Tronnor One-Shots

The Best

It has been two hours since a man in coattails approached us, posing stiffly with his silver platter and offering: "champagne, sirs?" I periodically search for him, hoping he'll return, maybe with some vodka this time. "Provide me with copious amounts of alcohol" I want to say to him, in the pretentious spirit, as this whole event is basically a douche-fest. Everywhere I look, people are a stereotype; basically those who argue about the exact shade a smear of paint is. Blood orange? It's freaking red. I can't believe I'm standing here, in honest-to-God dress pants, blending in with them; I need a drink to salvage my sanity.

When the waiter comes back around, I try not to seem too anxious as I thank him for the champagne. I down it when Troye's not looking, and hope I get woozy soon so it'll all seem less obnoxious. I don't want to mention leaving though, because Troye looks like he's enjoying himself: he has barely spoken and studies each piece with observant eyes. He sips his champagne thoughtfully until it's empty, then softly bites the edge of the glass, a habit he has when he's deep in thought. I cock my head and struggle to see the appeal in what we're looking at. I mean, I appreciate art...actually I love art...but all that's on this canvas is a smear of grey oil on the top left corner. The artist (if you can call them that,) even left the rest of the canvas bare, making it look unsettlingly unfinished without the base coat. There's a difference between creative abstract and laziness, and this is probably the absolute worst way someone could spend...I look at the price...fifteen thousand dollars. What a rip-off, aesthetically as much as monetarily.

"Do you like this one, Con?" Troye asks me.

"Oh," I instinctively smile as my tongue eases the lie through my lips, "Yeah, it's nice."

Troye smirks, a little laugh puffing from his nose. He slips his hand into mine, leaning in to whisper: "This is a pretty shitty way to spend an anniversary, isn't it?"

I immediately sigh in relief. "Oh my God, thank you. I thought you liked this sorry excuse for artwork."

Troye scrunched up his nose. "Are you kidding? If this room was filled with five-by-tens of Miley Cyrus in a thong, it'd still be more deserving of black tie than this." We laugh within the inch between our faces.

I loosen my tie. "Why did we have to dress up anyway? I mean, if we'd gone to that gallery downtown, it'd be perfectly acceptable to wear jeans and a sweatshirt. And they actually have art. None of this child's play."

Troye shrugs, "I think this whole fancy black tie shit is how adults make themselves look all sophisticated for their dates or something. It's a mature scene, I guess."

"Man, if this is how adults go on dates, take me to Neverland." I laugh, mostly serious.

"I'll get the pixie dust, baby, 'cause this is just saddening. I'd rather cuddle in sweats any day." Troye explains. Then his blue eyes brighten into an electric cobalt, "Speaking of which," He says, "I know exactly how we can make up for this."

I raise my eyebrows, smiling coyly. "Cuddling in sweats?"

He smirks, "Even better. Let's get out of here."

*****

Troye pulls me into the parking lot and drives us back to the apartment. "You go inside," He says, "Get changed and grab me something to wear. I've got to go pick up some stuff, but I'll be back in a minute."

I smile, liking the excited, enigmatic element to Troye's mood. "Okay." I peck his lips and get out, but then walk around the car to his side. I tap my knuckles on the door, a tinny knock vibrating the side of the car.

He rolls down the window, smiling. "What?"

I curl my hands around the lapels of his jacket and pull myself into him, fitting my mouth upon his like a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle that we've finally mastered. He tries to press into me, but the car door forms a barrier, so I step back to look at him. "Nothing, just that." I say tenderly, "Now go. You have anniversary surprises to plan for me, and I'm getting impatient not knowing what they are."