Chapter 1: Smoke and Salt
The kitchen smelled like a bar mat soaked in regret and fried onions. Connor pulled a drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs until his vision blurred at the edges. The window above the sink was cracked open just enough for the February air to bite through, but he barely felt it. He'd stopped feeling much of anything below his collarbones months ago.
The fluorescent light flickered overhead—that nervous, dying buzz it had been doing for weeks. Hank kept saying he'd fix it. Hank kept saying a lot of things.
"Those eggs are gonna burn," Connor said, not looking at the stove, not looking at Hank. Just watching the street below, the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, the way the streetlight buzzed like it was having its own nervous breakdown.
"They're fine." Hank's voice came from somewhere behind him, rough as sandpaper and twice as weathered. The sound of the spatula scraping the pan. Sizzle. Pop. "You gonna come down from there and eat something, or are you planning to live on nicotine and spite?"
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't been hungry since Tuesday."
Connor finally turned, twisting his torso on the countertop. The movement made his head swim, a familiar vertigo that he'd learned to ignore. Hank stood at the stove in his worn-out undershirt, the one with the yellow stain near the collar that Connor had been meaning to bleach for a month. His gray hair stuck up at odd angles, unwashed, and his beard had gotten past scruffy and into something closer to feral.
He looked like shit. They both did.
"I ate yesterday," Connor said.
"You ate half a cracker and called it dinner. I was there."
"I had soup."
"You had broth. There's a difference." Hank flipped an egg with more force than necessary, the yolk breaking and bleeding across the pan. "Jesus Christ."
Connor took another drag. The smoke curled toward the ceiling, mixing with the grease and the dust and the faint sweet rot of whatever was dying in the trash can. He should get down. He should help. He should do a lot of things.
"You're gonna chain-smoke yourself into an early grave," Hank muttered.
"We're all going to die, Hank. It's the one thing you can count on."
"Don't get philosophical on me. You're too skinny to be existential."
Connor laughed. It was a dry sound, hollow, like something rattling around in an empty can. He watched Hank scoop the ruined eggs onto a plate, watched him grab two slices of bread and shove them in the toaster. The toaster was broken. It only worked if you held the lever down manually.
Hank held the lever down manually.
"Here." He set the plate on the counter beside Connor's thigh, close enough that the steam wafted up and coated Connor's face. "Eat."
"I told you I'm not—"
"And I told you to eat." Hank turned away, grabbing a beer from the six-pack on the counter. It was 11 AM. The beer was warm. He cracked it open anyway. "You want to fight me on this, fine. But you're gonna lose."
Connor stared at the eggs. They were overcooked, rubbery, drowning in grease. His stomach turned at the sight of them. Or maybe it was hunger. He couldn't tell anymore. The two sensations had merged into one constant, gnawing ache that he'd started to think of as just another part of his body.
"I don't know why you bother," he said quietly.
"Because I'm an idiot." Hank took a long pull from the beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Because you'd starve to death in that room of yours if I didn't shove food in your face every few hours. Because—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Just eat the goddamn eggs, Connor."
The toaster popped. Hank fished the bread out with his fingers, not even flinching at the heat.
Connor picked up the fork. It felt heavy in his hand, too heavy, like it was made of lead instead of cheap metal from the dollar store. He cut into the egg, watched the broken yolk spill across the plate. Blood in the pan. That's what Amanda used to say when she'd cook for him. Blood in the pan, boy. You want to eat or you want to watch?
He set the fork down.
"I can't."
Hank's shoulders tensed. He didn't turn around, just stood there with his back to Connor, hand wrapped around the beer bottle. "Why not?"
"I just can't."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
The silence stretched between them, thick as the grease coating the air. Connor could feel every edge of his body—the sharp jut of his hipbones against the counter, the ache in his ribs, the way his heart seemed to beat too fast and too slow all at once. He was so tired. He was always so tired.
"I'm not trying to be difficult," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. Humiliating. "I just... I can't."
Hank turned around. His eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot, the way they always were these days. He looked old. He looked tired. He looked like a man who'd been holding something together for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to let go.
"Then drink something," he said. "Christ, Connor. Just... drink some water. Something. You're gonna pass out."
Connor considered this. Water. He could do water. He slid off the counter, and his legs shook when they hit the floor. The tile was cold beneath his bare feet. He hadn't worn socks in days. He couldn't remember where he'd put them.
Hank was already reaching for a glass, already filling it from the tap. The water came out cloudy, then cleared. He handed it to Connor without a word.
Connor drank.
It was cold and tasted like copper and he drank the whole thing while Hank watched him, something unreadable in his expression. When he set the glass down, his hand was trembling. He hated that. He hated that Hank saw it.
"Happy?" Connor asked.
"No." Hank's voice was rough. "I'm not happy. I haven't been happy since I met you."
"Funny. I thought I was the best thing that ever happened to you."
"You are." Hank stepped closer, close enough that Connor could smell the beer on his breath, the stale cigarettes, the faint undertone of sweat from a man who'd stopped caring about things like showers. "That's what scares the hell out of me."
Connor didn't move. He didn't lean in, didn't pull away. Just stood there, too thin, too tired, too everything, staring up at a man who'd somehow become the center of his entire universe without either of them meaning for it to happen.
"I'm not going anywhere," Connor said.
"I know."
"I mean it. I'm not—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "I'm not going to leave you."
Hank reached out, and his hand settled on Connor's shoulder. It was warm. Heavy. Connor felt something in his chest loosen, just slightly, just for a second.
"I know," Hank said again. "That's the problem."
The fluorescent light flickered. The toaster sat cold on the counter. The eggs were still on the plate, untouched, congealing into something inedible.
And somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, passing by on the street outside, heading somewhere that wasn't here.
Connor leaned into Hank's touch, just a little. Just enough.
"Can I have a cigarette?" he asked.
"You just put one out."
"That was five minutes ago."
Hank sighed. But he reached into his pocket, pulled out the pack, flipped it open. Held it out.
Connor took one. Hank lit it for him, flicking the lighter with practiced ease. The flame burned blue for a moment, then orange, then went out.
"You're killing yourself," Hank said.
"I know."
"Doesn't it scare you?"
Connor took a drag. Exhaled. Watched the smoke curl toward the water-stained ceiling.
"Everything scares me," he said. "That's not special."
Hank didn't have an answer for that.
The kitchen clock ticked. The beer went flat. The day stretched ahead of them, long and shapeless, full of nothing but the same arguments and the same silence and the same desperate, suffocating love that neither of them knew how to name.
Connor smoked his cigarette down to the filter and didn't eat a single bite.
Hank drank his beer and didn't say another word.
And somewhere in the house, a door creaked open—Niles, probably, stumbling out of bed—and the day began in earnest.
The door creaked wider, and Niles shuffled into the kitchen like a man who'd been dragged backward through a hedge. His hair was a disaster, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes, and he was wearing nothing but sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He blinked at the two of them—Connor still perched on the counter, cigarette burning down between his fingers, Hank standing too close, beer in hand—and his mouth twisted into something between disgust and exhaustion.
"Jesus Christ," Niles muttered, voice thick with sleep. "It's not even noon and you two are already doing... whatever the hell this is."
Connor stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill, grinding the filter against the chipped paint. "Good morning to you too, sunshine."
Niles ignored him, crossing to the refrigerator and yanking it open. The light inside flickered weakly, illuminating shelves that held nothing but condiments and a sad, wilting head of lettuce. He grabbed a Gatorade—the blue kind, the only kind he drank—and slammed the door shut.
"Hank," he said, not looking at either of them. "You got anything to eat in this house that isn't eggs or beer?"
"Toaster's broken," Hank replied.
"That's not what I asked."
Connor watched the two of them, this strange dance they did. Niles was twenty-six, four years older, but he looked younger sometimes—softer, somehow, despite the hard edges he'd developed over the years. He'd gotten out of Amanda's house first, left Connor behind for two years before coming back for him. That was the debt between them. That was the thing that neither of them ever talked about.
"There's cereal," Connor offered. "In the cabinet. It's probably stale, but—"
"I'm not eating stale cereal." Niles twisted the cap off his Gatorade and took a long drink, his Adam's apple bobbing. When he lowered the bottle, his eyes landed on Connor properly for the first time, and something flickered across his face. Something that looked a lot like fear.
"You look like shit," he said."Thanks."
"No, I mean—" Niles stopped. Started again. "When's the last time you actually ate something? And don't lie to me."
Connor felt Hank tense beside him. The kitchen had gone very quiet, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the clock in the hallway.
"I ate yesterday," Connor said. The same lie he'd told Hank. It came out smoother this time, more practiced.
Niles's jaw tightened. He set the Gatorade down on the counter with a sharp crack. "Bullshit."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Because it's bullshit, Connor. You look like a fucking skeleton." Niles stepped closer, his eyes raking over Connor's body with clinical precision. The sharp jut of his collarbones. The way his t-shirt hung off him like a flag on a pole. The blue veins visible beneath the papery skin of his wrists. "I can see your ribs through your shirt. That's not normal."
Connor felt himself shrink under the scrutiny. He hated this. Hated being seen, being examined, being dissected like a specimen on a slide. He crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive gesture he couldn't quite control.
"I'm fine."
"You're dying."
The words landed like a slap. Connor flinched, barely, but Hank caught it. Hank always caught it.
"That's enough," Hank said, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't get to walk in here and start throwing that shit around."
Niles turned on him, eyes blazing. "And what have you been doing, huh? You think I don't see the beer bottles piling up? You think I don't notice that he's getting worse every time I come home?" He gestured wildly at the kitchen, at the mess, at the two of them standing there like ghosts. "This isn't helping him, Hank. You're just... you're just letting him rot."
Something shifted in Hank's expression. Something cold and hard and ugly. He set his beer down on the counter—carefully, deliberately—and took a step toward Niles.
"Say that again," he said quietly.
Niles didn't back down. "You heard me."
"I'm not gonna fight you in my own kitchen."
"Then stop pretending you're doing anything other than watching him kill himself."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Connor could feel it pressing against his skin, thick and heavy, like drowning in oil. He looked between them—Hank with his fists clenched at his sides, Niles with his chin raised and his eyes wet—and felt something crack open in his chest."Stop," he said. His voice came out smaller than he intended. "Just...stop."
Both of them turned to look at him.
"I'm right here," Connor said. "I'm standing right here. And you're both talking about me like I'm already dead."
Niles's expression crumpled. "Connor—"
"No." He slid off the counter, his bare feet hitting the cold tile. His legs wobbled, just slightly, and he gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself. "I'm not a child. I'm not a problem to be solved. And I'm not—" His voice broke. He swallowed hard. "I'm not going to stand here and listen to you two fight about whose fault it is that I'm like this."
Hank reached for him. "Connor—"
"Don't." Connor pulled away, and the movement made his head spin. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. He blinked them away, forcing himself to stay upright. "I just need some air."
He didn't wait for a response. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair—a thin, ragged thing that had seen better days—and shoved his feet into the first pair of shoes he could find. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
The front door slammed behind him.
---
Hank stood in the kitchen, staring at the door Connor had just disappeared through. His chest felt like someone had cracked it open and poured acid inside.
Niles was still standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. "You're not going after him?"
"I'm giving him a minute."
"He doesn't have a minute, Hank. He doesn't have—" Niles stopped. Pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Fuck. Fuck."
Hank grabbed his beer. Drank. Set it down. Picked it up again.
"I know," he said. "You think I don't know?"
"Then do something."
"What the hell do you want me to do? Force-feed him? Chain him to the bed?" Hank's voice rose, rough and raw. "You think I haven't tried? You think I haven't spent every goddamn day of the past two years trying to keep that kid alive?"
Niles dropped his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, wet. "I know you love him."
"Then stop acting like I'm the enemy."
"I'm not—" Niles exhaled, long and shaky. "I'm not saying you're the enemy. I'm saying you're both drowning and neither of you will admit it."
Hank didn't have an answer for that.
The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off, then stopped.
"I'll go get him," Hank said finally.
"Yeah." Niles grabbed his Gatorade. "You do that."
Hank grabbed his coat from the hook by the door. It smelled like smoke and whiskey and something older, something sadder. He shrugged it on and stepped outside.
Connor was sitting on the front steps, knees pulled up to his chest, smoking another cigarette. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, and the wind was blowing his brown hair into his eyes. He looked small. He looked breakable.
Hank sat down beside him. Didn't say anything. Just sat there, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"I'm sorry," Connor said after a while.
"For what?"
"I don't know. For making everything harder."
Hank took the cigarette from his fingers, took a drag, handed it back. "You don't make things harder."
"I do."
"You don't." Hank's voice was gruff, but soft around the edges. "You just... you just exist. And that's enough to scare the shit out of me."
Connor laughed. It was a wet, broken sound. "Romantic."
"I'm serious."
"I know." Connor took a drag, held it, let it out slow. "I know you are."
They sat there in silence, watching the street. A dog walker passed by, then a jogger, then nothing. The world kept turning, indifferent to the two of them and their quiet, desperate love.
"I want to try," Connor said eventually. "I want to... I want to be better. I just don't know how."
Hank reached over and took his hand. His fingers were rough, calloused, warm. They wrapped around Connor's thin, cold ones and held on tight.
"We'll figure it out," he said. "Together."
Connor leaned into him, resting his head against Hank's shoulder. His body was so light, so fragile, like a bird's skeleton wrapped in skin.
"Okay," he whispered."Okay."
---
They went back inside eventually. Niles had made himself scarce, retreated to his room with his Gatorade and his silence. Hank locked the door, pulled the blinds, and turned to look at Connor standing in the middle of the living room, looking lost and young and impossibly tired.
"You need to eat something," Hank said.
"I know."
"Not eggs. Something else. I'll order a pizza."
Connor made a face. "I don't want pizza."
"What do you want?"
Silence. Connor stared at the floor, at the worn carpet, at the coffee stain shaped like Florida that had been there since before Hank moved in.
"I want..." He stopped. Started again. "I want to feel like I'm in control of something."
Hank stepped closer. "You're in control of yourself."
"No, I'm not." Connor looked up, and his eyes were bright, almost feverish. "I haven't been in control of anything since I was six years old. Amanda controlled what I ate, what I wore, what I thought, what I felt. And now—" He gestured at his own body, thin and broken and wrong. "Now I'm doing it to myself. And I can't stop. Because if I stop, then what? Then I have to feel everything."
Hank's heart cracked. Just a little. Just enough.
"Then feel it," he said. "Feel it with me."
Connor shook his head. "I can't."
"You can."
"I can't—"
"You can." Hank grabbed his shoulders, held him steady. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm not Amanda. I'm not going to hurt you."
Connor's breath hitched. His whole body was trembling now, fine and constant, like a tuning fork struck too hard.
"I know," he whispered. "I know you're not."
"Then let me in."
A long moment. The clock ticked. The wind rattled the windows. Connor closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, something had shifted. Something had surrendered.
"Okay," he said."Okay."
Hank kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was desperate and hungry and tasted like beer and cigarettes and years of wanting. Connor made a sound against his mouth—a small, broken thing—and his hands came up to grip Hank's shirt, twisting the fabric, holding on like he was drowning.
Hank pulled back just long enough to look at him. Really look at him. The sharp angles of his face, the sunken hollows beneath his cheekbones, the way his t-shirt hung off him like a shroud. He was so thin. So impossibly, terrifyingly thin. Hank could feel every bone in his shoulders, every ridge of his spine when he slid his hand under the fabric. It made something in him ache.
"Bedroom," he said.
Connor nodded. Didn't speak. Just took Hank's hand and let himself be led.
---
The bedroom was small and cluttered and smelled like stale air and old memories. Hank pushed Connor down onto the mattress, and Connor went willingly, his body sinking into the worn sheets like a stone into water. The overhead light was off. The only illumination came from the streetlamp outside, bleeding through the blinds in stripes of orange and gray.
Hank stood at the foot of the bed and looked at him. Connor was sprawled across the mattress, shirt rucked up, jeans unbuttoned. His ribs were visible—every single one. They stood out like the slats of a cage, delicate and cruel, rising and falling with each shallow breath. His stomach was flat, concave, the skin stretched thin across the bones of his pelvis. His arms were ropey, sinewy, lacking any softness, any substance. He looked like a drawing of a person. A sketch. Something unfinished and fading.
"Jesus, Connor," Hank breathed.
Connor flinched. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that."
Hank crawled onto the bed, caging Connor between his arms. He was so much bigger—broad shoulders, solid chest, a body that had known food and drink and excess. Connor was the opposite. Connor was absence made flesh.
"How am I supposed to look at you?" Hank asked.
"Like you want me."
"I do want you."
"Then stop looking at me like I'm dying."
Hank kissed him again. Harder this time. Hungrier. He slid his hands under Connor's shirt, felt the knobs of his spine, the sharp jut of his shoulder blades. He wanted to touch him everywhere, wanted to memorize the shape of him, wanted to hold him so close that their bones merged.
Connor arched beneath him, a breathless sound escaping his throat. His fingers found Hank's belt, fumbled with the buckle, pulled it open.
"I want you to take control," Connor whispered. "I want you to... I want to belong to you. Just for a little while."
Hank's breath caught. "You want that?"
"Yes."
"You want me to be—"
"Yes." Connor's eyes were dark, desperate, bottomless. "Please."
Something shifted in Hank's chest. Something primal and possessive and hungry. He sat up, straddling Connor's hips, and looked down at him with a new kind of intensity.
"You want Daddy to take care of you?" The word rolled off his tongue, rough and heavy, and Connor moaned like it had been punched out of him.
"Yes."
"Then you do what I say." Hank's voice was low, commanding, unrecognizable even to himself. "You eat when I tell you to eat. You drink when I tell you to drink. You take care of yourself because you belong to me. Understood?"
Connor nodded, frantic, desperate. "Understood."
"Say it."
"I belong to you."
"Good boy."