It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

3. Little Shift

There's a humming in the restless summer air,

And we're slipping off the course that we prepared,

But in all chaos, there is calculation,

Dropping glasses just to hear them break.

You've been drinking like the world was gonna end (it didn't)

Took a shiner from the fist of your best friend (go figure)

It's clear that someone's gotta go

We mean it but I promise we're not mean.

Troye stopped singing at that last note. His voice hadn't been able to hit it properly and, though he tried again, the simple note seemed impossible. He shrugged to himself, leaning back again the portable classroom and placing the cigarette back between his lips. Inhaling deeply, he knew it was a detrimental action, that it was ruining his singing voice, but since when did it matter if his coping mechanisms were dangerous? Besides, at least if he got caught skipping out here, he'd look like a stud doing it.

He believed that smoking made him look like that, like he was cool and collected, like an Australian Danny Zuko, when he was just the opposite. Hearing some gravel shift as footsteps neared him, he cringed at how his heart constricted. He could never figure out how to transfer his outside facade into temporary emotion, as hard as he tried. So he felt a lot of things at that moment: anxiety, helplessness, fear. But, most of all, he felt guilt.

"T-Troye. Hi, Troye." Connor stammered as he joined Troye behind the portables. He wouldn't look at him, his face a mess of so many emotions, exactly how it looked when Troye was envisioning it. He thought about Connor all night. He didn't sleep; he thought about him crying because of him, cutting because of him, killing himself with Troye to blame for it. The latter obviously didn't happen, because Connor's presence was still residing in flesh, right before him, but Troye found himself worried it would.

"Hey, Connor."

"H-how, um...how are y-you?"

"I'm fine." And how are you? He wanted to ask back, but he didn't. It was weird, but that made him feel bad too. When did he start caring about Connor Franta? Was it when he walked into class with his exhausted body? Or when he burst out crying when the teachers brought up his self-harm? No matter when or where, being mean to Connor for his own benefit simply strengthened the fact that he, as much as he hated it, couldn't be so heartless.

He licked his lips, as if the vulnerable words would come out easier that way, "I'm sorry I was such a dick to you yesterday." Troye admitted. "I was mad at Mr. Howell for making me do stuff I didn't want to do, and I took it out on you. You aren't annoying."

Connor looked up from the ground in shock; nobody ever apologized to him. It was always hit and ignore and let him weep, but Troye...Troye apologized. "You...you don't hate me?" Connor just had to ask.

Troye shook his head, the cigarette hanging from his lips swaying with the movement. "I reckoned that I barely know you, so that shouldn't be the case." He shrugged. In a gesture of truce, he plucked the cigarette from his mouth and held it out to Connor. "Want a drag? For new friendship's sake?"

As overjoyed as Connor was, he looked at the cellulose death contraption and slowly shook his head. "I don't smoke, sorry..."

Troye shrugged again, taking a drag of his own. "Suit yourself." He said simply, smoke curling from his lips, around the words. There was a long silence, and neither of them could pinpoint whether it was awkward or not. They had a half hour to spare, before the day was over, and they somehow needed to prompt the next two and a half. They needed to somehow make it tolerable.