[it doesn't matter what cashmere intends to ask, what he hears is did you murder someone and there are days he fights himself with every fiber of his being to say it wasn't his fault and sometimes he believes it. but mostly the guilt stays deep inside of his bones, waiting for any moment to be let out. waiting to escape and admit what he's done.
connor polishes off his glass and fills up another. his hands shake as he does it, just a little bit, but he manages not to spill anything. after this had come up with ishida, he'd had to talk to himself long and hard about how this was apparently a subject that was just going to come up in here cavehell. that apparently he was going to have to figure out how to deal with people talking about it without falling apart every single fucking time. but now that he's two or three (or four? he's losing count) drinks in, it's harder to remember that pep talk. it's harder to want to believe it.
because that's really the thing, isn't it? he's wanted so badly, so desperately to tell someone - anyone - what was going on with him. he'd almost told ollie, he wanted to go to the cops. at least asher knew now (was that a good thing?) but it wasn't the same as confessing. and the guilt? the guilt clawed its way out as hard as the anxiety did. they twisted together and pulled at him and he fought so hard even when he felt like he was drowning which was nearly all the time now. but he kept fighting even after sinclair and even after annalise was shot and he still remembers the feeling of the gun in his hands and how close he'd been even after everything, even after all of the self-hatred he had for participating the first time.
it hurt to think he could've been capable of it. but then again, guilt always said, you'd been capable from the moment you didn't go running to the police.]
It's complicated? [it shouldn't be a question, but he doesn't know how to tell it otherwise. like it didn't happen to him. like he can't explain it.] One of my professors, her husband... [the tension grows in his body and he can't look at cashmere. there's so much guilt and so much alcohol and he doesn't know if he's ready to do it anyway] He was killed? He died. He -- [his throat is too tight. this was supposed to be fun wasn't it? and she'd only just said she liked him and he didn't even have real friends back home. michaela. there was michaela. but only because they were all wrapped up in all of this. only because they'd cried together. but he'd somehow earned cashmere's approval on what? something strong enough to stand up to this?]
We hacked up his body, afterwards. Me included. I didn't kill him. [he tacks that part on lamely, like he's only just remembered he hadn't clarified. his words are starting to be a little slurred and it's equal parts nerves and the alcohol.] I didn't kill him but I didn't go to the cops and I didn't tell anyone and he wasn't the first one. And maybe if I had -- if I'd just turned everyone in then all of this would've stopped?
[he frowns, finally looking back over her. he laughs humorlessly] But I couldn't've, because they would've all turned against me and said it was me. Five against one. I'm too pretty to go to jail.
no subject
connor polishes off his glass and fills up another. his hands shake as he does it, just a little bit, but he manages not to spill anything. after this had come up with ishida, he'd had to talk to himself long and hard about how this was apparently a subject that was just going to come up in here cavehell. that apparently he was going to have to figure out how to deal with people talking about it without falling apart every single fucking time. but now that he's two or three (or four? he's losing count) drinks in, it's harder to remember that pep talk. it's harder to want to believe it.
because that's really the thing, isn't it? he's wanted so badly, so desperately to tell someone - anyone - what was going on with him. he'd almost told ollie, he wanted to go to the cops. at least asher knew now (was that a good thing?) but it wasn't the same as confessing. and the guilt? the guilt clawed its way out as hard as the anxiety did. they twisted together and pulled at him and he fought so hard even when he felt like he was drowning which was nearly all the time now. but he kept fighting even after sinclair and even after annalise was shot and he still remembers the feeling of the gun in his hands and how close he'd been even after everything, even after all of the self-hatred he had for participating the first time.
it hurt to think he could've been capable of it. but then again, guilt always said, you'd been capable from the moment you didn't go running to the police.]
It's complicated? [it shouldn't be a question, but he doesn't know how to tell it otherwise. like it didn't happen to him. like he can't explain it.] One of my professors, her husband... [the tension grows in his body and he can't look at cashmere. there's so much guilt and so much alcohol and he doesn't know if he's ready to do it anyway] He was killed? He died. He -- [his throat is too tight. this was supposed to be fun wasn't it? and she'd only just said she liked him and he didn't even have real friends back home. michaela. there was michaela. but only because they were all wrapped up in all of this. only because they'd cried together. but he'd somehow earned cashmere's approval on what? something strong enough to stand up to this?]
We hacked up his body, afterwards. Me included. I didn't kill him. [he tacks that part on lamely, like he's only just remembered he hadn't clarified. his words are starting to be a little slurred and it's equal parts nerves and the alcohol.] I didn't kill him but I didn't go to the cops and I didn't tell anyone and he wasn't the first one. And maybe if I had -- if I'd just turned everyone in then all of this would've stopped?
[he frowns, finally looking back over her. he laughs humorlessly] But I couldn't've, because they would've all turned against me and said it was me. Five against one. I'm too pretty to go to jail.