In the past day and a half, Connor had cleaned the interior of his car no less than six different times, paranoid and terrified that there might be the slightest speck of evidence found that linked him to the murder. Especially considering that Asher had known that Connor's car was at the Keating residence around the time that Sam was murdered, even if it hadn't come up in discussion yet. He was terrified, and he felt sick even now, well over 36 hours later. He'd gone to Oliver, seeking comfort from the guy that he'd somehow weirdly connected with and whom he'd secretly hoped might actually be special to him, but standing there in Oliver's apartment, he'd wanted to connect with him -- to feel safe enough with him to be able to tell him everything -- but he just couldn't. He stood there in front of Oliver, trying to get the words to come, and when he'd tried, he'd just ended up lying and trying to escape the situation. It was only halfway to Princeton that he even realized where he was going, and that it was because the whole time he'd been standing in front of Oliver, he'd been thinking about Chase.
He hadn't slept in what seemed like an eternity. He was tired, and he was terrified, and these weren't sensations familiar to the cocky gay bitch that Connor had been for a long damn time. He didn't worry. He never got scared. He wasn't weak. And he sure as hell didn't fucking need anyone enough to make him travel this fucking far to reach out to them for help when he wasn't even sure what kind of help he was looking for. But here he was, and he had absolutely no reason to think that Chase would listen to him or would care or want to be involved in something so incredibly fucked up. But he'd been on autopilot and everything in him had brought him here, a mere shell... Nothing like his normal self. And he stood in front of Chase, terrified to the point that he was shaking, his face red from having been sick earlier and possibly crying, though he'd never admit it, and he shook his head at Chase's suggestion. "No... No, I'm not high. I just... Fuck, I don't know why I'm even here. I didn't know where else to go."
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He hadn't slept in what seemed like an eternity. He was tired, and he was terrified, and these weren't sensations familiar to the cocky gay bitch that Connor had been for a long damn time. He didn't worry. He never got scared. He wasn't weak. And he sure as hell didn't fucking need anyone enough to make him travel this fucking far to reach out to them for help when he wasn't even sure what kind of help he was looking for. But here he was, and he had absolutely no reason to think that Chase would listen to him or would care or want to be involved in something so incredibly fucked up. But he'd been on autopilot and everything in him had brought him here, a mere shell... Nothing like his normal self. And he stood in front of Chase, terrified to the point that he was shaking, his face red from having been sick earlier and possibly crying, though he'd never admit it, and he shook his head at Chase's suggestion. "No... No, I'm not high. I just... Fuck, I don't know why I'm even here. I didn't know where else to go."