Chapter Text
Connor hasn't memorized Henri's schedule. He swears. Henri gives him the schedule, and it's easier to hang out together when they can make plans around classes and work. So Henri gives it to him. And Henri works mornings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and he closes Sunday evenings. Usually.
So it's really not Connor's fault that he knows Henri's schedule as well as he does when it never changes. And it's not Henri's fault that sometimes he forgets to give it to Connor, but it's okay, because Connor knows.
Connor doesn't go to Cafe Moonbeam that Tuesday morning. Instead, he heads to the library with a thermos of coffee from home, and his heavy backpack, prepared to get a bit more work done on his thesis. It's not due, not until the end of the semester, but Connor's never been one to slack around. In truth, he cherishes the days he doesn't go to Cafe Moonbeam, because he knows he'll get a bit more done than he usually would.
It's cold in the cafe, of course, so Connor spends most of his time shivering and getting warm coffee. It has nothing to do with how he can talk to Henri across the room, or how he occasionally finds himself watching him while he works.
The library is the largest building on campus, aside from one of the other science buildings, so Connor's rather used to walking all day. The greek style architecture is present across campus, having not been modernized just yet. The library is all sprawling marble columns and high glass windows, several floors of books, and books, and books.
On the second floor, there are study cubbies, which Connor usually finds himself in. But he's on the first floor today, people-watching while he sips his coffee before he settles into work. There are precious few moments that Connor gets to take time to just rest and relax, especially with the pressure of school and his family raining down on him like a torrent. These moments are calm in the eye of the storm for Connor. They're safe.
As he bends his head down to work, a laugh carries across the library, followed by a quick hush from one of the librarians. The laughter quiets, followed by a hushed apology.
Connor isn't sure what possesses him to look up. Perhaps it's idle curiosity, perhaps it's the gooseflesh on the back of his neck that raises, telling him that something isn't quite right.
That's when he sees Henri across the way with a woman, one he's never seen before, and two older individuals who appear to be the woman's parents, if Connor had to guess. And normally, he wouldn't be bothered, but Henri's arm is slung around the woman's shoulders, his lips pressed to her temple and—
The tip of Connor's pencil snaps. He glances down at the mark left on his notes and quickly brushes the broken tip aside, looking up against through the blue waves of his hair, trying to be subtle.
Henri never mentioned a girlfriend. Henri's never mentioned anything like this at all, and it's not Connor's business, but they're best friends, and they have been for forever, and it's not like Henri owes Connor any sort of obligation, but his chest hurts, and his cheeks burn, and he can't believe he'd ever been so stupid to think that maybe—maybe, just maybe—
The woman's hair is long and blonde, curling at the ends, pulled up into a tight ponytail, her bangs free in the front. Even across the way, Connor can see piercing gray eyes, bright as she looks at Henri, dressed as if her parents are on the school board or something, in her pencil skirt and partially buttoned dress shirt.
She's beautiful.
It makes Connor want to throw up.
The four of them wander through the stacks, Henri's arm around the woman, the two older folks making polite conversation and smiling with them. The four of them seem happy. So very happy. But for Connor, it's like his heart is crawling up his throat, seeking to be let out.
Let out to scurry across the ground to be stepped on by Henri's Converse sneakers.
Connor tries to tell himself to get back to work. To put his head down and to stop watching, that it's creepy and rude and an invasion of privacy, and if Henri wanted to tell him, he would have. That… That Connor must have done something, and that Henri doesn't trust him any longer. Because what other reason would Henri have to not tell him unless it's Connor's fault?
Things are always Connor's fault.
That's what Zacharias would say.
The notebook that Connor's working in swings shut. It's of his hand's own volition, really, the way his body starts packing up his materials before he actually settles on the decision to leave. His chest hurts and his breathing is shallow. His apartment is calling to him, a decent walk away from campus. Away from Henri and his girlfriend and her parents.
The walk will help to calm him down, or that's his hope. That by the time he gets home, Connor will be able to focus again, to work on his thesis. He can't afford to get behind on this project. He can't afford to get behind on any of them, but especially not this one. It's worth too much. It means too much.
As Connor's going to stand up, he briefly finds his eyes wandering to Henri as they always do. He hates it in this moment; he's never hated it before, and if he has, he can't recall. But Connor despises the way Henri pulls his gaze like a fish to a lure, like a planet in orbit, like a magnetic force that's inescapable.
And in that same moment, Henri looks in his direction, and their eyes meet.
To Connor, there's no discernable reason that Henri should have looked his way. He's not making much noise; it is a library, after all. Connor is as quiet as a church mouse as he puts away his notes and his laptop, his books and his pencils. Henri had been facing the other way entirely, his broad shoulders and back to Connor. He's engaged in conversation with the woman's father, and he's laughing, and his girlfriend is looking at him with stars in her eyes, like he's the only man she's ever seen, the only man she wants to see.
But as he's laughing, Henri turns and sees Connor. And Connor's frozen in place, unable to move. His hand is stuck in his backpack, releasing his books. He feels like a deer in the headlights, aware that his world is crashing in on him, aware that nothing will ever be the same again and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
The laughter fades, replaced with surprise. Confusion. Fear.
Henri blinks once, then twice, and turns to say something to his girlfriend's parents.
Connor takes that moment to quickly sling his backpack over his shoulder and gather his coffee before leaving. His backpack is still unzipped, but he doesn't care, he's halfway to the door—
"Connor!"
And just like that, his feet stop, his jaw sets.
"Connor, wait!"
He can feel Henri's footsteps vibrating on the carpet, getting closer and closer—
"Connor, I—"
Connor's right foot moves first, then his left, then his right, and he's leaving, the double doors to the library swing open and close in Henri's face, leaving him standing there, arm outstretched, just about to touch Connor's shoulder. But he's gone.
Maybe if Connor had stayed just a bit longer, he would have seen the look of pain on Henri's face, the set of his square jaw and the shimmer of a tear in his eye. Maybe if Connor had stayed just a bit longer, he would have seen the woman's parents leave. Maybe if Connor had stayed just a bit longer, he would have seen Henri and the woman separate immediately; he would have seen a short-haired brunette woman come out of the stacks to put her arm around the blonde woman; he would have seen her thank Henri, and ask if his blue-haired friend was alright, and why he left so quickly.
But Connor didn't stay.
Connor ran.