#what did you do last night lawrence? [lawrence lying] your wife is right. larry ..

[zer0point5ive]

lawrence is just. such a lawrence to me like larry is a completely different person. lawrence is the gay repressed doctorguy and larry is .. not him. he’s a larry to alison but he’s also lot of things to alison that aren’t true hmm. something about adam calling him lawrence .. how ‘your wife was right larry’ ‘face it larry we’re both bullshitters’ changes to ‘lawrence get up i need you’ ‘lawrence calm down’. lawrence this lawrence that. hmm

[thetrashthatsmilesback]

Was I blind and deaf and dumb I didn’t know how bad it had become Or how to save you (because I'm basic and part of me hurt me emotionally)

This is a character study of the relationship between Larry and Connor. Its towards the beginning of Connor's junior year, and is a lead up to what is implied to be his first attempt. This is really dark, so please be safe.

Warnings: f slur suicidal ideation psycho used as a slur sociopath used as a slur referenced abuse drug addiction referenced self harm referenced suicide attempt

This is cross posted to AO3 here x.

This is canon compliant, but since its pre-canon it could be considered a prequel to Connor lives AUs

I also took the idea of Connor's middle name being Lawrence from @Ch-ch-ch-ch-cherrybomb as they are my biggest writing inspiration.

Larry Murphy had never been able to bond with his son. Connor was complicated, and a total mama’s boy through and through. Their interests didn’t coincide, their social lives were complete opposites, and while Larry’s masculinity was hard to doubt, Connor had always been a bit… prissy. Of course Larry cared for and loved his son, he just wasn’t sure how to generally interact with him in any way. After their fight last night he wanted to try and fix the bond that had been lost somewhere along the way.

“Connor, where were you last night?”

“Out.”

“Out where? Your mom’s sleeping meds were also missing. I want to see them now, and I want every pill that should be in the bottle to be in the bottle.” Connor scoffed, shaking his head. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, rimmed with red. There were long fading tear tracks going down his cheeks. His hair had obviously gone at least a week without being washed.

“Yea… I don’t think you’ll be too pleased if you want all of the pills in the bottle. There’s maybe,” he looked at the ceiling in thought, “half? Yeah. Half a bottle left.” He nodded with his lips pursed before speaking again. “Although, I ran into some kid and he made a joke that wasn’t at my expense and I was able to-” Larry finally cut the brunet boy off.

“Half the bottle is left? Did you overdose? How did you not pass out? Where were you?” Connor rolled his eyes, only the blue and brown one visible from behind his curtain of hair.

“Jeez, I didn’t take them all. Like you said, they’re mom’s prescription.” Larry could feel his jaw tensing.

“Well you shouldn’t have taken any. I want the bottle back right now Connor Lawrence Murphy.” The boy pushed his chair out from the table.

“Fine!” He huffed before running up the staircase. About five minutes later he came back down with a small orange bottle with the name Cynthia Murphy written across its label. He handed it to the redheaded woman, and sat back down. His plate had barely been touched.

“Connor, sweetie, you really shouldn’t take anything that isn’t prescribed to you.” She reached out to run her hand over his hair but he jerked away making a strangled noise.

“So, Zoe, how’s school been this week?”  The younger Murphy made a small non-committal sound before looking up.

“My teachers have been trying to cram a lot in before Thanksgiving Break, but for the most part it's okay. I got the solo in the jazz band concert again. You are coming right?” She looked up, hopeful.

“Of course Zoe! We wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Zoe’s hair was in a ponytail, fully showing off the vibrant indigo streaks running through it like lightning.

“Well… I mean, you missed it last year.” Suddenly there was an intensity in the air that could be cut with a knife.

The year before, during the Thanksgiving jazz band performance, Connor had been home alone. During it he went out to get high, but ended up passing out and being found by a young mom and her two kids in a park. Cynthia had missed most of the concert due to being in the emergency room with her sobering son.

“That won’t happen again this year dear. I promise, we’ll be there.” Her look was tight, like a wound coil, but she managed to smile at her daughter. It was in moments like these that Larry truly loved his wife. She’d do anything to keep the family together.

“What about you Connor, how’s school been for you?” As soon as the question left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. The evening hadn’t been perfect, definitely tense, with fairly terse answers, but asking this question was like cocking a loaded gun. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zoe pull her legs up to her chest in a defensive pose. Cynthia began, as imperceptible as possible, to move all of the cutlery away from Connor. His son, for the second time this meal, looked up through the curtain of that damn hair.

“I-uh- it’s been… fine?” He could see Connor clenching his fist into his palm, but for some reason decided to push.

“Has it really?” Connor nodded, looking down at the table. Zoe shot a glance in between Larry and Connor, and readied herself to dart from the room. “Because I got an interesting call from your latin teacher. She said you haven’t been to class in two weeks.”

“Not now Larry, Connor has been feeling sick. We can discuss this later.” Cynthia’s tone was soft but commanding. It was obvious she was demanding her husband to not push their son further. The one in question simply lowered his head more, face completely concealed by hair, and muttered a low ‘fucking bitch’ below his breath.

“No Cynthia. I doubt he’s been sick for two weeks. In fact, the only class that i haven’t been informed of your missing has been English. Where are you during the day Connor?”

“I’ve been out.”

“Where?”

“Larry not right now.”

“God does it even fucking matter?” Connor’s head shot up, and Larry could see the tears forming in his son’s eyes. He’s not high then. He would be yelling by now if he were, the red was simply from crying. For some reason he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He was sick of this, this shit that Connor would pull. He’d do anything to get out of class, even fake stomach aches and claim that the people there made him want to throw up. Larry remembered being a teenager, he was similar to Connor - skipping class to go behind the school and smoke cigarettes with the rest of the jocks. He knew Connor wasn’t actually sick, he just wanted to go feed his oxy addiction.

“It does matter. You need to go to class Connor. You can’t live on our couch forever.” Connor stood up abruptly, causing Zoe to finally dart out of the room, slamming her door shut and driving the lock home.

“You sound like my fucking counselor! You can’t keep failing Connor!” he was sneering in a voice that was definitely nothing like his counselor’s. “English isn’t a viable degree Connor! Your math grades are too fucking low Connor! Don’t you want to graduate? Do you really think that your parents want to be stuck with you for the rest of your fucking life? Do you honestly think, that anyone would want to support a fucking piece of shit like you?” He smashed a glass as he said the last one, tears flowing down his angular cheeks, and gasps falling out of his mouth. Cynthia stood up and began to walk towards him, but Connor backed away from her. “God, do you honestly think I don’t fucking know I’m on the verge of dropping out? Do you honestly think that I don’t know I’m throwing everything away? I can’t fucking do this any fucking more! You’re my parents! You’re supposed to hold me and tell me it’ll be okay and help me lay out my fucking options but you don’t fucking care! No one fucking cares! No one fucking listens when I say that I can’t fucking stand that place! I can’t go in without people making school shooter jokes, or cowering, or shoving shit into my locker, or telling me to just fucking kill myself as if I don’t already fucking want to!” He was full out sobbing now, his hand cut up from the broken glass.

“Connor, oh Connor. You don-”

“Yes! I fucking do. I just fucking want to be fucking dead. I can’t fucking take this any fucking more.” Cynthia walked up to their now hyperventilating son and walked him over to the couch where she held him.

Later that night Larry and Cynthia got into a fight about whether Connor meant what he said or not. Larry just couldn’t accept that his son was honestly suicidal - it had to be for attention. A way to get more drugs to get high off of. Cynthia had argued back that he couldn’t be lying. That this isn’t the first time their son has told them that he wants to die.

He came back out of his reverie in front of the banged up door of his sixteen year old son. The door was banged up, covered in dents and scratches from nights when Connor had come home too drunk or high to even open the door. He reached up and knocked softly, calling out “Connor? I want to come in.” He cracked open the door to see his oldest lying on the bed reading. He was totally engrossed, headphones on, knees at his chest, head buried into the pages so deep that only his eyes - visibly alight with excitement - and a light blush across his cheeks were visible.

Larry stood there a moment, staring at the boy. His hair was getting relatively long, reaching to about his mid neck in length. His jacket - something that Cynthia had picked up from the consignment shop that looked like it belonged with a dressier shirt than what Connor usually paired it with - was rolled up to his elbows revealing a scattering of scars. They made Larry sick to his stomach. Connor had self harmed on and off since the end of sixth grade, and although most of the cuts were so faded you couldn’t even see where they were, the newer ones were a dark red. His shirt was disheveled and had rid up to expose a small portion of stomach, also littered with the dark lines.  His legs were bent supporting the relatively thick book resting on them, in black ripped skinny jeans covered in white and blue paint.

Larry cleared his throat and finally Connor looked up, the light clearing from his eyes to be replaced with a blank stare. “Hey, wha-what are you reading?” Connor looked down at his book, back up at his dad, and then at the book again.

“Its-” his voice was hoarse, desperately needing to be cleared, “It’s War and Peace? Like… the book by Leo Tolstoy?” When Larry said nothing, simply moving closer to his son to attempt to talk, he flushed and continued. “There’s, a um, there’s a musical in previews about it. So I uh, decided to read it.” Larry nodded and sat at the edge of the dark bed.

“You like musicals? I always thought you were more into rock bands.”

“I like both.” So far this was going better than expected. Connor had opened up about his book and taste in music without it becoming a screaming match.

“Why don’t you put on a musical for me then?” Connor looked up at him suspiciously. “I’m trying to bond with you Connor. I want you to feel safe here.” Connor simply looked down again, before carefully opening his bedside table’s drawer. Larry paled and felt sick at what was inside. It was lined with various bags of pills, powders, and weed. Some were obviously painkillers, others were sleeping pills, and some he didn’t want to know what they were.

“My drug issues aren’t exactly secret.” Connor murmured while grabbing his phone out from underneath a bag of light blue powder. He probably felt that this was an excuse for blatantly showing it off to Larry. “Can you just… can you not tell mom? I don’t want her to worry. Like, I know I’m a dick, but I’m not that much of a self centered ass.”

“She’s already worried Connor. Every night when you don’t get home until two, three in the morning - if at all, she’s worried. Every time you come home drunk or high, or come to breakfast hungover, she’s worried. When those damn scars are on display, she’s worried. Last night when you said you wanted to kill yourself, you made her worried.” Connor looked up at him, his eyes hard.

“Is that really why you’re in here? To make me feel guilty? Are you going to record this as well? Hahaha,” his sarcastic laugh was cold and bitter, “How fucking funny is this! Connor Lawrence Murphy feels bad! He’s not a total sociopath after fucking all! Lets all laugh at his drug addiction while he has a fucking breakdown!” His face had grown cold, hands clenching at the book.

“Connor, that’s not why I’m here. Why would I want to show off my own son’s tantrums?” Larry’s voice had risen, he felt it himself. This wasn’t what he wanted, he had wanted to try. “Wait, Connor,” He had taken a deep breath while his son curled himself even more into a ball, “I didn’t mean it like that. Why do you think I’d record you?”

“Zoe would.”

“Your sister wouldn’t Connor.”

“Look me in the eye and say that.” At this Connor looked up and made eye contact. Those peculiar eyes with brown speckling the left sea of blue. Neither Cynthia nor Larry knew where the heterochromia came from, both of them being blue eyed. When Connor’s eye first started darkening Larry had assumed that Cynthia had cheated on him. When she denied it, half in tears, he decided to just leave it alone.

“Connor, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“You can’t can you?”

“Connor-”

“Do you know what they call me at school?” Larry looked back at his son again, raising an eyebrow.

“Psycho Connor, Crazy Connor, Connor the School Shooter, bomber, fucking serial killer. They film me and then put it on the internet. They call me fag and sociopath and revolting, they tell me to kill myself before I kill one of them. I just wanted to know that someone could guarantee that they didn’t believe that about me.” Connor looked up through his curtain of hair. “I’m abusive to Zoe. I’m awful to mom, mom who lets me do whatever. And then to you, I egg you on. I’m an ass. You treat me like a criminal, and I give you every reason to.” Connor looked back down at his legs, biting his bottom lip. “Can you go?”

“Connor I-”

“I just want you to go!” His voice raised, eyes full of tears, face flushing a dark red. Larry did leave at that, and he pretended he didn’t hear the broken sobs. He pretended he had never seen the drawer of drugs. He pretended the scars, and paranoia, and slurs weren’t parts of his son.

Larry had never understood his son, but the next morning when they found him in a pool of his own vomit, an empty pill bottle in his hand, he wished more than anything that he had tried harder.