It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

20. Photograph (A Little Bit of Happy)

Troye hated Taylor Swift. He hated Iggy Azalea and Miley Cyrus and Jason Derulo and the radio in general. Popular music just kind of agitated him if he were to be honest, save Lorde and some select Ed Sheeran songs. Now, sometimes there were exceptions. Like, sometimes he'd find some unknown tracks that he adored from popular artists that he hated. But, even then, the radio always picks them up, overplays them and ruins them for him.

And, even further, high school dances always managed to make him even more annoyed with their shitty remixes. They hurt his ears and made his fingers twitch, especially since he was constantly sandwiched between something, whether it be people or the wall. As much as he begged Connor to take him, Troye realized that he didn't really think this through. Yes, he wanted a dance with his boyfriend. Yes, he wanted to step out of his comfort zone. Yes, he wanted to feel like a normal teenager for once.

Was he a normal teenager? No, he was irritable and anti-institutional and forgot how uncomfortable he felt in public without Connor on his arm. So, after fifteen minutes of roaming around the claustrophobia-inducing, hipster-murdering, how-the-fuck-does-this-give-people-joy gym, Troye wanted to leave. And that made him feel so terrible, because he had made Connor come just for him. He felt the selfishness hit, then the regret at full force.

Broodingly, guilty, he stalked around, watching his boyfriend from a distance and feeling that so deeply. He debated taking Connor by the hand as pulling him out of there with a huge apology but, oddly enough, when he looked, he didn't feel like he should be doing that.

The boy with the camera, his boy seemed...happy.

And he was. Connor was kind of happy, because as soon as he passed that first Polaroid picture to that first smiling couple, his work felt appreciated. He felt appreciated, because he had barely started working before everyone was gushing over how cool his little booth was. Each word of praise lifted him up, and he slowly stopped resenting Troye for making him come. His thoughts became more and more positive.

Mom's in the hospital, what if she dies while you're gone? But she's going to be perfectly okay. The doctor said so.

Hey, look over there, it's Beth and her nasty goons, coming to tell you what a freak you are. C'mon, they aren't acknowledging me, or even looking this way. Which is weirdly great...

Oo, better loosen your belt. Your ass and stomach look huge in that suit. Shut up, I haven't been eating for months. The purging isn't working, I still look adorable, and I'm going to take Troye out for a fucking cheesecake later to celebrate.

Yeah, maybe Connor had been a little irritable for the past five days. He'd been sad and stressed and a little depressed, but now he realized why he'd been so excited to do this job. It was a change in pace, contributing to a change in attitude, which he never would have experienced if it wasn't for Troye. He had resisted, willing Troye to give him some space and to stop forcing care on him, but now he couldn't stop smiling; his boyfriend seemed to know him better than he thought.

Feeling like a professional photographer, he instructed the next couple, Tyler Oakley and his boyfriend Diego, how to stand. They held each other's waists in a couple different ways before Connor was satisfied, proud of the saucy, retro stance he had fit to the boisterous couple. He took the snap, and passed them the quickly developed picture. "Fuck, you're really good at this photography thing." Tyler praised in his loud, lispy voice, him and his date huddled behind the fading-in photo. Both boys had expressions of marvellous critique: eyebrows raised, lips pouted in satisfaction.

Troye, and the school's typical gossipmouths alike, always chattered about how judgemental Tyler was. He wasn't notoriously rude or anything, but was supposedly the most critical student when it came to gossip, media and, mostly, arts. So Connor couldn't help but be thrilled.