The second-most stressful, chaotic day of Connor's life ends, a little anticlimactically, just like any other.
The mission president drives away toward Kampala in a puff of smoky exhaust and the choked roar of a rusty truck motor — never, if his gut feeling is correct, to return. The general and his cronies disappear from the village once more, all traces of their presence gone save for the nervous looks the villagers give the road out of town, and the occasional bursts of furious machine gun fire echoing over the horizon. Whether they will return is a little less certain, but Connor prays to Heavenly Father that they'll move on to others who are easier to bully.
(Of course, then he feels bad for wishing misfortune on someone else, and starts to worry that the warlord will come back specifically to punish him for such thoughts. That's just the way he thinks, though. He's used to expecting catastrophic retribution for the things that go on in his mind — it's something he's trying to work on.)
The new converts put away the props from their show — which was masterfully implemented, the theatrical side of Connor has to admit, despite the horrifying content. They stick around to chat for a while, and the elders reassure them that their performance was appreciated even though that couldn't be further from the truth. But finally the villagers turn in for the night, and elders are left to return to their hut in tense, uncertain silence. It's the same building, filled with the same people. They're still together, and they can still do … something here.
And yet, things feel different somehow.
The boys themselves are slightly droopy, walking with slow, labored steps through the door to collapse in the main room. They're exhausted, both from the long week — okay, the long three months — in Africa and the stress of the Ugandans' performance and the final confrontation with the General. Connor knows knows he already had horribly dark circles under his own eyes even before the rough day — he hasn't slept through the night in weeks. If asked he'd blame the stress of their environment, but his hell dreams have been steadily worsening as well since the arrival of … well, since all the baptisms started, mostly.
They're all disheartened, understandably so — they were basically just thrown out of the church, which was arguably the most important thing in any of their lives. But, at the same time, there's something lighter about the air. It's as though a huge pressure has been lifted from their shoulders now that all expectations and judgement are suddenly gone.
Connor's not sure he's ever felt this free from judgement before.
"So, things have changed now," Elder Cunningham says finally into the quiet, muggy room. Connor might once have been tempted rolled his eyes at the annoyingly obvious statement, but something needed to be said and this apparently does the trick — somehow, Elder Cunningham always knows what will appease the masses. The other elders nod and murmur their agreement.
"So what does that mean?" Elder Church asks quietly. "What do we do, how can we fix this?"
Connor feels like he should say something, make everyone feel better somehow, but his usual stream of motivational comments and helpful advice seems to have dried up. "I have no idea what we do next," he admits after a few seconds of blankly shaking his head. "I guess we're staying, but— but I don't know where we go from here. I guess … we'll have to figure it out as we go?"
There are more murmurs now, this time less positive. Connor swears he hears someone whisper that the entire situation is a disaster.
"But, but this could be good!" Elder Cunningham says loudly over the others. His optimism seems infallible. "Because our rules can change now too, guys. Not all of them — I mean, I don't think we should swear excessively, or talk badly about Heavenly Father, obviously, because that's not cool … But as for things like having a strict curfew, and drinking coffee, and … oh! The temple garments."
"It is way too hot for temple garments," Elder Neeley agrees immediately.
"Right?" Elder Cunningham grins contentedly for a moment, then remembers that he was making a point and jolts back into his speech. "But anyway. I really don't think anything bad will happen if we let a few of those things slide now. I mean, who here is going to care, you know?"
The elders frown at him, then slowly turn toward Connor, unconsciously seeking the approval of the district leader as though he hasn't just had all of his legitimate authority stripped away by a thoroughly unimpressed mission president. He shrugs halfheartedly. For so long, he's had nothing but the rules to keep him grounded, but even he has to admit things seem to be going better here — for their mission, at least, if not their reputations and personal confidence levels — without them.
"If we haven't been struck down by Heavenly fire yet, I hardly think a few cups of coffee are going to push us over the edge," he allows. It's a testament to how long they've all been suppressed that the other elders actually cheer at this small concession. Connor holds up a hand, and they fall silent again, waiting for the caveat. "But let's not get carried away. We are staying because we genuinely want to make a difference, after all. We can't let this newfound freedom get in our way."
"Oh, of course not," Elder Poptarts agrees, ever the faithful companion. But he's almost drowned out by the excited murmur of teenage boys suddenly plotting strategic and totally inconsequential ways to rebel against the authority that has already written them off as failures anyway.
Connor finds it hard to share their enthusiasm in the wake of their excommunication. He doesn't feel especially guilty about the … colorful way things this afternoon had gone down, per se, but there's something inexplicably formidable about the fact that the salvation — or damnation — of an entire town now rests solely on his shoulders. Before, there was a safety net — other Mormons, ones who actually knew what they were doing, who could be contacted in case of emergency for advice, at least. Now, there's no one to save the villagers but their little group of missionaries, and while he's grown to trust his friends over the course of their mission, he really isn't sure they're up to this challenge. Or that he is, for that matter.
Plus he's just really, really tired and he doesn't actually want to talk to anybody right now. He wants to curl up and sleep, far away from other people so he can suffer in peace. Or tap, but there's nowhere in this godforsaken place that actually has hard enough floors to get that satisfying clicking that really makes him feel better.
He notices absently that K— that Elder Price has remained uncharacteristically quiet as well, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest staring vaguely into space. Connor knows the other boy has been through a roller coaster of experiences and emotions these past few days, most of them decidedly negative and in direct conflict with his previously-held world views. As the leader of the group, it's his duty to make sure he's holding up okay. But before he can work up the nerve to approach him and ask what's wrong, the conversation in the room dwindles and the elders all start to stand up and shuffle off to their rooms.
Connor checks his watch — it's only 10:17, seventeen minutes past bedtime. He almost laughs at their lack of commitment — maybe real, inspired insubordination is something they'll have to work up to, then.
He watches as the elders trickle past, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and newfound determination. He doesn't like to go to bed until they're all in their rooms — not because he doesn't trust them or anything like that, but just because, as the district leader, he feels better knowing for sure that they're all safe where they belong. Elder Cunningham, who is the slowest to get up from the floor and the last to leave the room as a result, pauses in the doorway and looks back at Connor.
"You know," he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, "the rule about— the rule about the, you know, gay stuff … that doesn't necessarily have to stay, either."
"I— You don't— What?" Connor stammers, caught off guard. He has no idea why on earth Elder Cunningham would bring up that particular subject. He only remembers mentioning anything remotely gay maybe once around the other elders, and anyway, he's successfully turned all of that off, which makes this conversation completely unnecessary. Because he's straight now. Obviously. He slides down in his seat a little, face burning.
Elder Cunningham, struck by the need to clarify, rambles on. "I don't really know anything about it, of course. I mean, I'm obviously not gay. I'm actually very happy with Niagara, which is great. But that doesn't mean …" He shrugs. "I don't mean this in a bad way, but maybe the Church could be, you know, wrong about this?"
"Um?"
Elder Cunningham takes a deep breath, while Connor struggles to get any air at all. "Things change, you know?" he continues. "Our understanding of what people need … There are even people who think Luke Skywalker is gay, now that the EU's been thrown out. And if it's good enough for George Lucas …"
"That's totally relevant," Conner babbles nervously, slumping back further into his chair. "Thank you for that."
Elder Cunningham frowns, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Look, Elder McKinley. All I'm trying to say is … whatever you're feeling, it's not wrong, and we would be really, really mean to keep treating it like it is. And I thought, maybe the hell dreams would go away if you didn't feel so guilty—"
"Wait, what?" Connor interrupts. He definitely hadn't mentioned how much those were bothering him. It's his job as district leader to appear calm, collected, and ready to face the day's problems with a well-rested mind. His recurring nightmares would not contribute to that image.
"Oh, yeah. Um, so, we … we can kind of hear you," Elder Cunningham says with a grimace. "Yelling. When you wake up from the bad ones."
Fuck, Connor thinks, but can't bring himself to say that out loud quite yet, so he just whispers a quiet oh instead.
"I just thought you would sleep better if I told you you weren't committing a horrible sin just for being yourself," Elder Cunningham finishes, starting slowly down the hall. "I don't know. You can think it over, though. No pressure."
He gives Connor one last worried look, waves goodnight, and disappears into his room.
Connor stares blankly after him, struck by the sudden urge to laugh hysterically. He doesn't. A broken little sob bubbles up instead, but he forces it away, because he's not sad, just tired, and things will be better in the morning. A latter day.
Connor had every intention of going to bed, he really did, but he ends up zoning out curled in the chair without ever really slipping off into sleep. The con of this is that he's no more well-rested than before — but the pro is no hell dreams, so there's that. He jolts back into awareness what must be hours later, because the kitchen light flicks on and someone is walking around.
He stumbles to the doorway in time to see Elder Price pull a ziplock bag filled with coffee powder from under the toaster and add it to the tea kettle. He feels like he should say something, reprimand him somehow, but there is so much wrong with this method that he wouldn't know where to start. Plus, coffee is apparently allowed now anyway, so he just stands there with his mouth open. Catching flies, as his dad would say.
He shakes himself. He doesn't like to think about things like that.
"You looked uncomfortable," Elder Price murmurs without turning around. "I was going to wake you up, but you've seemed so tired lately…"
"I wasn't sleeping," Connor says immediately. "Just … drowsing." Then he frowns. "Why aren't you in bed?"
"Couldn't sleep," Elder Price says. "Crazy day and all."
Now Connor has something he can scold. "You certainly won't get back to sleep if you drink all that coffee. Coffee has caffeine, which—"
"Which keeps you up, I know." Pouring a mug for himself and coming to sit at the table, Kevin bites his lip. "Honestly, that's kind of the point."
"Hell dreams?" Connor asks. He sympathizes.
"Sort of. I mean, yeah. Of course."
He doesn't sound certain, though. He hesitates, and when he does answer, his voice wavers — like he's lying. Connor has to ask; he knows he won't be able to move on until he does. He sits down next to him at the table and tries to meet his eyes, although that's easier said than done.
"Elder Price, is there … is there something wrong?"
He feels almost silly for asking — of course there's nothing wrong with Elder Price, the smartest, most devout Mormon to ever pass through the halls of a Mission Control Center. The guy is perfect. He's heard so much about all the things Elder Price has done right, and he'd probably resent him if he wasn't secretly … um, impressed. But Kevin's face is pale, and his eyes are dark, and he doesn't answer right away.
"You can probably call me Kevin now," he says slowly, after taking several sips of steaming coffee and tapping his fingers restlessly against the table for a while. "Since we're not really elders anymore." Then he makes an uncomfortable expression and shrugs self-consciously. "Not if you don't want to, of course. Is that weird? I just … I'm just getting a little lonely here, I guess." It's both an explanation for his request and an answer to the question.
"Lonely?" Connor asks. Sharing a small hut with nine other boys, including his virtual shadow Elder Cunningham? "Really?"
"I don't know," Kevin says with a kind of high-pitched laugh. It is not a normal sound, and Connor frowns at him. "I just miss my family, I guess. Being able to, um, talk to people? Or something."
"Well, you can always talk to us, silly. We're here for each other, including you."
Connor bumps him his shoulder gently into Kevin's, trying to get him to smile or at least relax a little. Instead, Kevin flinches away, trying to cover the cringe with a stretch and a very fake cough. Connor isn't fooled, and he respectfully scoots back.
"I really mean it," Connor says, once he recovers from the shock of eliciting such a response. That hasn't happened to him in quite a while, not since he's started turning things off, and he's not quite sure how to interpret the movement in this new context. "You can talk to me about anything."
Kevin forces a grin. Connor can tell it's not natural, but it doesn't look totally miserable, either. It certainly doesn't look disgusted or anything. Connor's breathing comes a little easier.
"Thanks, Elder McKinley."
"Connor," Connor tells him. "It's Connor."
Now Kevin really does smile for real. And immediately, Connor wishes he hadn't. A strange burning sensation starts somewhere in his stomach, and suddenly he's nauseous, and he knows what this is and he doesn't want it, can't. Turn it off.
He stands quickly.
"So, um, I'm going to go to bed," he says. Then he mentally kicks himself, because Kevin's face falls — almost imperceptibly, but he notices. He bites his lip. "Unless there's something you wanted to talk about now?"
"Uh, nope!" Kevin says brightly, and suddenly the fake smile is back in full force. "Everything's great. Have a nice sleep, Elder McKinley."
Connor knows he's holding something back, and thinks he might be upset because he's back to using his last name. But he also doesn't know what to do, so he waves halfheartedly and turns away.
He thinks he hears Kevin softly whisper his name as he heads down the hall. Maybe it's wishful thinking … but somehow, he doesn't think so. Connor — he's never liked it as much as he does in this moment.
He's never going to be able to sleep tonight.