. Whatever, it’s complicated.
What isn’t complicated, however, is the way their hockey is evolving. They aren’t just scoring and winning, they’re fucking dominating. No longer does he dread the moment before stepping out onto the ice, which he figures is progress. The success isn’t enough to sustain the high once he’s driving home from the bar they’d gone out to to celebrate fifteen minutes after he’d gotten there, on the same worn-out excuses he gives after every game. But still, it feels like progress.
Leon feels a little bit like his beacon of light, which should be a good thing maybe, falling for someone is a good thing, but all Connor has is this suffocating feeling that he’s becoming too dependent, that he’s taking too much and not giving enough back. That, and the fear that if this closeness is temporary, or if Leon decides he’s had enough, that he’ll have to lose these moments of reprieve from this drowning feeling of what he honestly can only equate to existing; and even worse, that he’ll have to lose Leon, too.
That realization comes to him on the ice, breaks over him like a wave as the goal horn screams in his ears. Leon crashes into him, and all Connor can do to stay upright is bury his face into the freezing Edmonton logo clinging to his chest and grip the fabric of the back of Leon’s jersey the best he can in his gloves. Distantly, he can feel his other teammates surrounding them, patting his helmet before pulling away, but all Connor can think of is the way letting go feels like his breath has been knocked out of his chest. He doesn’t look at Leon the rest of the night, fearful that if he does, he’ll see the sun.
He thinks of it as an attempt at self-preservation, but Leon never gives him the chance to find out. The moment he starts to pull away, to give his lazy excuses like he always had, Leon is pushing again. Connor doesn’t get out of bed until late, that’s all he knows, and has a bowl of cereal before sitting on his couch and staring at the home screen of his phone, switching between tweets he’s already seen and posts on Instagram that he’s already liked. His body feels restless and wants to do something, but his brain keeps him pinned to the couch, unable to get himself going. The breaking point is when his phone buzzes underneath him repeatedly, and someone is calling him. He just barely answers before it goes to voicemail.
“Hey, I texted you a couple hours ago. Let me up.” He recognizes Leon’s voice without checking the contact, letting out a sigh. A stab of annoyance flashes in his chest, and he feels tempted to tell Leon to fuck off, that he’s wasting his time. In the back of his mind, he knows that Leon is just worried about him, but Connor can’t bring himself to bite his tongue.
“I just wasn’t feeling it today.” He spits, knowing that his voice sounds as mean as it does, but Leon seems unbothered by his tone. He sighs, the sound of a car door opening beneath his breath.
“I don’t want to pull the famous card on your security guard but I will.” He warns, punctuating his words with the slam of a door. Connor groans into the receiver, throwing a hand over his face.
“Dude, I don’t owe you access to my fucking place! You aren’t my babysitter.” The words leave his throat before he has time to shut his mouth, and he’s answered with an annoyed grunt and the click of the line going dead. His baseless anger seizes in his heart, shrinking into a dead feeling, one that no longer makes any sense in his mind. He wants to apologize immediately, wants to call back, but he has no excuse, and his pride gets the best of him. He stares at the ceiling, replaying the incident in his head. He doesn’t even know how he could begin to explain any of this. The people in his life who saw past his mask would usually be annoyed for a while, brush it off as a mood swing, and be okay again. Connor can’t expect Leon to do the same, who had simply been worried about him, had wanted to check on him. His brain is fucking stupid, he decides.
And there it is, that ugly silence that presses in on him until he can’t breathe, back to haunt him. His apartment is too high above the streets to hear the lull of the city, a reason that he had preferred Leon’s place. It was never too quiet, never too still. He never felt lonely or trapped there. Or maybe it was just because he was with Leon.
Connor is dragged out of his thoughts by the sounds of his front door shutting softly, such a contrast to the fierce storm of emotions roaring through his whole body. He knows who it is without even calling out, he always knows. He holds his breath.
“Dangerous to leave your door unlocked, superstar.” Leon’s voice floats through the too-big apartment, slicing through the atmosphere of hideous anonymity. Connor breaks, releasing the flood of incoherent apologies and excuses and explanations as to why he’s like this that would make sense to no one but himself. He’s raking his hands through his hair and over his face and at this point he’s probably crying because this has been a long time coming but, fuck, he’s just so tired and Leon’s the one person who helps him to lighten the fuck up for a little while. He doesn’t even register that Leon has moved in front of him until he’s kneeling on the couch, swinging a leg over Connor until he’s straddled over his hips and has his wrists pinned on either side of his head, staring down at him. This is- new. “Connor,” Leon breathes, squeezing his wrists briefly, as Connor tries not to track the soft pieces of hair that fall into his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I know I’m difficult and moody and it probably feels like you’re walking on eggshells around me, I’ve been like this since I was a kid. She always called it clinical depression but she also loved to armchair diagnose, she said Nuge was a sociopath because he didn’t like her and-“ Connor runs his mouth until his chest is heaving and he can’t catch his breath and Leon gives him this pitying look and Connor feels like he wants to explode, being looked at like this fragile little charity case. Leon seems to sense his discomfort and softens his expression a little bit, clenching his jaw a little bit.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I just thought you were having a rough breakup but like- shit. Have you talked to the team psych about any of this?” Leon’s voice is careful as he releases him and sits back, but it’s still gentle and authentic and Leon. It forces Connor back into his body for a moment, like the shock of freezing water being poured over him.
“No, I-“ Connor makes a frustrated noise and buries his face into his hands, feeling like the whiniest, brattiest child in the world. His ears heat a little bit at feeling so ridiculous. Leon just reaches out to rest a hand on his wrist, pressing his thumb to the pulse point.
“You don’t have to explain.” Leon tells him, moving to climb off of Connor, who doesn’t let him get too far, only allowing him to swing his leg back over until he’s standing again, bent over Connor. He twists his fingers into the front of Leon’s sweater, before his joints lock up and his brain goes fuzzy as he comprehends what has just been said to him. A moment of calm washes over him, a wave of validation and safety that he’s never felt before, but it feels like a close to the pit in stomach when he’s alone, a remedy to the ache in his chest. Leon helps Connor sit up, hands gripping his upperarms and fingers tight enough to leave bruises, but it’s comforting in a way.
“I-“ His voice cracks before he can continue, but he isn’t quite sure what he was going to say to begin with. Leon lets out a breath, looking at him like an explanation of Connor is written in German along his face, easy to read. He smiles kindly, reeling him in by the back of the neck until Connor’s face is crushed against the smooth curve of his neck. He digs his nails into the back of Leon’s sweater, squeezing his eyes closed hard until his head starts to hurt, biting at his cheek. He can’t feel any of it now though, only the gentle carress of Leon’s hand on the back of his neck, while the other rubs circles into the small of his back. It hits him that, this is what he needed; to be held and validated, without being scolded or told how to be better.
“We can stay like this for as long as you need.” Leon’s lips brush against the shell of his ear as he speaks, whispers blowing warm over the skin. Connor feels warm all over. “Then, we should go back to my place, if that’s okay. This doesn’t feel very productive for you.” He barely registers what Leon is even saying, drifting into the white noise of another’s breathing and the security of arms around him. Connor feels like he could stay here forever, but he does eventually let himself be pulled up and ushered into his bedroom to get some things to stay the night. He’s lighter with every step.
Self-care, when being gently persuaded to and not nagged until you break to take care of yourself, is a beautiful thing. Connor feels the same way that he does when he’s skating freely, without a destination or goal, or hugging his mom after being away for so long, warmth spreading through his chest, refreshed and recharged. Except, now he can get this from only taking a shower and taking the extra moments to simply condition his hair. That stiff fatigue begins to melt away, as he gets into new clothes and finds Leon standing in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine. When he sees Connor, he smiles.
“You look so much better.” It doesn’t feel backhanded or passive aggressive, like Connor would expect. It sounds genuine, and Leon looks relieved.
“I- yeah, I feel good.” He breathes, a little overwhelmed by how Leon is looking at him, like he holds the world in the palms of his hands. He watches the rich wine pour into each glass on the marble countertop, pretending to ignore the way Leon’s sturdy hand wraps around the bottle, like it’s a plastic water bottle. He wanders into the living room, revelling in the gentility of his surroundings. The lights are low, most of it coming from holiday candles and the fireplace, casting a warm orange glow over the room. Leon had put on some music on in the background; Connor recognizes the jazzy piano piece playing is a Christmas song, Nat King Cole crooning softly over the melodies. The music is too quiet to drown out the industrial sounds of the city: the hiss of a public bus, the chug of the metro rattling over its tracks, the drag of tires over road and the thumping bass that rolls with them. It’s everything that Connor’s apartment is not, it’s a home.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Leon says from behind him, only startling Connor slightly. He pushes a wine glass into his hand, gesturing for him to sit down. Leon sits so close to him, their thighs press together, an arm thrown over the back of the couch, brushing against Connor’s shoulders. His skin feels tingly under his sweater. “You just seemed so cold, I figured you could use some warmth.” Leon lingers on the last word, like he isn’t sure if it’s the right one.
“Thanks, it’s-“ He swallows, taking a long sip from his glass. The wine is sweet, but sour enough to prick at his tongue, and it goes down perfectly smooth. It’s going to be easy to get lost in. “It’s been a rough season.” He frowns at the coffee table, taking another sip. Fingers dance across his far shoulder, tracing the seams.
“We don’t have to talk about it. Just let yourself be, for now.” Leon hums, drinking slowly as well. Connor gets caught up in watching the reflection of the fireplace in Leon’s pretty blue eyes, followed by in the deep red of the drink in his hands with pink cheeks. When he looks back up, their faces are inces away, like an invisible hand pulls them towards each other. Leon’s smile is so soft it makes Connor’s chest hurt, looking past him momentarily to set his glass on the side table before leaning back ever so slightly. Connor feels himself holding his breath, the air in his lungs turning to cement, resisting the pull to close the few inches of distance between them. In a breaking moment of panic, he forces a weak “Leon-“ past his lips, which is all of the push that he needed to grip the collar peaking out from Connor’s sweater yank him in for a biting kiss as the gates unleash the flood.
It’s so much at once, Connor hands flounder for a moment in the air, unable to decide what to do with them. Leon bites his lip gently, and it makes the decision for Connor, who drops his hands where they hover, holding onto Leon’s forearms and pressing back against him, their lips moving fluidly against each other. Something slots into place, somewhere in the universe, and Connor can’t help but kiss Leon through a huge grin. He feels like he’s floating.
They spend what could’ve been hours just kissing each other and feeling each other and drinking each other up. Connor ends up pressed against the arm of the couch, while Leon is settled between his open legs on his chest, face tucked against his neck. He’s been lazily working up and down the sensitive skin along Connor’s neck and throat, teasing it with his teeth and the heat of his mouth, mumbling sweet nothings into his jaw.
“Proud of you, schön. Beautiful, beautiful…” He whispers nonsensically, as Connor threads his hands through the tufts of hair nestled under his chin. Most of the candles have gone out or burnt away, leaving only the crackling of a dying fire and the faint street lights of the city to hold the ambience of the room. Connor wouldn’t complain, even if it were pitch black out. He still feels like he could fly, with a warm weight against him, of someone knows how to keep him out of his head. For now, that’s exactly the thing he needs.