I own nothing but the plot line and a few OCs. The Almighty Larson owns the rest.
Collins sat on the couch in the living room of the apartment he shared with Angel. A pair of reading glasses rested on his nose as he read Connor's essay. He loved grading any assignment the young graduate student handed in. His red pen was never necessary. All he was really doing was reading the paper, occasionally smiling when he read something that made reference to what he had said during class. Sometimes, Connor put little jokes in his assignments that he was sure no one would understand except Collins.
"Honey, you're smiling," Angel pointed out, emerging from the kitchen with two bottles of water in her hands. Collins looked up at her as she held one of the bottles out to him. "What are you reading?"
"I'm grading an essay," Collins replied, taking the bottle and placing it next to his capped red pen on the coffee table. Angel's eyes widened. "What?"
"I've never seen you smile while grading essays." The drag queen plopped down next to the professor. "You're always frowning and you have this really mean look in your eyes. Like you just want to kill whoever wrote it."
"Well, this is one student who knows what my expectations are and goes above and beyond the call of duty to exceed them."
"That Connor kid?" Collins nodded as he turned his attention back to the essay in his hand. "How come smart people don't have normal lives?"
"Well, now I'm insulted."
"Honey, you know I wasn't talking about you. And you're not as young as Connor."
"I'm not that old."
"I know that! But Connor's eighteen. He should out living life. I get the feeling all he does is sit by himself somewhere and study regardless if he has homework or not."
"Books are his only friends." Collins flipped the page of the essay. "Did you know his parents have never told him that they love him?"
"You're kidding!"
"No, he told me after class when I asked him about his black eye. His mother was going to say it last night, but his father didn't want her to."
"Why did he have a black eye?"
"His father was going to hit his mother for trying to say she loved him. I guess he got in the middle of it and took the hit for her."
"Do you believe him?"
"I don't think I do. I mean, the 'I love you' thing could be true, but I thought about it, and I've come to the conclusion that Connor may have made up the part of his story about trying to protect his mother to hide the fact that he's being abused."
"By his father?"
"Definitely. I'm not sure about his mother though."
"You think she's abusing him, too?"
"All I'm saying is: what kind of mother stands by and watches her husband beat her child?" Angel nodded in agreement. There was suddenly a soft knock at the door. The lovers exchanged looks and Collins took his glasses off. He placed them and Connor's essay on the coffee table and stood up. Angel watched as he walked to the door, turned the knob, and slowly opened it. They were both shocked to see Connor on the other side.
The boy had his arms wrapped around himself and his head down. The sweater he was wearing was torn in places.
"Connor?" Collins said. His student looked up at him and he saw that his nose and mouth were bleeding. They stared at each other for a long moment before Connor burst into tears. Collins gently took hold of one of Connor's arms and pulled him into the apartment. He then shut the door, wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders and led him to the couch.
"What happened to him?" Angel asked.
"I don't know," Collins told her. She watched as Collins helped Connor, who was limping, sit down on the couch.
"I'll be right back." Angel quickly left the room. Collins kept his arm around Connor as they sat on the couch in silence. The boy's tears slowed up after a while.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to just . . . show up at your home, but I . . . I didn't know where else to go."
"It's fine, it's fine," Collins assured him, taking his arm from around his shoulders. "Connor, what happened to you?"
"You know how I got the black eye."
"I'm talking about everything else. The bleeding mouth and nose, the ripped sweater, the limp."
"I'm pretty sure there's bruising underneathmy sweater."
"What happened?"
"I broke a rule."
"What is with you and rules?"
"Rules have to be followed at all times. There are no exceptions. And if a person breaks one, they have to be punished. That's how things go. I learned that at a very young age."
"From who?"
"I think you mean 'whom,' Professor."
"Who told you that, Connor?"
"My parents. Well . . . my father mostly."
"Is he the person who did this to you?"
"It's justifiable."
"No, it isn't. Everyone is bound to break at least one rule in their life and abuse is not the way to right a wrong. Your father needs to know that."
"Professor, my father isn't-"
"Connor, I can tell something is going on," Collins interrupted. "You don't like to be close to anyone, you never speak unless someone is talking directly to you, you avoid eye contact with other people like it's the plague."
"Maybe I just have social anxiety disorder."
"You also have unexplained injuries that keep popping up one right after another."
"It's just a black eye and I already told you how that happened."
"Your black eye isn't the only thing I've noticed. Just last week, I saw finger-sized bruises around your neck that you thought were hidden beneath the collar of the turtleneck you were wearing. Like someone had been choking you." Connor refused to look at Collins. "A few days later, it seemed like you couldn't think straight. That points to some form of head injury to me."
"I'm accident prone."
"How the hell do you accidentally choke yourself?" Connor began trembling. "Connor . . . is your father beating you?"
"No."
"Don't lie to me about this, Connor. I can help you, but you have to tell me the truth."
"I am telling you the truth." Connor looked at Collins. "My father is not beating me . . . my mother is." Collins' eyes widened.
"What?"
"I lied to you, Professor. It was my father who wanted to tell me he loved me, not my mother."
"Your mother is the abusive one?"
"Yes."
"Why would you purposely make me think your father is the one who's prone to violence?"
"I don't know. I suppose it's because when I think of a mother, I think of someone who's caring and nurturing. I thought if I made myself believe she wasn't hurting me . . . it would be true." Connor shifted on the couch. "My father was going to tell me about my mother. My real mother."
"And your adoptive mother didn't want that to happen?" Collins guessed.
"Right. She doesn't want me to know about her for some reason. My father was going to tell me all about her and give me an address so I could go see her, but . . . just before he could . . . my mother came into the room." A tear ran down Connor's cheek. "She was absolutely furious. My father tried to protect me, but she threatened him if he didn't get out of her way."
"Couldn't he fight her off if he needed to?"
"She's terrifying and unstoppable when she's angry. And never asking about my biological mother is her most important rule. I'm surprised I was able to get out of there with as little injury as I did." Angel then returned to the living room carrying a damp washcloth. She sat on the couch next to Connor.
"Do you mind if I clean the blood off of you, sweetie?" she asked. Connor shook his head. He then noticed his essay on the table.
"You were grading my essay, Professor?" he asked.
"Yes," Collins replied. "I was just finishing right before you knocked. It's very well-written and simply genius, as always. Although, I'm a little disappointed that there was no joke this time."
"Oh, I've got one right now." Connor cleared his throat. "How many existentialists does it take to change a lightbulb?" Angel gave Collins a confused look.
"How many?"
"Two. One to change the lightbulb and one to observe how the lightbulb symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of cosmic nothingness." Connor smiled and Collins chuckled. Angel just sat there with a blank look on her face.
"Clever," Collins said. Connor turned his attention to Angel.
"I take it you didn't find my joke funny, did you, Miss Schunard?" he asked her.
"No, honey, I just didn't understand it," she replied.
"Oh."
"Keep your head turned to me." Collins watched as his lover gently wiped the blood from Connor's mouth and nose. "Who did this to you?"
"His mother," Collins said.
"His mother? Not his father?" Collins shook his head as Angel placed the washcloth on the table and began examining Connor's black eye. "My God. How long has this been happening?"
"Fifteen years, six months, eight days, five hours, eleven minutes, and fourteen seconds," Connor answered.
"Well . . . that was oddly specific."
"My brain automatically breaks time down like that. I have an eidetic memory, so I can't really stop it."
"Eidetic memory? Is that like a photographic memory?"
"Sort of." Connor looked to Collins. He seemed to be deep in thought. Without warning, he got up from the couch and started to leave the room.
"Where are you going, honey?" Angel asked.
"I'm going to call Joanne," Collins replied. "She'll know what legal action to take in this situation better than we will."
"'Legal action?'" Connor repeated. He stood up and immediately had to grab hold of the arm of the couch to keep his balance.
"You okay, honey?" Angel asked, standing and letting the boy hold on to her arm.
"I'm fine." Connor took a small step toward Collins. "Professor, you . . . you can't take legal action against my mother."
"I'm not going to do nothing now that I know what she's doing to you," Collins said sternly. "The police need to be involved in this. They can help you."
"You can't tell the police, Professor. You're not even supposed to know."
"I'm calling Joanne and then I'm going to the police."
"I'll deny everything." Collins ran a hand over his face. "Please, Professor, don't do this. She'll-"
"She won't be able to hurt you once she's in police custody," Collins interrupted. Connor looked like he was going to cry at any moment. The professor walked to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I won't let anything happen to you, okay? I promise. You can trust me."
"Honey, when Collins makes a promise, he doesn't break it," Angel commented. Collins gently pulled Connor into a hug. The eighteen-year-old hesitated before returning it. He felt safe in Collins' arms. The hug presented a sense of security that he had never known. It made him feel as though he had nothing to fear. It made him feel protected.
"You'll really keep me safe?" Connor asked.
"You have my word," Collins told him, holding him tighter. Connor smiled and silently hoped he could stay in his professor's arms forever.
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