It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

29. Sing Sad Singer

Suddenly, Connor hurt so much. He didn't know if had been in some sort of shock before, but his body hadn't had this many aches and pains until now, as he lay, literally short of breath from it all. He had collapsed on the bed, whimpering and writhing as all the torment skittered through him like his blood was made of blades.

His ribs were so sore, feeling as though they were slowly growing spikes into the muscle around them. Each time he shifted, they shocked him with an anguish he could barely stand, paired with a uncomfortable pain that pulsed from his abdomen and sides. He lifted up his shirt, and dusted fingers gingerly over a garden of ugly bruises, plotted disorderly over his torso.

He laid back down in frustration, the light impact of his head hitting the pillow causing his face to vibrate with pain. After he'd run upstairs, he noticed a firing squad of bruises lining up along his jaw, and he felt them like gunfire each time he moved his mouth. His black eye was swelling up, as was his split lip, and his nose--fuck, his nose--felt like it was being seared by a blowtorch. He was scared it was going to fall off, and everything in totality was ushering in a hammering headache.

But, what hurt the most out of the entire disaster, was the way his chest felt as though it were collapsing, piercing his heart with rubble. He thought about Troye. He thought about Troye and the fight and the way they both yelled and the stupidity of it all.

He wasn't angry anymore; he didn't know what he felt or what he should feel emotionally. Putting it in a logical perspective, it was getting a bit confusing. Was he right? Was Troye right? Were they both wrong? Should he go talk to Troye? Should he wait for Troye to come to him? What should he do?

So he just lay there, letting himself be succumbed by all his bodily pain, watching the empty pillow on the other side of the bed. If I don't do something, will I be risking everything? Will I risk losing him, if I put my pride before us?

He didn't get a chance to answer that question, because there was this light, almost nervous knock on the door. It was tentative, hesitant; knuckles rapping in a manner shy even. Suddenly, Connor's pain melted into the backdrop, and his heart drubbed so intensely that the rubble was pushed to the side. Troye?

"C-come in." He called tentatively, his whole body binding up in preparation for the brawl buster coming.

The doorknob turned, and he held his breath. What would he even say to him? I'm sorry, Troye? I was wrong, Troye? I have no clue what the hell is going on in my own head right now, so can we just both shut up and pretend this never happened, Troye?

He couldn't make a decision, so as the door eased more and more open, he fated that he'd just let Troye do the talking. He was the one approaching first, wasn't he? That had to mean he had something to say to Connor.

Then the door was open, and Connor felt like he was going to throw up all over the Mellet's luxuriously nice spare comforter.

"Hello, son. Hope I'm not intruding." A short, middle-aged man poked his bald head through the doorway. Not Troye. He stepped into the room, leaving the door comfortably wide, which further proved Troye was not coming to apologize any time soon. The man awkwardly held up the same First Aid kit Troye had used to clean Connor's face earlier. "Troye told me you have something that needs fixing, and I can see he's right."

Connor hovered his fingers shakily over the crooked bridge of his nose, the pain elevated massively by his crumpling disappointment. Why wouldn't Troye come apologize already? He was pissed, so he started taking deep breathes in, scratchy breathes out; this made the man at the door very uncomfortable.