intransitive verb

       • to surrender on terms; to give in.

Connor's youngest brother is sitting on the porch when they arrive, fiddling with his thumbs as his phone sits abandoned on the wooden deck beside him. Brandon looks up as both Connor and his mother slam their car doors shut in a bid for attention, expression so much more open than Connor's could ever hope to be in a situation such as this. Fear paints plain across his face in hues of desperation and frustration, blends of irritation and concern mixing boldly into the acrylics of his features.

Connor gives him a comforting smile, patting at his shoulder as he passes into the house, and leaves the door open behind him as an invitation.

The hardwood floors creak beneath his weight, reminding him of steps his sister can't take and sounds his sister can't hear. His heart feels heavy, like it's dragging him down into the center of the Earth and casting him to the flames, but his face is practiced and perfect because Connor is the second oldest of four, because Connor has a baby sister who will never be as healthy as the rest of them, because Connor has grown up having unshakable faith in something as fickle as miracles. The smile doesn't leave his practiced, perfect face even when it starts to hurt.

His sister's on her bed in her room in their house looking as beautiful as she always does, as fragile as she always does, as strong as she always does. The whites of her eyes are tinted blue when she darts them to her brother's approaching form, her spine curved permanently as she hunches against the stacked pillows behind her.

He sinks himself into the chair provided helpfully at her bedside, shaking his head with a soft laugh that doesn't sound as forced as he'd thought it would.

"Rock-climbing, Nikki?" he asks, raising a disbelieving eyebrow as she rolls her tinted eyes at him. It's simple, easy, and his throat is not an earthquake as he says it, the words steady and lighthearted unlike the rise and fall of her chest. It's the last thing he remembers his mother telling him about her that wasn't in the phone call from two days ago. He doesn't really want to think about that phone call, either, or the events that led to it, but it's better than pleads to come home and his sister's name cracked in half.

"Shut up," she snaps, voice raspy as her lungs struggle indefinitely for air. "It only lasted, like, a week."

Connor hums. "Thank God for that," he mutters, sinking himself a little more comfortably into the chair. His sister rolls her eyes at him again, clearly trying hard to be annoyed, but the action falls flat when a smile breaks across her face not a moment later.

"You came home," she says, soft and sweet and sounding so much like the baby sister he still remembers wrapping her tiny little hands around his equally tiny finger that it hurts. Her eyes are wide and honest just like Brandon's, just like the children of this family who didn't spend five months of their first four years of life learning exactly how fragile that life can be.

Connor tries to force the smile again, he really does, but he's tired and half his sister's bones are fractured and Troye is alone in his apartment a million miles away and he's going to fall behind in all his classes and Beth still hasn't tried to call him and he's tired. He wants to curl up on a couch, on his couch, and cry and have his boyfriend hold him without a word because everything gets so much more complicated when there are words and Connor is so tired of saying one thing and feeling another and Connor is tired.

He can't force the smile no matter how hard he tries.

"I came home," he says, wanting to reach for his sister's hand but knowing it may break if he does. He settles for taking a shaky breath instead and resting his elbows on the bed beside her, eyes wet with waterfalls that will never hit the rocks below.