A Touch of Courage (Troyler AU)

Chapter 33: The Center Cannot Hold

"One of the hardest things you will ever have to do my dear is grieve the loss of a person who is still alive." - Jeannette Walls, The Glass Castle

Tyler's POV

On his walk to class, he saw Troye's car in the lot, from a distance. He stood on the gravel, eyes out of focus, remembering how the leather had stuck to his skin, until someone jostled him. He tore his gaze away and kept moving, bracing himself as he entered the classroom.

He sat next to Troye, trying to stop his gaze from settling on the other boy. He forced his gaze to drift outside. A big, ancient tree shivered in a sudden breeze, a thousand leaves clicking dryly. Mist still skulled in shadowed hallows. The smell of gun smoke drifted through the open windows. The world was tense and desaturated, waiting for the catharsis of rain. Tyler knew exactly how that felt. If only-

Troye shifted slightly and Tyler caught his breath, gaze ripping back to him.

Troye glanced at him, expression neutral.

"Morning."

Troye's voice was always quiet, but now Tyler could barely hear him at all. It didn't matter. He glowed ultraviolet inside.

"Morning."

Troye turned away and Tyler sat there. Not staring at Troye, or the board, or Mr. Parker, or anything at all. He was taking very careful stock of his hammering heart and rioting blood.

For the first time since this craziness between them started, Tyler felt like things might be alright. Yes, they were sitting five feet apart and didn't dare glance at each other, but it would be okay. Troye knew that Tyler would come if he called, and Tyler knew that he would call.

For now, that was enough. For now, it had to be.

-X-

He didn't remember the rest of the day. He didn't remember anything. Was it even a day? Or merely an interval of sunlight and bells and doors until he was alone.

He finally got back to the house, standing in front of it and wondering why he was so reluctant to go inside. The moment he walked in the door, he was struck by the conviction that he'd entered the wrong house by mistake: a house that coincidentally happened to look exactly the same as his own.

Frowning, he looked around. His blue corduroy jacket draped from its hook by the door. His sunflower vase sat on the kitchen table. Everything seemed to be in order, but the sense of wrongness, of something altered, kept its grip.

So he leafed through his textbooks, sorted some papers he'd left on the table, turned the tv on, then turned it off again after only a few moments. After a while of this, he had to swallow the truth of it: he was where he was supposed to be. If something felt wrong, it wasn't the house, it was him. He was looking at his old surroundings differently. His perceptions were slanted by everything he'd gone through. It had been a rough night, with brutal days beforehand. He tossed the remote onto the couch and decided a hot shower might help.

But when he entered the bathroom, a sense of dread and vague unease clung to his skin like a film. For a while, he stood in the bathroom, just watching everything, every towel, every toothbrush, gaze focusing on the blue toothbrush on the right side of the sink. A strand of Troye's dark hair wrapped around a comb by the sink. A tray hair from before; from when Troye was still...there.

Finally, he turned on the water and stepped in. He lingered through the washing, soaping his skin again and again, thoughts focused on that errant hair, untouched by all the activity the house had endured in the last week, a tangible reminder that the house had once belonged to someone other than himself.