Fade Into You 🌶️

First, this story is dedicated as an open love letter to my heart. Second, to my fellow soulmates on this human quest—April, Rowena, and Sandra. Thank you for your invaluable friendship and ceaseless encouragement to complete this very arduous undertaking. Third, to the bitch who thought she knew me. It’s a shame you never really got that privilege. You should know—friends don’t do each other like that. And finally, to the spineless coward. You know the heart never lies, right? I saw you then, and I see you now, handsome.

Author Note: I'll be posting shorter chapters for the internet as of chapter 4 onward. My average wordcount for chapters is 3000+, so after chapter 3, expect shorter chapters! This story is told through Connor's and Jupiter's perspectives, with the pattern: Connor, Jupiter, Connor, Jupiter, etc. The new pattern will be Jupiter, Jupiter, Connor, Connor, Jupiter, Jupiter, etc. Also, some of the weather descriptions are inconsistent in and I'll fix those in the editing process!

Author Note (8/4/2025): This story is now on hiatus and is being revamped. The overall story will remain the same, but Jupiter's story arc isn't strong enough for me (I'm adding that she's a parttime exotic dancer). I'll note the changes when I repost the new story, and I'll also post an update here (as a new chapter/author note)! Keep a lookout for that!

“Not this time, buddy. You weren’t tall enough. And look, it’s not just this one. Casting directors aren’t biting, and I can’t keep pushing you when there’s no return. We’re done. Sorry.”

The words hit like the aftershock of a fucking atomic bomb on a perfectly unsuspecting afternoon.

Connor Kollias instantly erased the message from his answering machine with a single bitter swipe, then kicked a lone chair across the floor hard enough to rattle the entire apartment. Another studio film callback gone cold. Another door slammed, but this one hurt. His agent dropping him after years of scraps and empty promises sank into his gut like a bowling ball. What the hell was he supposed to do? He’d been trying. Every day. Cold calls, auditions, hours spent in gridlocked traffic with a car on its last legs. Kissing the ring so often his lips were chapped. And what good did it do? Ten rejections in the last year, maybe more. He was chasing anything with teeth: a day player gig on a real set, a recurring role on a network show, hell, even a national ad campaign if it meant keeping the lights on. And now, he had no agent.

Connor desperately needed a shower, or a quick leap off of a tall building. He decided on the former, though the latter was tempting.

After fifteen minutes beneath scalding water, he stepped out into the January chill of the apartment, steam curling behind him like smoke. He swiped a towel across the bathroom mirror, catching the hollows under his eyes. I’m wearing too thin, he admitted, uneasy. Forty is creeping up on me and the door’s closing. Do I keep grinding in the indie gutter where I can work, or do I hold out for something real even if it never comes? His throat tightened, the thought making him dizzy. He shook his head, roughing his dark hair dry and wrapping the towel around his hips. The warped floorboards groaned underfoot as he stepped back into the bedroom.

Eight months—eight damn months—of scraping by on crumbs: a toothpaste ad that didn’t cover the electric, a radio spot lost to static, a few blurry walk-ons for Melrose Place, even a few stunt falls that paid okay but left him limping. His landlord, Gary, hadn’t come knocking yet. He was a nice guy and had cut Connor some slack for old times’ sake, but the rent was late again, and the notes under the door were stacking up.

Connor glared at the deflated air mattress slumped against the wall in his bedroom, its tangled sheet and lumpy pillow mocking him. Two weeks of neck cramps and counting. To the left, his guitars stood like silent sentinels: a ’86 Fender Stratocaster, electric blue, and a custom job he’d built from scratch. To the right, a teetering stack of boxes full of keepsakes with nowhere to go. He shuffled into the living room, bare except for a wobbly foldout chair at the kitchenette bar (the one he kicked earlier) and a phone that never rang with good news. A year in this dump, and he still hadn’t unpacked. 1998 was only two weeks old and already kicking him square in the balls. He chuckled, bitter and low, then went to throw on some clothes, his stomach growling the whole time. Food sounded fantastic right now.

The phone’s shrill ring pierced the silence, making Connor flinch as he yanked a faded t-shirt over his head. He hustled back into the kitchen and snatched the phone from its cradle. “Hello?”

“Hi, sweetheart. It’s mom,” said a tired voice.

Hearing that voice made Connor’s heart swell with longing, and a gentleness crept into his features. Despite the exhaustion, her tone was full of warmth and he needed it, especially now. “Hey, Mom. I’m sorry I haven’t called lately. How’re you? How’s everyone?” he asked.

She chuckled. “We’re all fine. Your father had a checkup with the doctor this week. He’s healthy and stubborn, like always. Stephan swung by yesterday and asked about you. We were wondering how you’re holding up. It’s been a few months since we’ve heard from you.”

Connor winced, guilt clamping down on his gut. It wasn’t fair, him not calling his family. He hadn’t even made it home last Christmas, either. Too busy, too broke, but truthfully, too ashamed. And Frances Kollias knew her son all too well. “Yeah, things have been crazy here. Sorry I’ve been out of touch.” he offered vaguely.

A pause. “Yeah, I know your life’s been hard since… well, since everything with Lucille,” she said, choosing her words carefully . “I was hoping things would’ve turned around for you by now. I’m sure your work is picking up, isn’t it?”

Connor’s insides flinched first at the mention of his ex-girlfriend, and then at the question about his career. He gripped the phone, knuckles fading white. “Everything’s fine, Ma,” he sighed, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “I promise.” He’d never been a good liar, but that didn’t stop him from trying. The truth—that he was barely keeping his head above water, that losing Lucille still gutted him on nights when he let himself feel anything, that even the goddamn floor in this place felt like it could give way at any second—wasn’t something he could hand her. Not when she already sounded like she was bracing for the worst.

“Connor,” Frances pressed, voice low. “What’s going on?”

He slumped into the foldout chair, the phone pressed to his cheek like an anchor. He tried to muster the same strong front he’d started with, yet the truth spilled out instead; some of it, anyway. “I just got another rejection. That makes ten in a row, now, or eleven. But who’s keeping count?”

Silence fell between them. Then, her voice, delicate as silk. “I’m so sorry, baby. You know you always have a place here if—”

“No!” The word shot out, sharper than he meant. “I’m not giving up. This is my life, Ma. I’m not quitting to come back and be a burden to you and Dad. I won’t.”

“I’m not saying you should quit,” she said. “Just that you have a job here, a place to get back on your feet. Your father would let you work for him. You wouldn’t be a failure, Connor. No one would see you that way.”

His skin flushed hot, and he squeezed his eyes shut. I didn’t say I was a failure. The words lit a fire in his chest and it took everything for him not to bite the thought out at her. Instead, he forcibly softened. “Thanks, Ma. I know you’d help. I do. And I appreciate it. But I’ve got this. I’m fine.”

The silence that followed wasn’t accusatory. It was sad. Frances let it hang there momentarily, then gave him the only thing she could. “I love you, Connor.”

Her words settled deep in his chest, heavy as wet wool. His eyes burned. “I love you, Ma,” he replied, blinking hard and clearing his throat. “We’ll talk soon, I promise.”

“You just look after yourself,” she said, gently scolding now. “You know I worry about you the most.”

He could hear the smile in her voice, threaded with quiet exasperation. It nearly broke him.

“Bye, Ma.”

He hung up slowly, the dial tone lingering in his ear like a ghost. The weight of the conversation refused to lift. It pressed down harder, settling across his shoulders as he stood and leaned against the counter. He stared down at the peeling linoleum, breath shallow. How long could he keep pretending everything was fine? How long before it all came crashing down? He’d have to hit the pavement. Hard. Harder than ever. And without anyone in his corner—not an agent, not a mentor, not even Lucille to text at 2AM in the morning—it was all on him now. No backup. Just the grind and the hope that somehow, it would be enough.

Connor yanked a wrinkled Post-it from under a stack of unpaid bills, scattering them across the kitchenette. The idea that suddenly struck him wasn’t a solid one, but it was worth a try. Mikey—Audio Guy. Connor punched the number into the phone and began pacing. It rang once, twice, three times. A man answered with a clipped drawl. “Yo!”

“Hey Mikey, it’s Connor Kollias. How are you, man?”

A snort. “Kollias? Jesus, you’re still kicking? I thought you’d be on billboards by now.”

“Yeah, hilarious.” he deadpanned. “So, what’s open? You got anything? A radio spot, a jingle—I’ll shill car insurance, man, I don’t care.”

Another snort. “Zilch. Why don’t you try back when you’re not a ghost.”

“Wait, Mikey—” Click. Embarrassment flooded Connor at once and he hurled the phone onto the counter, the plastic cracking against Formica. “Asshole!” he snarled.

Time stretched as he stood suspended between screaming and ripping the apartment down to the studs in his head. He stared at the phone, wishing beyond wishing that it would come back to life like a genie from a lamp and grant him a lifeline. But it didn’t.

Thirty minutes later, a knock sounded at his door. Connor opened it to reveal a tall redheaded woman in a fashionably sharp but comfortable suit. Her pale eyes, cool behind a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses, scanned his face with clinical precision. Eleanor Hiddleston. His younger cousin on his mother’s side—fierce, unflinching, and every inch the Hiddleston temperament. She’d taken more after her father’s Scottish lineage than the Greek-Italian genetics they both shared.

Connor forced a grin—too wide, too practiced. She saw right through it, of course, but he was too tired to put up a fight. And too hungry.

“You called, Hawk?” she asked, one defined eyebrow arched.

He nodded, stepping through the doorway. “Yeah, El. Let’s go eat. I’m starving,” he said.

Instead of prying, she fell in step beside him, her unyielding height eclipsing his by an inch or two. He wasn’t that short—technically average, actually—but next to Eleanor, it always felt like she had the upper hand. And one furtive glance in her direction confirmed it: she’d noticed the harsh circles under his eyes. She’d ask about them later, he was sure of it. He didn’t think he had it in him to tell her the full truth. Not yet, anyway.

She’d listen. She always did.

Since childhood, they’d been close. In fact, she was the one who dubbed him Hawkeye, after all those afternoons spent climbing trees to find her during their games of hide-and-seek. He always found her—and his little brother Stephan, too. She was more a sister than anything.

But Connor couldn’t have her sneaking off to tell the family how bad it had gotten. Eleanor meant well, but she’d loop in his mother—and the thought of that twisted his heart into ugly knots. Shame, pride, and fear all tangled together. He wasn’t ready to unravel any of it.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long, lazy shadows across the road as he pulled onto the highway. Eleanor reached over to turn down the volume on his blaring radio, shooting him a dramatic eye roll. He stuck his tongue out at her petulantly and rolled his window down to enjoy the ocean breeze.

Eleanor had followed him to Los Angeles a few years back, landing a gig as a gallery assistant—a stepping stone, she hoped, to a real art career in New York or Chicago. But the truth? Eleanor despised LA. She always reminded Connor in some elegant fashion every chance she got. The shallow people, the oppressive heat, the wildfires that choked the sky—they grated on her northern soul, bred for fog and rain, not this unrelenting sun. Connor didn’t mind it so much. It was his home now. Sure, he missed the northeast, but his career was here.

Before long they pulled into the parking lot of the Reel Inn—his favorite hole-in-the-wall eating joint. Thankfully, it wasn’t crowded tonight. Connor eased into his usual spot, the one tucked between the faded white lines beneath the crooked lamplight. The waitress led them to a table outside that faced the ocean, the salty gusts of wind cutting through the day’s lingering heat. Connor ordered his standard—fish tacos, extra lime—while Eleanor waved the waitress off.

His eyebrows shot to his hairline in confusion. “You’re not ordering anything?”

She shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his tone sharp but laced with concern. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

Eleanor leaned across the table, her stare pinning him like a bug.“It’s your turn to fit the bill for this meal. Can you even pay for our dinner right now?”

His cheeks flamed and he looked away.

“What’s going on?” she prodded, quieter now. “I know that look when I see it. You’re pissed about something. Don’t bother denying it. I’m not Aunt Frances.”

He forced a chuckle. “You never miss anything, huh?”

Eleanor’s lips pressed into a thin line at his immature deflection, but her eyes remained firm and unrelenting. Their silence stretched uncomfortably. Cars honked in the distance. The waves whispered against the shore as the last edge of the sunlight slipped beneath the blackened horizon.

Finally, Connor sighed, defeated and irritable. “I got another rejection, alright?”

Her face softened, though she didn’t seem at all surprised. “Your agent finally called you about it?”

“Yeah,” He grinned tightly, deliberately omitting the fact that said agent was no longer in his corner either.

“It’s been like this for months now, Hawk. I know you’re falling behind on your rent.” He instantly cringed at her mention of it, but she continued. “If you need a place to stay, I can–”

“No!” The word snapped out like a whip, nearly setting his teeth on fire. He tried to walk it back by blunting his tone. “The answer is no, El.”

She folded her arms on the table, steady and unfazed. “Be careful the waves don’t take you because you’re too stubborn to climb onto a lifeboat.”

He shrugged, not bothering with a retort as the waitress brought him his plate of food. He muttered a dismissive “thanks,” then dug in, eating with a kind of hunger that bordered on desperation. Eleanor watched him with evident concern etched into her features. After a moment, when it became clear he was more committed to mutilating his tacos than acknowledging her, she said: “I’m curating a pop-up downtown on Saturday. In Hollywood Hills. You still have your camera, right?”

He paused, chewing slower.

“I need some promo shots for my boss,” she explained. “It’s not much—peanuts, really—but what choice have you got? If nothing else, you can help me set it up. There will be some producers there. Maybe even a director or two. Lots of indie connections.”

His hackles rose instantly. “I don’t need a pity gig.” he snapped, mouth still half-full.

Eleanor leaned back with her arms crossed and glared at his rudeness. “Good, ’cause it’s not pity. It’s a job, genius. Are you in or out?”

Connor was suddenly hit with a memory—late teens, a streak of recklessness still fresh in his blood. Eleanor, six years his junior, had once covered for him when things went sideways at a hotel job. A coworker had seen fit to give him hell, so Connor had taken justice into his own hands—broke into the guy’s home and planted something to stir up trouble with the cops. Breaking and entering, plain and stupid. Eleanor had been his alibi. She’d told the police that he was visiting her that day, playing video games. Lied through her teeth with a calm like water. She hated lying. But she hated injustice more. And she’d done it—for him. Because family was family. Now here she was, saving his skin again.

Of course he was fucking in. Connor snatched a napkin from the table dispenser and whipped his mouth clean. “Fine. What’s the address?”

Later that night, Connor sat alone in his living room, the fold-out chair hard beneath him and a half-crushed box of personal junk scattered across the floor. He’d found some of Lucille’s old things: a bent key to the apartment they once shared, unopened mail from modeling agencies, dog-eared tear sheets from magazines, old bills. Then, he stopped. Near the bottom was a small ratty dog collar. The sight of it made his chest ache. Beau. He’d been their dog. The collar was the last thing left of him.

Connor sighed and resumed digging. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a wrinkled headshot, the first one he ever had taken in his acting career. It was creased, covered in tiny specks of lint and dirt. He looked terrifyingly young. Too young to have believed he could make something out of himself. He flicked his lighter. The flame caught the corner instantly, curling it black. His younger face warped, faded, and vanished—ash settling in pitiful flakes on his lap.

The shadows closed in around him and he sat there a long time, unmoving. The silence grew swollen, too full of thoughts he wasn’t sure he wanted to name. Not regrets, exactly—but the weight of every year he’d sacrificed to the unyielding furnace this dream. No sooner had he left college than he was chasing it—wide-eyed, broke, and with a stubborn streak that made some people hate him. He’d worked night shifts, missed holidays, watched friends get married and drift away, all in the service of this one fragile hope. Most opportunities presented only small wins, with far bigger losses. Far too often, Connor lied to his family about his well being and pushed away lovers who only wanted to warm his lonely bed. He’d given up steadiness, structure, safety—and for what? For this?

A folding chair. An empty room. A box full of ghosts.

He was less than two months from turning thirty-seven-years-old. Closer to forty than he felt comfortable admitting. Closer to being the kind of man casting directors passed over without blinking. The kind of man with creases under his eyes and no health insurance, someone they would call “washed” if he didn’t land something soon.

He used to believe midnight wasn’t so close. Now? He wasn’t sure. For the first time in a long time, Connor Kollias was afraid. “Not yet,” he whispered, begging. “Please, not yet.”