Tronnor One-Shots

Flightless Bird American Mouth

A/N: this one-shot is inspired by the song Flightless Bird, American Mouth by Iron and Wine.

Idk if this is graphic enough to put a trigger warning, but I'll do it just in case: violence and near suicide.

"I was a quick wit boy,

Diving too deep for coins,

All of your street light eyes,

Wide on my plastic toys..."

I can still recreate that softly singing voice; low yet high and unmistakable in sweetness as he delivered the lyrics to me across his basement couch. A gentle voice coming from lips that I knew were so supple against my own.

"Then when the cops closed the fair,

I cut my long baby hair..."

His breath, that comforting temperature equivalent to that of an early fall day, carried his words, caressing my neck and jaw and ears. His mouth was so close.

"Stole me a dog-earred map,

And called for you everywhere..."

We were a mass; Troye's arms harnessing my body to his, and sheer willingness keeping him to the tacky blue cushions. Then he stopped singing just to kiss me. We were happy, we knew who we were and who the other was, but that was last night. That was before the stars and the sleep and the morning routine, propelling me into the everyday crowds. These corridors, long and diseased with teenagers who could care less about what they don't know about us, made me sad. Sad, because I knew I couldn't stand here with him. I couldn't be his here.

"Have I found you, flightless bird? Jealous, weeping."

We couldn't be caught loving each other, as the boys we are. Be caught knowing each other, with the clipped wings we can't seem to grow back.

And I am scared of my own shadow, seeing him down the hall, watching him with a thumping heart through the slits in my locker door. That usual withdrawal in fright and knowledge of the inevitable haunts him, as always; you can see it in his face, taut with anticipation. My heart splits from top to bottom but I pretend it hasn't, sulking to the bathroom, defeated by this small-town high school. Homophobia and twisted normality, synonyms in our case.

I shove myself into a stall, slipping gradually into my costume for after-school drama rehearsals. We are doing Fame, and I chose to be Ralph Garcy, because maybe the rough-and-tough character will hide the homosexuality of my own character. Adjusting a bandanna over my forehead and pulling up my ratty sweatpants, I growl in the mirror: you gotta be a scrapper, Connor, be tough for the audience. Be tough so they don't see how your feet drag as you walk through the halls.

Yeah, I'm good at pretending.

By the time I'm dressed, I assumed that Troye bolted home and away from the menace and hate. He attracted bullies, so running is what he always does, he runs until that softly singing voice is a wail. But sometimes I guess he can't fly fast enough and, as I exit the bathroom, I hear voices; mocking and mean voices. Then noises: books hitting tiles, flesh thumping against softer flesh than it. More vulnerable flesh...

"Or have I lost you, American mouth?"

...of a boy who one can never truly find. He hides himself, yet not well enough to conceal his weaknesses. Not enough to escape the victimization.

I peek out from behind the lockers, invisible to the four boys clumped beyond. Three of them big and cruel-looking, and the fourth on the ground, curly-haired, bruised and minuscule in comparison. He looked even smaller as they cackled, smaller inside, becoming black and blue and bleeding as their feet became flurries of malicious sock and canvas. Kicking him. In a trance of numbness, I watch this. In a state of utter, immobilizing horror, I watch as they break apart the brilliant boy I love. They push and shatter him, but I tell myself that he always manages to fix himself, somehow. Though I secretly know that it's for naught, as something always breaks him again.

"Big pill, looming..."

I am a bystander. I love him, but I can't help him. I am small. I am weak. I am scared shitless by conflict. I am not as courageous as he. But, once the boys leave him beaten on the floor, I consider going to him. I take one step, and then one backwards because, as he picks up his books and bag, he emanates with a faint weeping. Suddenly, my strong boy was showing his crumbly side, sobbing and quivering. He violently ripped open the zippers on his bag and pull out something small. I couldn't see it, but the sound it made was terrifyingly familiar.

Now it was my turn to be drowned almost to death in uncontainable terror. I ran to him, my loose tank top billowing slightly as I threw my entire being at him. Shocked at my presence, he dropped the bottle, small white tablets rolling across the linoleum, and he stared at me. His was a face of suffering: purple, blue, black and red, broken and sticky-wet. Words, they could not flow like they did on that awful blue couch, but like those of a frightened child. In summary, they didn't flow at all. It was as if the tears filling his mouth burned like acid through his vocal cords; he could not speak, he could not breath. In this empty hallway, with teachers behind sound-proof walls and obliviousness, I held him close.

What would my world be without him? His pretty voice, his chocolate curls, his thin, calming arms and those blue eyes so full of hope and invincibility. All those tears he'd cried, all that blood they took from him, he seemed to move past it always. But, then again, maybe positivity was no longer in his reach. Maybe he was simply sucked clean. Done. Finished. Lethal pills in hand.

But he was too young, too beautiful. My Troye, I could never lose him...not this way. It shouldn't be an option, and I wished I could be braver for him. I wish I could fix everything for him. His shattered soul, his broken heart...but I didn't know how. So I pulled him closer, letting my voice carry our song to his hurting being.

"Have I found you, flightless bird?

Grounded, bleeding;

Or lost you, American mouth?

Big pill, stuck going down."

He was my flightless bird, my (not-so) American mouth. He was burdened by abuse, I by my cowardice, so I quietly try to find his lost ability to soar. I look for the old him, the happy Troye; I look for him everywhere and, once I find him, his heartache and suffering and the pain of those unmendable wings cause me to lose him once more.

But I don't want that anymore. I don't want him to feel the punches or words or the tablet sliding, cold against his throat. It hurt that it took me so long to realize that all his hope was false; fabricated bravery just to make me cease to worry.

I kiss him softly, the blood from his nose sticking to my lips. In return, his kiss was weak and tired. We stood slowly, and he looked at me, sad and distant. I blushed, but kept my eyes trained on him as he clutched my shirt.

"I understand..." He croaked, sniffling, "I understand that I am nothing, but..."

I sighed out my nerves and my face whitened again. I leaned my mouth to his ear, wrapping my arms around his quivering body. "I'll never let them hurt you again, Troye."

I know he didn't believe me, but he wouldn't let me go nonetheless. How I wish we were better than this, but we are both flightless birds. Searching for something, when we are the ones who are truly lost.

*****

*inserts intensely angsty one-shot after chapters and chapters of fluff*

Oh my sweet heavens, what have I done to my poor readers I am so sorry it just happened and it is dark and depressing af I apologize sorry guys should I have even posted this? Okay I'm going to stop rambling now....

Let me know if you actually think it's good, because I'm having mixed feelings and I wanna know what you guys think...

Sydney :)