It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

43. Kairosclerosis

When Mr. Howell began their final meeting, only he knew it was the last one. He made that decision in the very first second, when the boys floated spritely into his room. Spritely: the adjective that caused him to open with a light-footed jump to conclusions. "From the looks on your faces, I have reason to believe we do not have much to talk about today."

Used to seeing antsy caution—yellow light, stop light language—he was pleased to find that his assumptions were not received as such. Over the desk, a blithe smile stretched like crowds over crosswalks under green-lit eyes. That was Connor now, with brightness impelled—with a softness of passive context no longer. Pacific instead, and a softness no longer juxtaposed to a hardness in Troye.

Hard Troye, in lieu, had an uncharacteristically cordial look on his face. Hard Troye had a smile on his face. "Only good things." Said Troye, soft now, with a voice like the gaseous remnants of his boiled down toughness.

Like this, they were truly a pair of midday clouds, high with peaceable coexistence. "Yes." Connor agreed smoothly, everything—soft voice, soft eyes, tenderness—directed towards Troye. He was talking to Mr. Howell, yes, but he meant all his peacefulness to be with Troye most of all. "Like, for once I can say that my family situation is great." He said. "I stopped purging a while ago, but you know that."

Troye snuck fingers to the knob of Connor's elbow, as if the action was unseeable—but Mr. Howell saw. "I'm on new medication, and it's much more tolerable." He added, just as unsinkable. "I don't remember the last time I cut."

"Me neither." Connor smiled, almost in pride. Pride for himself, and pride for Troye, all residing in the blush Mr. Howell saw in his profile. "Only good things are left now."

Watching them with eyes accustomed to love—eyes that understand when they look upon people like Connor and Troye—Mr. Howell decided to give them a moment to just experience that good. One second, two seconds, three seconds more; he quickly realized they would stare at each other forever if he let them. They would smile like that forever if they could.

To someone who had seen the exhaustive opposite in them, it was a pivotal realization in the least.

A collection of papers so familiar to Thursdays lay on his desk, and Mr. Howell piled them without stint—conclusively even. While the boys had their moment, he rose. He unlocked the filing cabinet and placed them in: one copy under M, the other under F.

When he was again seated, the boys' chairs had been moved until they were abutting, yet they were finally distracted from each other. As Mr. Howell placed his hands in that infamous steeple, they paid attention—they looked at him with awaiting eyes. Awaiting of a speech Mr. Howell knew, but he instead let words of wisdom continue to sleep on the hay.

Alternatively, though like a requirement, he smiled only as a professional does. "Is there anything else you boys need from me?"

And the boys acted just as he'd expected. They decided no by clockwork—they looked to Mr. Howell, looked to their other, then back to the counsellor with eyes blank of request. With shakes of heads as answers then, the steeple closed up shop. "Then I reckon we're done here."

Troye blinked, almost in bewilderment. "So, that's it?" He asked, dazed by that closing line—an end that, at one time, seemed so unreachable. "We don't have to come back here anymore?"

"Not if you don't want to, no." Mr. Howell smiled supportively, standing now in front of his desk, his long arm out and gesturing towards the door. "I relieve you of your duties."