Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

March 2027

The message had been sitting on Connor’s phone for almost two hours by the time he finally noticed it.

Huddy: Did you see this?

Hudson had sent him a link to a Twitter thread. Connor wasn’t on Twitter. Not officially, at least. There was no account under his name. But like most people who had become famous faster than they’d expected, he did have an anonymous account he occasionally used to check the reactions. Just to see what people were saying. Just enough to keep himself informed. He didn’t open the link right away.

He and his manager were walking toward the far corner of the parking lot where their car was supposed to arrive, and Connor slipped his phone back into his pocket after typing a quick reply.

Connor: ???

Connor: What is it?

Nick, his manager, was already halfway through explaining something about Connor’s schedule for the next few weeks. Connor listened with half an ear while scrolling through the other notifications that had come in while Nick was talking. There weren’t many. Most of Connor’s notifications had been turned off months ago. The only alerts he still received during the day were messages from family and close friends. Anything from social media stayed silent unless he opened the apps himself.

Nick was still talking. Connor still hadn’t opened the link.

Not when they got into the car.

Not when the car dropped him off outside his building.

Not even when he unlocked his apartment and tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter.

It wasn’t until after he showered and finally collapsed onto his bed that he remembered Hudson’s message. Connor reached for his phone again and opened their chat. Hudson had replied.

Huddy: Holy shit man

Huddy: Just read it.

Connor smiled to himself. Hudson was filming a series in the middle of nowhere and still managed to be the most chronically online person Connor knew.

The smile stayed on his face only until he saw the title of the thread. His thumb stopped moving. For a second he didn’t even open the link. The title alone was enough.

“François Arnaud’s new boy: Meet Jack Cameron Kay — everything we know so far. A thread.”

Connor stared at the screen.

And just like that, February 2026 came back.

Chapter Text

May 2025 - The Final Days of Filming Season One

“You were quiet back there.”

It was the first thing Connor said when he walked over to the man standing in the corner of the terrace of the small hotel they were staying in, smoking his cigarette in silence.

The terrace had emptied out. The table where the crew - everyone staying at the hotel and free in the evenings - usually gathered for dinner was now deserted. It had been more than two hours since Jacob left. One by one, the members of the set crew had withdrawn to their rooms.

Hudson had also left not long ago, taking his girlfriend Katelyn - who had visited the set that day - with him.

Connor, however, hadn’t been able to leave.

Not until only he and François remained.

François stood at the edge of the terrace, watching the distant view while slowly smoking his cigarette.

Lately, Connor had noticed something about himself. He had started having trouble leaving.

Leaving places where François was.

He didn’t want to go.

In fact, he wanted the opposite - to stay somewhere within François’s orbit.

The man, lost in his cigarette, lifted his head at the sound of Connor’s voice and glanced back at him over his shoulder. Only then did he seem to notice that the terrace had emptied.

He smiled faintly at the boy approaching him.

At first he said nothing.

He took another drag from his cigarette and turned his gaze back toward the view.

“I didn’t agree with them.”

Connor immediately understood what he meant.

He was talking about the conversation that had taken place at the table a few hours earlier. It had turned into a surprisingly heated discussion about what love meant to each of them.

Jacob had shrugged.

To him, love was quiet, calm - something that existed between two people. There was no need to shout loudly just to prove it was there. Whether people saw his relationship or not didn’t matter to him. As long as they could exist side by side, hiding the relationship he was in wouldn’t be a problem.

Being able to live his love the way he wanted was the only thing that mattered.

Fair, Connor had thought. What else would you expect from a queer man? The world still wasn’t safe enough for queer people.

Hudson, on the other hand, believed the exact opposite.

According to him, there shouldn’t be a single person in the world who didn’t know he was in love. Love was something made of big gestures and grand displays. It should be lived loudly and openly - more cinematic, more dramatic.

Very straight. Very actor, Connor had thought.

Connor leaned his shoulder against the terrace wall.

“So which one do you disagree with?” he asked. “Jacob or Hudson?”

François let out a short breath. He pulled the cigarette from between his lips with two fingers and released the smoke slowly into the night.

“Not exactly either of them.”

Connor tilted his head slightly.

“What do you mean?”

François didn’t answer immediately. He looked out at the dark silhouette of the city, at the scattered lights across the night. As if the sentence he was about to say belonged more to the view than to Connor.

“I don’t think love needs to be loud,” he said at last. “But I also know that silence isn’t always as innocent as people think.”

Connor frowned. There was something in François’s voice now that hadn’t been there at the table earlier. It was calmer, flatter - but heavier.

“What do you mean by that?”

François flicked the ash from his cigarette against the railing.

“My father married my mother later,” he said. “He had already gone against everyone for her. When it came out that he’d cheated on his first wife with my mother, things had been messy enough.”

A small, bitter smile crossed his face.

“He married her in the end. But it didn’t fix anything.”

Connor’s attention shifted fully to him now.

François continued.

“He never really let her into his life. People might have known he was married, but no one knew my mother. He never took her to work dinners. Never brought her to gatherings with friends. Never to events.”

He paused.

“Everyone in my father’s life knew he had a wife. They just never saw the woman in that marriage.”

He fell silent.

Connor didn’t speak. Something about interrupting François’s silence felt wrong.

“My mother was always there,” François said after a moment. “But she was always outside the frame.”

His lips tightened slightly.

“He wasn’t exactly hiding her. What he did was worse.”

Connor felt his throat tighten.

“He made her invisible.”

François flicked the ash from his cigarette and watched it fall into the dark.

“If there was a photograph,” he said quietly, “my father always made sure she was standing somewhere outside the frame.”

Connor didn’t realize he had taken a small step closer until the cigarette smoke drifted between them.

“What do you mean?”

François shrugged faintly.

“Sometimes she would get ready when he was about to leave somewhere. Maybe this time he would take her. Maybe this time he would want her standing beside him.”

He took another drag from his cigarette.

“But he always found a reason. Too formal. Too crowded. Not appropriate.”

A small pause.

“Sometimes he said he didn’t want her to become the center of people’s judgment. Sometimes he said nothing at all.”

He looked out at the dark city again.

“He would just leave alone.”

“After a while,” François said quietly, “my mother realized there was no place meant for her in his life.”

He looked out at the city again.

“Not at the table. Not in the room.”

A brief pause.

“Not even in the frame.”

Silence settled between them. Somewhere below the terrace a distant car passed, and then the night returned.

“Some people want the whole world to know they’re loved,” François said.

This time he turned his head and looked at Connor. There was nothing harsh in his expression, only the shadow of something very old.

“My mother would have settled for one room.”

Connor couldn’t say the first thing that came to mind. The simplicity of the sentence carried too much weight.

For a strange moment, he had the absurd thought that if François ever asked for a room, Connor would make space for him in every one he had.

François turned back to the view.

“That’s why I don’t think like Hudson,” he said. “Love doesn’t need to become a performance. The whole world doesn’t need to know.”

He glanced down at the cigarette between his fingers.

“But I can’t think like Jacob either. Love can exist between two people, yes. But if you keep the person you love in the shadows long enough…”

The corner of his mouth curved slightly.

“…you’re not protecting them anymore.”

A small pause.

“You’re erasing them.”

Connor straightened slightly.

He didn’t step closer to François, but his voice softened.

“Did your mother realize that?”

François laughed quietly. There was neither amusement nor mockery in it.

“Every day,” he said. “And it destroyed her.”

He didn’t bring the cigarette back to his lips this time. He simply held it between his fingers and let it burn out.

“No one can live very long without noticing there’s no place made for them in the room.”

Connor looked at him.

What he saw now wasn’t François’s usual calmness, but something behind it. Something that had been hidden very carefully for years. Maybe older than anger.

Hurt.

Not shame - but the mark that someone else’s shame leaves behind.

Connor didn’t know what to say.

It wasn’t something you offered condolences for. It wasn’t something you could comfort.

So he simply stayed there beside him.

Looking at the same view. Sharing the same night.

Finally he asked quietly, almost without thinking:

“And you?”

François lifted his eyebrows slightly.

“What about me?”

Connor hesitated, but didn’t back away.

“You,” he said carefully. “If someone loved you someday… how would you want to be loved?”

The moment he said it, Connor wondered if it had been a stupid question. Of course François had been loved before.

The question hung in the air for a moment.

Connor half expected François to brush it off.

But then François lifted his head and looked at him.

Directly.

Not long enough to be called a stare - but long enough that it couldn’t simply pass.

Then, without looking away from Connor’s face, he answered.

“Inside the frame.”

Chapter Text

July 2025

When Connor reached his apartment door and realized his key wasn’t in the pocket it was supposed to be in, he thought, Fuck.

Wanting to go out and get his favorite energy drink this close to midnight hadn’t been a good idea. No. Wanting to go out and get an energy drink to watch a film this close to midnight hadn’t been a good idea, he corrected himself. Not being able to sit through a movie at home without something to keep his hands or mouth busy was entirely his fault. Being made fun of for not having watched a 1978 retro French film, however, was François’.

Yes. François’.

The man he had been texting constantly since the shoot ended and they had both returned to LA. The man he was currently in the middle of an active argument with over French films. The man who insisted that the film Connor wanted to watch tonight was an “ancient text” and who clearly enjoyed teasing him for not having seen it.

Your cinephile title has been revoked, he had written in his last message.

Connor was a man of challenges. Or maybe he just couldn’t say no to someone who kept teasing him about his French and the films he had or hadn’t seen. That was how, when he decided to actually put the film on in the middle of the night and realized he was out of his favorite drink, he found himself in one of the 24 hour convenience stores.

Connor was also a man who forgot things. Apparently. He had only remembered that particular fact the moment he found himself standing in front of his door without his key.

Great, he thought.

His sister, also his roommate, was in New York on a work trip. His closest friend in LA, Brity, was staying over at her boyfriend’s place tonight. He was almost certain he wouldn’t be able to find a locksmith at this hour. And even if he could, he didn’t want to pay for one.

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Connor let out a quiet sigh, pulled it out, and glanced at the screen.

Fran:
so?

Fran:
did you start it?

Connor:
ran into a small problem

Connor sighed, turned the camera toward himself, and took a quick picture before sending it.

(selfie with the door)

Fran:
what am i looking at

Connor:
what do you think

Fran:
hmm

Fran:
a door

Fran:
and you looking… unfairly good for someone with a “small problem”

Connor couldn’t quite make sense of the warmth starting at the back of his neck and spreading upward. It wasn’t the first time he had been complimented. Hell, it wasn’t even really a compliment. It was just François being nice.

Still, it was enough to make the corners of his mouth lift.

Connor:
that’s not helpful

Connor:
locked myself out

Connor watched as the typing dots appeared, then disappeared.

A second later, his screen lit up with François’ name.

François was calling.

Connor hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Hey,” he said, his voice coming out more normal than he expected.

“Hey,” François said. His voice sounded softer over the phone. “So… you locked yourself out.”

Connor leaned back against the door. “Yeah. Brilliant move. Truly.”

François let out a quiet laugh. “Clearly.”

A brief silence followed.

“Locksmith?” François asked.

Connor made a face. “It’s almost midnight. And… expensive.”

“Right.”

A second passed.

“Okay,” François said, more thoughtfully this time. “Your sister’s not home.”

Connor frowned. “What?”

“She was in New York,” François said. “You told me. Work trip.”

Connor paused.

He remembered that.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “She’s not.”

“Brity?” François continued.

Connor hesitated before answering.

When did I tell him that much?

For a moment, he thought about the messages they had been sending each other for weeks. The random late night details, the small things that crossed his mind during the day, people in his life.

The pieces he had not meant to tell anyone.

…yeah.

Maybe he had.

And François had listened.

He had remembered.

“She’s at her boyfriend’s,” Connor said finally.

“Of course,” François said, as if that completed the picture.

There was another brief silence, but this one wasn’t awkward.

Connor rested his head against the door, tracing the edge of the keyhole with his fingers. His focus had shifted. Away from the cold door and toward the voice on the other end of the line.

“Okay,” François said.

A short pause.

“Come to mine.”

Chapter Text

August 2025

François was sitting on the swing in his backyard. It was almost dark.

He glanced around. On one side of the garden, through the large glass doors that opened into the kitchen, the plates on the kitchen island were visible. Everything was arranged neatly, the food ready to be eaten.

The pool lights were on. Simon’s toys were both around the pool and inside it.

Simon.

The reason he had chosen this house.

In reality, there wasn’t a proper reason for him to choose a house this big. He didn’t have a large family to host, and he didn’t have many guests either. Not because he didn’t have friends, but because of his OCD. There were multiple requirements for people who came into his house, and asking them to follow those rules every time made him feel like he was forcing them into something.

He also didn’t want to be seen as strange or crazy.

That’s why he preferred meeting his friends at their places or outside.

So if you really looked at it, there was only one good reason for him to choose this five-bedroom, single-story house.

The large garden.

A place where he could leave Simon on the days he couldn’t take him out.

But not today.

Today, Simon was with Connor.

Connor had insisted on taking him out, and they would probably be back in about twenty minutes.

François stayed where he was a little longer. Then he reached into his pocket and took out his cigarette pack.

That was actually why he had come outside.

To smoke one.

He opened the pack and pushed a cigarette out slightly. Then paused.

His brows pulled together just a little.

He didn’t want to smell.

He didn’t want the scent to cling to him, to follow him back inside.

He pushed the cigarette back in and closed the pack.

He held it in his hand for a moment, then leaned his head back slightly. He didn’t close his eyes. He just stared ahead.

He needed to stop this.

Or rather, not start again.

Because this wasn’t… something that belonged to him.

A few months ago came to mind.

On set, between takes.

The days he had noticed that Connor stepped outside almost every break. A cigarette in his hand, usually alone. Not calling anyone over, not waiting for anyone.

At first, François had just watched from a distance.

Then one day, without thinking, he had walked over.

With a cigarette in his hand.

Something he normally wouldn’t do. Maybe once a month. Only if he was really stressed.

But that day, he wasn’t.

Still, he lit it.

Connor hadn’t said anything. Just nodded slightly. François had stood next to him. Without speaking.

Then it started happening again.

A break.

A cigarette.

A few minutes spent next to Connor.

The cigarettes he lit like an idiot, just to listen to him talk for a few more minutes.

François tightened his fingers around the cigarette pack.

Even after the set had wrapped, he didn’t remember when smoking had turned into a habit.

But he remembered exactly why it had started.

As he turned the cigarette pack in his hand, his gaze fixed on a single point.

He had always been like this.

Everything in his life needed a reason. An explanation. He wanted to know where things began and where they were going. In his mind, everything had a place; everything, eventually, corresponded to something.

He didn’t like uncertainty.

Questions without answers unsettled him.

The last few months with Connor came to mind.

Things that had started without them noticing, and then just continued on their own.

The movies they watched together. Starting another before one even ended, somehow ending up watching until morning. Pausing scenes to talk, arguing over unnecessary details.

The evenings spent in this garden.

Swimming in the pool, Connor giving exaggerated reactions to the meaningless splashes Simon made.

Sitting on the floor, playing with Simon.

The day they went to the beach.

Connor dragging him into small thrift stores filled with things François would never wear. François waiting for hours while he tried things on, even though he bought nothing.

The fact that neither of them had a coffee machine, so they went out for coffee almost every day.

And woven into all of it, the things that were never spoken about.

The touches.

The ones that weren’t avoided. The ones that were, without realizing it, sought out.

Fingertips brushing while doing something, and neither of them pulling away.

François’s hand, often without him noticing, finding its way to Connor’s waist and staying there, in a strange way, as if it had arrived where it was supposed to be.

The nights they fell asleep on the same couch.

But never in the bedroom.

With a careful awareness that knew exactly where the line began, but never named it.

François’s gaze drifted for a moment.

None of it meant anything on its own.

But together…

It looked like something.

And that was the problem.

Something he couldn’t quite define.

François closed the cigarette pack in his palm.

He didn’t like this uncertainty, and maybe it was time to talk about it.

Twenty minutes later, Connor pushed the door open with his shoulder. The door hit the wall lightly. Simon ran inside, slipping on the floor, almost falling, then catching himself and spinning once. The sound of his paws echoed briefly through the house.

Connor laughed, shaking his head.

“We walked for like an hour… he’s still like this.”

François stood by the door. He watched Simon’s uncontrollable energy for a moment.

“Apparently it wasn’t enough.”

Connor bent down and scratched behind Simon’s ears. Simon pushed his head into Connor’s hand, his tail wagging faster.

“Apparently not.”

Connor straightened up and walked into the kitchen. He took a glass from the cabinet and poured himself some water.

François was still by the door. He was watching Connor. Watching how comfortable he was in this house, how he found everything without asking. Everything moved forward so naturally. He kept watching until Connor took his water and went to the guest room to change.

Simon wandered around for a few more minutes, then slowed down. He came to the side of the couch and curled up. His tail still occasionally tapped lightly against the floor.

Dinner ended quickly. A movie was on, but this time neither of them was really watching.

Connor shifted into the corner of the couch. He was talking about something, then his sentence fell apart.

At some point, without noticing, he moved a little closer to François.

At some point in the movie, Connor’s head found François’s lap.

François noticed it immediately, but didn’t move.

He just stayed like that for a while.

Connor’s breathing slowed.

His eyes were closed.

He was asleep.

François looked at him.

Then, almost without realizing it, he moved his hand to Connor’s hair. His fingers moved slowly through it. It didn’t feel like a conscious action, more like something that had been delayed, something that should have already been there.

He didn’t pull his hand away.

Time passed.

The sounds changed. The movie ended.

But whatever was in the room stayed the same.

Connor’s eyes opened slightly. For the first few seconds, nothing made sense.

Then he felt the weight. The couch beneath him. François’s lap under his head.

And the hand in his hair.

He didn’t move.

“This is weird,” he said, his voice still caught in sleep.

François’s hand didn’t stop.

“It’s not.”

Connor gave a very small laugh.

“Yeah… it is.”

A short silence.

Connor looked at the ceiling.

“You’re just gonna keep doing that?”

“Yes.”

A moment passed.

Connor exhaled.

“That’s a bad idea.”

“Why?”

Connor closed his eyes, then opened them again.

“Because I’m not gonna want to move.”

François’s fingers kept moving through his hair.

“Then don’t move.”

A short pause.

“Stay here.”

His voice was soft.

“Stay forever.”

Connor opened his eyes fully this time.

He looked at François.

For a long time.

But this time, there was no weight in that look.

There was something lighter. Like noticing something new, but without fear.

A very small smile formed at the corner of his lips.

“We’re really doing this.”

“Yes.”

François smiled.

Connor closed his eyes.

A brief moment passed.

Connor suddenly opened one eye.

This time there was no hesitation, just something a little mischievous, a little curious.

“Do I get to kiss you now?”

François didn’t hesitate.

“Please.”

Morning light slowly filled the room.

Connor noticed the light first.

Then the bed.

Then the smell.

He knew where he was before he fully opened his eyes.

At some point during the night, François had carried him into the bedroom.

He shifted slightly. The texture of the sheets was different. More orderly. More… in place. His fingers moved over the fabric for a brief moment.

He turned his head slightly.

François was there. Holding him tightly from behind, still asleep.

Connor lay there for a few seconds without doing anything. He found himself matching François’s breathing without realizing it. Then he looked at him again.

This was real.

And suddenly, it felt too real.

He didn’t sit up. He didn’t get up. He just closed his eyes and opened them again, as if the image might change.

It didn’t.

After a while, François’s breathing shifted.

He was waking up.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Connor looking at him.

A short silence.

“Hi,” François said, his voice still soft with sleep.

Connor didn’t answer immediately.

He kept looking.

The lightness from last night was gone.

“Hi.”

There was something in his tone.

Something pulling back.

François noticed it immediately.

“What is it?” he asked, still soft, but more careful now.

Connor let out a short breath. He created a little distance between them. His hand lingered in the air for a second, as if unsure what to do. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

“Are you sure?”

François frowned slightly.

“About what?”

Connor tried to smile. It didn’t work.

“About… this.”

François was still holding him, but Connor made a vague gesture between them.

Me?

Wanting a relationship with me?

Me?

The word passed through his mind.

And then the rest followed.

Me. The one who can’t do anything properly.

A brief moment.

Someone who has never managed to achieve anything truly important in his life.

His breath faltered slightly.

His gaze drifted away from François.

Someone drifting inside a career he isn’t even sure exists.

A pause.

And then, that old reflex he didn’t want—

On set, the day his name was never called.

At home, the moment he realized he hadn’t fixed anything, hadn’t been enough to fix anything.

Connor clenched his jaw.

He didn’t want to think about it.

But the thought had already settled.

Me. The one who doesn’t shine.

A short silence.

Why would anyone choose that?

Connor continued, this time faster.

“Like—” he said, then stopped, trying to gather his words. He ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it again.

“You know I’m not… this.”

François’s gaze stayed fixed.

Connor looked away. At the ceiling.

“I’m probably gonna go back to waiting tables in like, a few months,” he said, his voice flattening.

“This whole thing? It’s not… stable.”

A short silence. Connor lightly crumpled the sheets between his fingers.

“You have—” he said, gesturing around the room.

“This. Your life. Your house. Your career. Everything makes sense.”

He looked back at François.

Paused for a moment.

“Why would you pick me?”

Chapter Text

August 2025

Connor’s question still hung in the air.

For a few seconds, François didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he shifted, pushing himself up against the headboard. The sheets dragged softly under the movement, the room still carrying the quiet of early morning.

Connor watched him, unsure.

François didn’t say anything.

Instead, he reached for him.

Not hesitantly.

He slid an arm around him and pulled him closer, guiding him until Connor’s head settled against his chest.

Connor tensed at first, just for a second — then stilled.

François’s hand came up to the back of his neck, steady, his thumb resting there before moving slightly, slow, absent, like it had already learned the shape of him.

Connor could hear his breathing. Slower than his own.

For a moment, he found himself matching it.

Then losing it again.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t pull away.

He just stayed.

When François finally spoke, it wasn’t what Connor expected.

“You know I was with someone before the filming started, right?”

Connor’s breath stilled slightly against him.

“My ex.”

A small pause.

“We didn’t break up because of a third party.”

François’s voice was calm. Too calm.

“He wanted to start a family. I didn’t.”

Connor’s fingers shifted faintly against the fabric of François’s shirt, pressing, then stilling again.

“He wanted children,” François continued, slower now. “And I was… terrified.”

A quiet exhale brushed through Connor’s hair.

“You know my family.”

Connor nodded, barely.

“I didn’t even consider it. I didn’t try to understand it. I didn’t try to meet him halfway.”

A pause.

“I just let him walk away.”

Connor swallowed, his throat brushing lightly against François’s chest.

François’s thumb pressed once at the back of his neck before easing again.

“And do you know what I realized after?”

Connor didn’t answer.

“I didn’t love him enough to even try.”

Connor’s fingers tightened.

François noticed. His hand stilled for a second — then resumed, slower.

“It never even crossed my mind.”

A quieter pause.

“I know how that sounds. Especially after three years.”

Connor let out a small breath against him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It does.”

François nodded once, his chin brushing lightly against Connor’s hair.

“It’s not flattering.”

Silence settled, brief but heavy.

“But when I look back now…”

He paused, his fingers going still at the back of Connor’s neck, like he was choosing this part more carefully.

“I’ve never loved anyone enough to face something that scared me that much.”

Connor’s gaze shifted, though he didn’t move away.

“I’ve never wanted to be that brave for anyone.”

Another pause.

“I’ve never had that feeling people talk about.”

His voice lowered, closer now.

“The one that unsettles you. Changes things.”

Connor’s brows pulled together slightly.

François’s arm tightened around him, just a fraction.

“No one has ever made me feel like that.”

A small pause.

“No one has ever—”

He stopped.

His hand pressed slightly more firmly at the back of Connor’s neck.

Then, quieter—

“—got under my skin like that.”

Connor’s breath hitched, barely there.

François felt it. His fingers stilled again.

He looked down at him fully now.

“No one has ever made me lose control of how I move through my own life.”

A pause.

“No one has ever made me reconsider things I had already decided for myself.”

Connor’s eyes searched his face.

François didn’t look away.

“No one.”

A beat.

“Until you.”

The air between them shifted.

François didn’t move.

“And then you came.”

His hand slid slightly higher, guiding Connor just enough so he had to meet his eyes fully.

“You walked into that reading room and smiled at me.”

A breath.

“‘Hi. I’m Connor. Nice to meet you.’”

A faint pause.

“And there it was.”

Another one.

“The most beautiful smile I had ever seen.”

Connor’s fingers tightened faintly again.

François’s thumb moved, slower now, brushing through the soft curls at the nape — his golden locks — lingering for a second before settling again.

“And not long after that, I caught myself counting.”

“Minutes.”

“Until the next cigarette break.”

A quiet exhale.

“I don’t even smoke properly, Connor.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“But I kept going out anyway.”

A smaller pause.

“Just to stand next to you.”

Connor stilled under his gaze.

François didn’t look away.

“And then it didn’t stop there.”

“I started going to bed just to wait for morning.”

Connor’s breath faltered.

“I’ve spent my whole life waiting for the night.”

“For things to quiet down. For everything to leave me alone.”

A pause.

“And then I found myself waiting for the sun to come up.”

“To see you.”

A small pause.

“…my own version of it.”

Connor let out a quiet, surprised breath — something like a laugh slipping through it.

François’s mouth curved slightly.

The silence that followed was softer.

“You were beautiful,” he said after a moment.

“You are.”

A small pause.

“But that’s not what I mean.”

His hand shifted, firmer now at the back of Connor’s neck, grounding him there.

“The more I stayed with you…”

He exhaled slowly.

“The more I saw parts of you.”

“The way you listen.”

“The way you stay quiet without making it empty.”

A small pause.

“And the way you don’t make people feel like they have to earn their place next to you.”

Connor’s breath shifted faintly.

François’s gaze didn’t move.

“You just let them be there.”

A pause.

“And I know you don’t think you do that.”

“But you do.”

Silence.

“And then one day, I painfully realized that if your presence in my life changed…”

He paused.

“Nothing would move the same way again.”

“That terrified me.”

A breath.

“And the idea of you not being there…”

A smaller pause.

“was enough to drive me a little insane.”

Connor’s breathing broke slightly.

François didn’t soften.

“And you weren’t even mine.”

“And it was already like that.”

He held his gaze, unwavering.

“And now you’re asking me why you.”

A quiet huff of a laugh left him.

“Of course you are.”

“And I don’t care if you go back to waiting tables tomorrow.”

Connor made a small, uneven sound, something catching in his throat.

His fingers tightened in François’s shirt, almost unconsciously.

François felt it. His hand moved, brushing once more through his golden locks, slower this time.

“I don’t care if any of this makes sense on paper,” he continued quietly. “That’s not what this is.”

“I’ve spent my entire life making sure things make sense.”

“This doesn’t.”

“And that’s exactly how I know it’s real.”

Connor stilled.

François’s voice dropped, quieter now but sharper in a different way.

“I don’t give a fuck about any of that.”

“I care about what happens when you’re in my life.”

“And what happens when you’re not.”

A brief silence settled.

Then his expression shifted slightly.

“And what do you mean, it’s not stable?”

Connor didn’t answer immediately.

“You know what I mean,” he said after a moment, voice low.

“No. I don’t.”

Connor looked away.

At the sheets. At his own hands.

“This only works because of where we are right now.”

“Because of the show. Because everything is… contained.”

He swallowed.

“And when that’s over…”

The words faded.

François waited.

Connor’s fingers tightened again.

“You have a career. A life that actually makes sense.”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t even know if I’ll have work in a few months.”

“I might go back to waiting tables.”

A pause.

“And then what?”

François watched him properly this time.

“If that happens,” he said slowly, “I’ll still be exactly where I am right now.”

Connor looked up.

François held his gaze.

“And if you go back to waiting tables tomorrow…”

A small pause.

“I’ll just be the boyfriend waiting outside at the end of your shift to pick you up.”

Connor’s breath caught, this time not recovering right away.

He pressed his face briefly into François’s chest.

François’s hand moved instinctively, brushing through his golden locks, slower now.

“Though I don’t think it’s going to come to that,” he added quietly.

Connor pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Do you really think like that?” he asked softly.

François’s expression didn’t shift.

“I’ve been doing this long enough to trust what I’m looking at.”

A small pause.

“And I’m not wrong about you.”

Connor searched his face.

“Yeah?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

François didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

Connor didn’t say anything.

He just stayed there, closer now without realizing it, his hand still caught in François’s shirt.

And for the first time since he’d asked the question—

he stopped trying to pull away.