Tronnor One-Shots

Demons

What are feelings?

How do you use them?

Can I sell them?

Or eat them?

No? Well, then I don't want them. I'm not joking just, somebody, please take them from me. It's all so stupid and surprisingly complex, not worth the stress at all but, as usual, I can't keep my eyes off of Troye. He doesn't stand far away, with Tyler, Alfie and Zoe, dancing funnily along to the scratchy music blasting all around the stadium. I'm not used to being on the floor during stadium concerts, but I'm glad for it, because I don't think I'd be able to sit through three hours trapped so close to him. I need to get away periodically, to calm myself before I do something rash, like make it known how I feel for him. It's a hard thing to hide. My stomach flips each time he hooks his thumbs in his pockets; my tongue tingles each time he fixes his glasses. I know it's Halloween, and sexy costumes are an unspoken tradition, but I absolutely hate him for what he's wearing. My heart tells me hate goes hand-in-hand with love, because it savours the lack of clothing on Troye's body. I think he's dressed as Tumblr, wearing nothing but cat-eye Ray Bans, a flower crown and low-cut, dark-wash jeans. My innocence squeals like the soles of his Converse against the concrete as my mind is polluted with every single thing I could think to do to him, if he'd just treat his pants like his shirt.

Want nibbles at my every vein, but I know I can't give this to myself, because I can't do that to him. I am a manic-pixie dream boy trope. Minus the dream part given that, instead of using my dark side to spice up my sweetheart's life, my baggage blocks me from getting the guy in the first place. Gloomy thoughts, I place them directly behind my smile, hiding in plain sight, giving everybody the illusion that I'm the happiest person alive; it wouldn't be fair to bring it all to the surface and onto his shoulders. That's why I know I should forget about it. It makes a whole lot of sense, so why can't I forget? I watch him out of the corner of my eyes and I know the painful truth; he's why. This skinny nineteen year old is the sole reason I'm up all night, simply because he's Troye.

Troye, who's exceedingly sexy when he wants to be.

Troye, who uses grunge filters and makes a bedhead look alluring.

Troye, who's so delectably witty that you never know if he's seriously flirting with you.

Troye, who steals my clothes as if we were dating.

Troye, who laughs beautifully and gives the most amazing of hugs.

Just, Troye. I lean back against the stage in exasperation, taking a rather long chug of my beer. I've come to the ultimate verdict of actuality: feelings suck.

"I see you, Connor."

I nearly choke on my drink as someone slings their arm around my shoulder. A familiar, female laugh rings out at me, and I look down at Hannah Hart with a breath of relief. I take a moment to thank God it wasn't Tyler, or I would've been immediately pegged as foolishly in love and whisked into never-ending matchmaking plans without further consent. "Oh, hey Hannah." I greet her, as if the thought didn't make my chest ache like hell.

Hannah smirks, patting me on the chest. "Hey yourself, big boy." She purrs rather teasingly. Knowingly, so that my entire body tenses up. Then she says what I already know I've done. "What a scenic view, huh?" She nods in Troye's direction. "Looks like baby Troye has been working out, trying to build up the abs there. I'm sure you noticed, because I could vouch to a jury that, at this time, this night, your eyes are having their own little erections. Like, eye-rections."

She winks at me and I eye her carefully. If I know anything about Hannah, she has a way of making people want to entrust her with their deepest, darkest secrets. Maybe it's the joking-but-loving look in her eyes, or maybe it's how her words are carefully, cautiously pushing the boundaries of personal space. Either way, I try to stand my ground, making myself pretend, though my heart seems to be rejecting all logic lately. "What are you talking about?" I act all innocent, "I wasn't staring at Troye. I must've been spacing out or something."