It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

30. Paper Dolls

The weekend passes in a storm. Not in the metaphorically violent context of being outside, but the serenity of being in a bed, listening to the rain. Rain pounding on the windows like little cheating husbands, failing to get inside and soak their warm and comfortable ex-wives, whom in which are too strong to ever have them again. Inside, all weekend, is a place of quiet safety. It's a place of perpetually rumpled bedsheets and hot cocoa. The place both boys truly needed. 

Saturday: Troye and Connor lay in bed all day. They saw nobody, except Tyde for a moment, after Troye spam texted him until he brought them the pizza they'd ordered. They didn't talk about their fight anymore, nor did either boy bring up Shaun. It was just eat, sleep, repeat.

Sunday: It was the same, except the rain had become torrential, and the weatherman was saying it would last all week. "That's okay." Connor murmured into Troye's hair as the storm made static burst in electric blues on the television screen. "It's not like we're going to leave this room anyway."

 And they didn't, because then it was noon on the next Thursday, and Connor was standing at Troye's window, watching through the rain as wind tugged the trees back and forth in an overenthusiastic dance. Leaves left over from autumn were ripped from their homes and battered to the ground, like soldiers caught in No Man's Land. In their last airborne moment, they always paused like they were caught upon a dying breath, and landed peacefully on the ripples of a puddle. 

Troye's little TV monitor emitted sitcom laughs between steady cries of static, and it somehow matched perfectly with the sound of the rain and the ruffling of fabric as Troye got dressed. Connor caught an inexplicit glimpse of him in the reflection of the window, and he smiled softly. Innocently, because although they'd been sleeping together, they hadn't been sleeping together. 

Troye's naked body was still a sweet little mystery, one that Connor wanted to wait awhile to solve. For now, it was to stay a mirage of fantasy.

"Okay, I'm decent now. You can turn around." Troye said, shaking his wet curls around in a towel.

Connor turned around, and was attacked by his own blush. Turns out, 'decent' had a slightly different meaning to Troye, because he was smiling extra wide as he watched Connor's eyes trail over his body. Connor gulped; he was wearing nothing but sweatpants. They were too loose around his hips, and though he'd drawn the strings in tight, they still sat dangerously close to the bottom of his pelvic bone.

Feeling his own area begin to pitch a tent, Connor squeaked and threw his hands over his eyes. "That is not decent, Troye Sivan Mellet." He gasped, plopping onto the bed and crossing his legs in embarrassment. 

Troye laughed, because this is what Troye does. Flirt. In the last few days, they've been closer than ever. Closer in their relationship, closer in being comfortable with each other, closer to...other things. 

Connor thought about it once or twice, and Troye mentioned it in passing, but the ultimate verdict was to not go past the coquet. Not yet anyway. 

"Okay, Sandra Dee." Troye joshed, using one hand to uncross Connor's legs by the knee, the other to unshield his eyes. "Is this decent enough for you?" 

When Connor opened his eyes, he felt a snort come up his throat and whistle through his nose. Troye was wearing a bulky sweater, a winter hat and what Connor reckoned were the fuzziest socks he owned. And, over all that in immensely tacky glory, was a fucking poncho. 

Troye, with a shiteating grin, twirled around as if showing off the way the tassels lifted with the motion. "I think I'm quite covered enough, don't you?" He teased, sitting himself royally in Connor's lap.