It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

36. Rust/Chrome

Connor found solace in holding Troye's hand. By love, the simple gesture was blown into the proportion of an excessive awareness. An awareness that their hands were made up of millions of atoms each, and therefore—as they touched—millions of intimate reactions turned their blood neon. Neither had the strongest hands—Connor's were puerile, and Troye's of scarecrow scraps and twig—but they fit with grace and clout regardless. Pads of fingertips pressed firmly between Connor's knuckles. Solidly hooked,  their wrists held contact. And, as persuaded in their hearts, they had a peculiar inkling that their respective life lines were significantly perpendicular. Cradling them were concepts of magic spells d'amour.

Yes, Connor liked holding hands. He liked it very much, because of all things aforementioned, along with the gentle pricks provided to his character. Typically embarrassed, Connor felt an uncharacteristic and unabashed flush of pride as he walked down the hallway as not a one, but a couple. The action, and he, exuded privilege, love and an almighty tone of unashamed bragging.

And, on this specific Thursday, the end of the day, this feeling failed to elude him. Confidence accumulated inside him, and he tilted his chin up just slightly. Up, up, level to the jaws of the most fortunate. He did this both in his carefreeness, and to get a better view of Troye.

He smiled up at him. "How was your day?" He asked jovially, smile harbouring the same warmth as that cradling the webbing of Troye's fingers.

As they were wading through the overpopulated channels of a student-sea, it would be usual for anxiety to distract from walking-and-talking. However, as Troye leaned into Connor, gently steering them around a corner, his companion distracted him from the anxiety itself. "S'okay." He offered as a bland answer, but his tone did not cease to include the ethereal sense of calm pleasure he felt.

He was serene at the moment. They both were, no matter how many of the pupils directed their way were floating in irises of gossip-hunger or disgust. Many stared, but Connor simply nudged Troye with a loving placidity. And the two boys smiled at each other, because they only thought of the few encased in jealousy for what they have.

In that, they were able to ignore the glares entirely. "Okay is good to tell me." Connor therefore continued with their conversation, swiping his thumb over the side of Troye's knuckle. "But I think Mr. Howell may need a little more detail."

Buoyant in current nature, Connor poked Troye's cheek as he puffed it out. Troye laughed. "I'm sure I'll be able to avoid the interrogation." He exclaimed, his mouth swirling up into a smirk as he stole a cheeky kiss to his boyfriend's cheek. "I reckon you'll have too much of the floor today."

Slinging a casually amorous arm around the shorter boy's shoulders, Troye kissed Connor's cheek not once, but three times more in quick succession. Regardless of the sugary tease, Connor gave him an incredulous look. "Why do you reckon that?" He asked, doing a crude imitation of Troye's accent, for joshing effect. To mock him, though it didn't do much good when their bodies were flush to each other's and Troye was in love.

So he simply chuckled at the botched impersonation, and moved on in a slight voice. "So much good has happened to you." He exclaimed, tone sobering to a Sunday-morning-bliss kind of rasp. "Even after the incident." He moved his hand in a slow swipe down Connor's back, then back up, and back down. "It's so..." A glad little smile played on his lips, "...fantastic."

"Don't you mean..." Grabbing his hand, Connor spun from Troye's body in a playful, ballroom fashion. This corner of the school was seldom bustling, with room to dance if you were careful of table corners and doorknobs. So, tugging Troye then in a way that made the couple rather spin into the counselling office, Connor's face shone with a beam so wide it was lopsided. "Frantastic?"