It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

10. Blues and Nocturnes

Connor stayed home all week. It wasn't because of what happened with Troye; well, not completely. Sure, having his eating disorders descend a little into the world outside his individual was daunting and scary, but he trusted Troye not to tell. He knew Troye wouldn't cause him sadness, but that didn't mean unknown forces wouldn't.

All Sunday, he was in a sort of lazy daze; scrolling through Tumblr, reading Harry Potter fanfiction, feeling distracted and neutral. However, waking up on Monday was like regaining conciousness after being knocked out during an apocalypse of invisible monsters. Without cause, they committed genocide to his angels of happiness, tormenting him, killing the guards that kept his demons in check. They stapled his spine to the mattress and placed the soles of their feet on his chest, all their weight centred on bursting his heart. Connor couldn't move, he could barely breath, and he just felt inexplicably sad. He didn't know how to explain in verbally, let alone how to function with it.

"Sweetie, I heard your alarm go off a half hour ago." Cheryl peeked around the doorframe, fully decked out in her Walmart t-shirt and black slacks. It was about eight o'clock, which meant she was already five minutes late for work. Even without a tardy lecture, Connor knew that she would have a long, long day, what with working eight to five at Walmart, then six to midnight waitressing at a diner. But she was still standing at Connor's door, always sacrificing something or other, just to make sure her mess of a son was okay. Connor hated that more than anything. "You're going to be late for school, Con." The way she pretended she wasn't struggling, putting others before herself, it hurt his heart.

Connor didn't want to go to school. He didn't want to get up, but he also didn't want his mom to worry; he just wanted her to go, before her day got harder. "I'm sick." He fake coughed, just to get her out of the house. "I'll be okay, just go to work."

Cheryl crossed her arms; his voice was just too dull to be believable. "Connor, are you sure you don't want me to..."

"Mom, go to work, you're going to be late. Please."

So, albeit taking ten minutes to stock Connor's nightstand with painkillers, water, snacks and smothering him with love, Cheryl left. Connor sighed, finally alone, and tried to lock the monsters behind the gates of sleep.

When he woke up a few hours later, he still couldn't move. He smushed his cheek to the pillow and stared at a rip in the wallpaper. From the way the edges of the wallpaper curled up, he could see a starchily dusted crack in the drywall, and used it as an analogy for his life; under the skinny jeans and button-ups bought from holiday money and the cute, forced smile, he was just a hot mess.

The next day, the feelings were identical, just like the next, and the next. Texting Troye made it a little better though. Damn, Troye made everything better. He understood the basics, and didn't try to work out the details. He aimed to distract, to induce tiny spurts of happy with sweet words and heart emojis. The exhaustion didn't leave him, but Connor still found his lips twitching upwards periodically between his quiet suffering.

Oh, how he wanted his beautiful boy to wrap his arms around him, holding on so tightly that the sadness was squeezed from his chest.

Friday morning, when he finally felt okay enough to knock off the covers and pull on some clean sweats, that's all he could think about. The thoughts of existential pointlessness and an uncontrollably miserable future switched into I just want to see Troye again. I want to touch his face.

He still felt terrible, to say the least, but the thought of banter behind the portables fuelled him. Troye fuelled him.

~~~

"Connor Franta, please report to the counsellor's office. Connor Franta, counsellor's office. Thank you."