It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

37. Names (Hurricane Troye)

Their footsteps were like a big band out of time. Connor's were a creaky clarinet section, squeaking meekly as they scurried to keep up with the rushing boldness of Troye's trumpets. Those, they were sharp with decisive presses of valves—of soles to linoleum, knowingly bringing all progress to a point of nada. Going too fast, he propelled them backwards to when the band was new and out of sync; back to when Connor was different, and to when Troye was different too, always managing to keep Connor a few steps behind him.

"Troye." Connor sighed with ailing breath, legs struggling to hit his feet to the ground in time to match tempo. But it was to no avail, and his bones were too short and his muscles too little to bridge the gap. He tried to use his voice to make up for it. "Troye, slow down!" But even the ripped and torn sound of it didn't have the reach to touch Troye.

Instead, although loud—huffing at nearly a jog and whimpering with dejected frustration—Connor was made to feel like a mist of apparition. Jadedly, he knew it was plausible that Troye was simply committing to selective hearing, but no. Troye huffed aloud as he further quickened his pace: he had heard perfectly—every hint of desperation and every syllable of hurt. But technically yes, he was being selective. It was his conscious choice not to respond.

So, upon noticing this stubbornness—"Troye."—Connor sighed his name again. This time, softly and almost childishly, trying lure back those nurturing instincts he knew Troye possessed so potently. "Baby, you know I didn't mean anything...mean by what I said." He crooned. "All I want is for our relationship to be healthy. Is that so bad?"

Is that so bad? Troye's thoughts mimed thoughtfully, before the clatter of his angry outside distracted him. Bang, went the front doors as Troye's palms pushed them open vehemently, and then quietly stalking away did Troye go still, towards the parking lot.

Once more, Connor tried—cried out with panting desperation, as he was forced into a run. "Troye!" He was emotional, and vaguely irritated beneath that. He held his hands out, palms up, in a sort of on-the-edge begging that Troye refused to see. Still, Connor was possessed to fix this; or at least hash it out. "Troye, why won't you talk to me about this?" He whined, yet with a voice quite clipped. "I don't understand."

From behind him, Troye was touched by Connor's desperation, his unease and his coming annoyance, but it wasn't a sort of touch that made him feel clement. It was strictly external, touching his skin and sliding off—swiped away by hands of anger and humiliation. In that, Troye justified to himself that he would not talk. He didn't want to talk, only remain a contained fire, smoking his ill feelings out his ears.

And so he tied up his lips with a ribbon of ill dignity and trotted a tad slower as Connor fell silent as well. They came to the car, and Troye found himself grabbing onto the handle of the passenger's door. He tried not to keep his face unnecessarily fuming—okay, it was pretty fuming—as he opened it for Connor, but he turned to find himself almost mirrored.

All Connor's sweetness had been used up, and Troye was met with a face settled into a sour, demanding expression. They were both quiet, and Troye added a stiff gesture for Connor to get into the car, but Connor further pursed up his face—swayed on his heels, constricted and stressed and frustrated now. "I don't..." He shook his head, unaware of Troye's impatient glare as he did so. Uncaring of that glare really, feeling a smear of crimson darken his candy-pink sheepishness. He puffed bitterly. "What kind of couple are we if we can't talk about stuff like this without one of us blowing up?"

Raising his face, Connor directed baby-pink cheeks towards Troye in hopes that a look like that would soften the Aussie. It worked, of course—Troye was crazily in love with this boy, after all—but he was much too brazen to admit it: he remained a silent stone.