It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

12. A Precious Somewhere

Troye's plan was simple, but fool-proof. It was beautiful and thoughtful and involved a haven he had never shared before. He was very confident about it. 

Romantic was what it was, and he knew that it would rid Connor's life of all his negatives, at least for a night, which was all he wanted for him. After all that had happened, that afternoon and handfuls of past alike, somebody needed to offer Connor a break. Troye wanted nothing more than to be the one to gift that release. 

But, before he took him anywhere, their first priority was getting Connor clean. It was clear that he desperately needed a shower and a change of clothes, even from Troye's eyes. They held hands, and his palm was sticky against Troye's, the webbing of his fingers tacky and loosely gluing itself to any other skin it could touch. His heather t-shirt was stained and brittle, "clinging awkwardly to my body, ugh." The substance was also gooey in his hair, and dried drips of purple curved from his temples, trailing down his snow-white face. 

"Okay, so let's drop by your place, get you cleaned up, then we'll be on our way."

However, Troye didn't realize that getting Connor back home was going to be the hard part. Pulling out of the parking lot, Troye asked him what his address was, and was a little perplexed when Connor pursed his lips tightly. It was silent for a moment, because the first thing that came to Connor's mind was an image of his house compared to Troye's, and he refused to give him directions. But he needed to change, and Troye didn't get what the big deal was, so he continued to bug him, aimlessly driving as he did so. He tried the teasing voice, the mock angry voice, the sexy voice and the soft, lovely voice. But Connor wouldn't let it slip, even when Troye resorted to tickling him at red lights.

"Stop, stop! Oh my God, stop, NOT MY NECK, GAH! Go, go, it's green, it's green! The light is greeeeeeen!"

Connor laughed, he joked and was happy, truly, but still he wouldn't tell. He tried. He tried to be grateful for what little he had when it came to his living situation. He was grateful for his mother's hard work, for food, for water, and for how accepting Troye would probably be if he knew, but he couldn't help but be embarrassed. He was also embarrassed that he was embarrassed, which was senseless to him and messed with his mind. His shame was a needle, sewing a string of silence through his lips in an intricate pattern; one that would take ages to remove.

So, eventually, Troye gave up, and took Connor back to his place instead. Connor was glad; "I'm sorry. I'll take you home at one point, but this isn't really the time." For now, there were too many of his bothers positioned on Troye's shoulders, and he could never willingly turn his lover into Atlas. He had enough of a burden by his lonesome. 

Troye nodded, agreeing even without the details, because he knew the complexity of secrets, and how their unravelling had to be timed perfectly in order to avoid destruction. "It's okay. I understand." He knew how it all worked, so he could wait for the answers. All he needed right now was for his beautiful boy's coating of violet abuse to be gone, in every way.

Once upstairs, Troye demonstrated how to turn on his weird, modern shower, distinguished between the good shampoos and the shitty ones, and showed Connor how to lock the door properly. Then he left, and Connor immediately shed his messy clothes. He positioned the handle to produce a stream of hot, hot water, and let the scalding waterfall carry his worries into the plumbing system. He couldn't understand it; his friends, they usually bit him so hard that the bloodflow was nearly impossible to stop. He was used to not getting better; transferring all conciousness into a blade or a razor, his beaten mind powerless to stop the slitting. He was used to darkly decorating his arms and thighs so heavily, until the scars criss-crossed; and counterproductivity was the norm, his leeches of problems spitting lemon juice saliva on each bloody fissure. Stinging; but he didn't happen to feel that way about the Kool-Aid incident. Maybe he had for a moment, his curtained vision blindly experiencing a whole new level of harassment, but then he had opened his eyes. He usually cried in the shower, but this time he smiled, because he hadn't opened them to loneliness.