tagGay MaleScott and Connor Ch. 06

Scott and Connor Ch. 06




In a fog, Connor barely recognized his own voice. It was harsh, croaking, and weak.

"Connor, baby, I'm here," she said. "I'm right here."

"Connor, can you hear us? Do you know where you are?"

Connor knew that voice. "Da... Dad..."

"Yes, it's me. Connor, we're here."

"Wh... where... where are..." Each word was a struggle, and Connor was losing the struggle. The sentence lay unfinished as Connor slipped back into unconsciousness.

His mother was not letting go so quickly. "Connor. Connor!"

"He's asleep." The stranger's voice belonged to a tall, wiry man in a long white coat. "He's out of the coma, but he's asleep." The wiry man checked a monitor, adjusted a dial, and peered over his reading glasses at a thick file of papers. "He's going to need time for the anesthesia to wear off. He may float in and out for the next few hours. But he's reached consciousness and he recognized your voices. That's an extremely good sign."

"Doctor..." his father began, and then stopped. "I don't know what we should do. What can we do?"

"For the moment, let him sleep. I know it's very trying on your patience, but I think the worst is over. We had to induce a coma to work on his injuries and he appears to be coming out of it. It will take some time for his body to purge the anesthesia. He'll probably be pretty confused as to where he is. And we don't yet know how much he'll remember. Memory is a funny thing. He may or may not remember the accident. He may not even remember the moments immediately beforehand. That's unpredictable, we'll just have to wait and see. But the fact that he woke up, however briefly, and immediately recognized your voices is very very positive."

Connor's mother sat in a guest chair at his bedside and wept quietly, absorbing the doctor's words. His father perched behind her, with his arms protectively over her shoulders. His face was a mask of anguished worry. "I almost hope that he doesn't remember. I'd like him spared those memories," his father said in a low whisper, his voice breaking with a mix of fear and relief.

"The most important thing you can do," the doctor said gently, "is to be there when he wakes up and help him understand where he is and what happened." He turned to leave the room but stopped short. "I wouldn't bother him too much with what's to come. He will need significant rehabilitation. Let him worry about that later."

"Doctor, what will he be able to do? Will he be able to play sports again, will he even be able to walk again?" his mother asked, pleadingly.

The doctor sighed. "The neurology tests all came back normal. He has sensation and muscle control in his arms and legs. It's really a matter of the bones and muscles healing. He's young, which will help a lot. His body will repair itself relatively quickly. I don't see any reason why he would not be able to walk again. Sports I would say are a matter of degree. As long as he can walk and run, I think he could play for fun. Whether he will regain the strength to play competitively? Honestly, that's up to him. He might be able, with a lot of hard work, to do that. But let's start at the start." He laid his hand over Connor's mother's hand sympathetically. "How much physical ability he'll recover is tomorrow's challenge. Today, he's conscious and soon he'll be awake. You have your son."

Connor's mother shuddered with emotion and began to cry. His father embraced her shoulders to give her strength. "Thank God for that," he said.


In Connor's world, it was night. He could barely see where he was, but he knew he was in a street somewhere. An alley. A streetlight cast a dim light on the ground. Connor stumbled past dumpsters and cans toward a door. He pushed on the door and found himself in a dark room. He needed to find the light switch. He could not explain why but for some reason he knew it was important. He looked into the dark searching for any sign of a light switch. "I need light," he whispered. "I need..."

Suddenly the world was blindingly bright.

"...light." The word was muttered, barely intelligible, soft as a whisper.

His mother jumped to her feet. "Connor," she said, "what was that, baby?"

Connor's father, at the window, spun and returned to the bedside. "Connor, I heard you, but didn't understand. What did you say?"

Connor tried to formulate the word again. His eyes were pinched shut against the intensity of it and he finally managed to croak out the word again: "light."

"He said light. Connor, what about the light?" his father asked.

After a pause, he spoke. "Too damn much."

His father jumped up and snapped off the examination light above Connor's head, and then turned and drew the blinds. The room was plunged into gloom.

"Better," Connor grunted.

"Son, do you know where you are?"


The answer caught his parents off guard. "Well, yes, bed," said his father. "But do you know where the bed is?"

The fog was starting to clear from his brain and his eyes were getting adjusted to the lower light in the room. Connor weakly opened his eyes and looked around.

"What th' fuck?" he stumbled out. "Hospital. Why'm ina hospital?"

He never got the answer to his question, for three seconds later he was sound asleep again.


Over the next 24 hours, Connor slowly resurfaced three or four times. By the fourth time, has was able to stay conscious and awake. His parents finally answered his question, and many more. They told him that he'd been in a car accident. That the other driver had been drunk and that it wasn't Connor's fault. They were able to break the dire news that he had suffered multiple fractures and had pins in his right leg holding together the bone. That he'd been under sedation for almost three days to keep him motionless while his body had a chance to heal. And that he would have to go through rehabilitation to walk again.

"I don't remember an accident," he said. "I don't even remember driving."

"You were driving," his father said, "but Connor, son, I want you to know, it was not at all your fault. Police cameras recorded the whole thing. You were in the right and the other driver just came out of nowhere. It's not your fault."

"Ok, ok," he said. "Not my fault. Dad, I got it. What happened to the other driver?"

"He was injured, but not badly. He's been arrested."

"Where was I driving, Dad?"

His father paused. "Well, it's not important, but you were...headed home."

Connor chewed on that. "Oh, ok. Home. So I was headed home and...wait, Dad, that's not right." His father felt a pang of panic. "I wasn't headed home. I was...I was heading to the mall. To the movies."

"Connor, never mind. It doesn't matter," his father said, urgency creeping into his voice. "Just remember, it wasn't your fault."

"I was going to the movies. I was on Lakeview. But why was I on Lakeview? That's not near us."

"Connor..." the fear in his father's voice was palpable.

"Lakeview is over near... um, near... Aidan's house." He paused, trying to put together the jumbled puzzle in his head. "Aidan's..."

"I was with Aidan."

Fear gripped Connor's heart as it rose into his throat and forced his next words out in a shout.

"Dad, where's Aidan?"


He was screaming. "Dad! Where is Aidan!?"


Connor sat sullenly in the rehab room. His wheelchair was pulled up to a table near the window, but he couldn't stand the view. Scattered on the table in front of him were 500 pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that portrayed a coastal lighthouse. The puzzle was supposed to help him exercise his hands and rebuild his fine motor skills. Connor could not possibly have cared less.

Over the course of a week, his memory returned in fits and starts. Pieces coalesced into threads and threads into narratives. And each new memory plunged him into a fit of crying and rage.

He remembered making out on the couch, moving to the bedroom, and their first time in each others' arms.

He remembered taking Aidan inside him, and being inside Aidan.

He remembered the long lingering kiss he had shared at the end.

He remembered how it had aroused them again, leading to another round of passionate sex.

He remembered Aidan cumming in his mouth and how strangely sweet and bitter his semen tasted.

He remembered Aidan laying on his back, legs in the air, looking up at him as Connor entered him again and slid deep inside him.

He remembered unloading inside Aidan for the second time, and hearing him teasing in a soft, singsong voice, "my boyfriend just fucked me, my boyfriend just fucked me..."

He remembered leaning up, still buried deep inside Aidan, and putting a finger on his lips, shushing him. And then saying, gently, "Aidan. Your boyfriend..."

He remembered pausing while tears welled up in Aidan's eyes at hearing Connor finally use the word.

He remembered finishing the sentence. "Your boyfriend did not just fuck you. Your boyfriend just made love to you."

He remembered how Aidan had cried, and then how they had laughed. And then how he had panicked when they saw the clock.

"Dude, we need to get dressed if we're gonna make the movie," Aidan said.

"Ok, ok. Let's move it."

They flew from the house and jumped into Connor's car. Halfway down the block, Aidan was giving him shit for driving like an old lady. "Jeez, Connor, I don't mean you should drive like NASCAR, but at this rate, we'll be lucky to make the midnight showing."

"Zip it, Aid. I don't drive crazy. We'll get there. I already have the tickets and at worst we'll miss 20 minutes of crap trailers."

"Ok, ok, pops. I'm gonna call you 'pops' from now on whenever you're driving."

Connor gave him the middle finger. "You gonna call me that in bed?" he joked.

"Oh, no, baby...in bed, I'll just be screaming your name," he said as they broke into laughter.

Those were the last words Connor heard from Aidan.

They were also Aidan's last words.

The car that struck them hit the passenger door and killed him on impact. Aidan never knew what happened.



Connor ignored his name.

"Connor," a soft female voice repeated.

He turned and saw the psychologist who had been trying to get him to participate in rehab. He rolled his eyes and looked away, back out the window. "What?"

"You need to make an effort to do the exercises that the therapists have programmed for you. You're not making as much progress as you could."

"What's the point? I killed my best friend."

She stifled a sigh. Connor Kelly was pretty deep in depression from his accident.

"No, Connor, you didn't."

He waved at her dismissively and stared out the window.

The psychologist waited a moment, debating. Connor had been obsessed with the accident and blaming himself for almost three weeks. He was avoiding the exercise he needed to rebuild his leg muscles; it was an effort for him simply to walk to the rest room.

Time for some tough love.

She stepped to the other side of the table, into his line of sight, leaned over the table, put her face only about a foot from his, and said, matter of factly, "but you are doing a damn good job of killing yourself."

"What?" Connor responded, stunned.

"You're just sitting there, letting your legs atrophy, letting your body fall apart. Maybe you figure if you let it collapse completely, you can climb into the grave with him."

"What the fuck?? What is your problem? How can you say that to me?" he snarled.

"Well, it's not like you can get out of that chair and do anything about it."

"Listen..." Connor squinted at her name plate. "Listen, Nicole, you can't talk to me like that. You don't understand."

She took a deep breath and sat down at the table. "You're right. I don't. So make me understand."

Connor rolled away from the table, grumbling angrily.


The next day, Nicole found him again at the table. She sat down. "Connor, I was serious, make me understand." They sat there for 20 minutes in absolute sullen silence.

"Ok," she said. "Maybe tomorrow."


Day three:

"Make me understand."

"If I make you understand, will you leave me alone?"


Connor shot her a sour grimace and wheeled away.


It took four more days.

"Make me understand."

"What's to understand? I killed my best friend."

"No, Connor, you didn't. Someone did, but it wasn't you."

"Doesn't matter. He's dead."

"Yes, he is. But it does matter. Can I ask you a question?"

Connor waited begrudgingly.

"Let's say you had died and Aidan had survived. And you could come back here and see him where you are now. What would you tell him?"

Connor scoffed. "I'm glad to see we're in the realm of reality here."

"What would you tell him? Would you tell him that you wanted him to sit here wasting his life?"

"I get your point, Nicole. But what's my life without him?"

Nicole's ears perked up at that statement.

"Connor... Aidan was more than a friend, wasn't he?"

He snapped his eyes to look at her, and she could read fear. The fear of admitting the truth.

"Aidan was your boyfriend, wasn't he?"

Connor did not answer her question. But his face screwed into a grimace of agony and finally, finally, the tears came.


It took three more weeks to get through to him, and to get him through the grief. Connor eventually told Nicole what had happened just before. That he and Aidan had shared their first time together.

They talked about whether he should tell his parents, and whether he should tell Aidan's. Connor finally mustered the courage to tell his own parents. They were surprised but sympathetic, understanding the emotions that had been stirred, only to be smashed as brutally as Connor's body.

Connor's parents eventually broke the news to Aidan's parents, who were mired in their own grief. Aidan's mother came to see Connor. "I want you to hear from me that I do not blame you at all, Connor. This was not your fault. Your mother told me that just before you went to the movies, um..."

Connor looked at her, feeling her pain. "You don't have to say it. We did."

"Was it...was it his first time?"

"Yes. Mine, too."

There was a long silence between them.

"I always knew, of course," she said. "I am very glad you were his friend, I thought you two were very good for each other. I guess in more ways than I realized. It's strange, but in a way, it means a lot that he got to feel love at least once."

Connor was silent.

"Connor, I ... I just want to know, that last day... was he happy?"

Connor looked at her, and his face dissolved in sympathy and anguish. "Yes. He was, I was, we both were. We were both so incredibly happy."

"Are you sure?"

Connor whispered, barely audible, "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."


Connor continued to work with Nicole for his entire stay in rehab. He began to exercise, begrudgingly at first, but increasingly willingly over the next two months. Most of his stability and strength returned in a relatively short time. Friends came to visit and brought a football or a soccer ball to try a little catch or ball handling.

Within three months, Connor felt ready to strap on his cleats and try a little field soccer. It was clumsy and his control and power were awful, but he still remembered the movements and improved steadily with practice.

He ended up a year behind, graduating with the class behind him to stay on track. It wasn't ideal, but it worked.

Nicole came to his graduation. "It's good to see you back into life, Connor."

He nodded. "Nicole, I couldn't have made it without you."

"Nonsense," she teased. "You were going to make it just fine. I just gave you a little kick in the ass. Pissed you off when you needed it." They laughed together. "What will you do now?"

"Me? College. Chemical engineering, if I can make the grades, and maybe a little soccer and lacrosse. My stability is better and I almost have my agility and speed back. It'll be rough the first year, but I think I can build up enough strength and stamina to make a team."

"You'll do fine."

Connor fell silent, has face downcast. "I miss him, Nicole."

"I know you do," she said, trying to comfort him. "Part of you always will, because part of him will always be part of you. But he would not have wanted you to stop living. He'd be proud of you." Connor nodded.

"Stay in touch," she added. "I want to know how you're doing."

"I will, I promise."



Scott grunted as Connor thrust up into him from below. He had straddled the muscular senior, slid his ass down Connor's hard cock, and was riding him cowboy. It was rapidly becoming Scott's favorite position. He loved being able to control how deep Connor went inside him - whether that meant teasing him by taking just his knob inside, or dropping down on the frat boy's thick shaft and feeling it rush straight into his guts. He also loved being able to ride Connor while he stroked himself. And at that moment, Scott's hand was flashing rapidly up and down his penis, driving himself toward a huge orgasm.

Cowboy was also becoming one of Connor's favorite positions. He loved the spontaneity of never knowing just what Scott would do or how deep he'd plunge. Scott also had some serious ass muscles and the pressure on Connor's cock as he dragged his hole up the shaft was fucking amazing.

"Fuck, Connor, I'm gonna cum..." Scott moaned.

"I'm gonna shoot when you do," Connor moaned through gritted teeth. It was their first fuck of the morning; both boys' cocks were fully loaded and ready to fire.

Scott gave his tool the final strokes he would need. That plus Connor's huge fuckshaft plowing into him pushed him over the edge.

"Agggghhhhhh!" he growled as a powerful jet of cum sprayed from his dick and splattered Connor from his chin to his navel. Three more spurts followed in rapid succession, laying streams of his DNA all over Connor's abs.

Watching Scott spurt pushed Connor over the edge. He grabbed Scott's hips in his powerful hands and pulled him down as he thrust his own hips up. His cock drilled deep into the freshman's guts and began to swell. Connor felt the first bolt of sperm shoot up his seed tube and blast out of his cock. He groaned as thick ropes of cum spat from his shaft and pumped deep inside Scott's tight body.

Connor collapsed backwards onto the pillows. Scott braced himself on Connor's heaving, muscular chest as they panted and tried to catch their breath.

Perspiration soaked Scott's hair and was starting to run down his neck. Connor's chest glistened with a sheen of sweat.

"Now that...is how...I like...to start...a weekend," Connor said, between labored breaths. "Hello, Saturday."

Scott chuckled. "I'll start any day of the week like this..." He took a deep breath, still trying to catch his wind.

"Kinda how we ended the day, too, innit?" Connor joked. Scott had come over to the frat house for the usual Friday night kegger. They hadn't been at the party for more than thirty minutes before they dragged each other upstairs and into bed.

"True," Scott acknowledged. "That's not a problem for you, I hope?"

"Hell no."

Scott shifted on Connor's hips. "Wanna go again?" he said suggestively. "You're still in me."

"Yeah, I am. But I'm also starving. What time is it?"

Scott craned his neck to look at the clock. "Eight-fifteen."

"Eight-fif... Holy crap, you realize we have been fucking for an hour?"

"Maybe that's why you built up such a huge load," Scott teased.

"Probably. But we need to get to breakfast." He flashed Scott a wicked grin. "Besides, give me a chance to recharge and then see what happens."

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