It's Understandable: A Tronnor AU

42. Nests

Half the time he didn't notice he was doing it, but a big factor of Troye's happiness was his listing of great things. The better he felt, the more frequent it became: what makes me feel good? He would ask himself this when he was on the fence. He would ask himself this in the back of his head as he drove home from school, or in fully articulated thoughts as he lay in bed.

Songwriting.
Being warm on rainy days.
Music that makes me feel like I'm jelly.
Singing along to the ukulele.
Laughing way too hard.
Kisses on the temple.
The people I love.

And it goes on and on. Lately, the list had become quite impressive—he was always adding as he lived day by day. The points were engraved in a stone obelisk dedicated to the bright side, erected in his head higher each day he kept that mindset, never to be forgotten.

That is until he broke away from a kiss, only to touch Connor's face—with slow-moving, feather fingers he did hold it—and the list was nothing but tomorrow's groceries pinned to the fridge. He did not need to think about it, and he ceased to notice as the jot-notes were dismissed underneath something shiny and new: one, indescribable feeling. As it hit, it danced inside him with the enough power to blow everything else away. This nonpareil thing—this phenomenal notion—was Connor. Connor, and his body before him as love in a tangible form.

His heart strings harp strings, Troye's voice rode lightly upon the breeze of his breath. "I'm ready too." He said, his eyes adoring, alluring—his eyes lost in the foliage of Connor's. "This time, for sure."

Connor wrote those same words in the lines of his lips, relaxed in tone as he smiled as such. His cheeks were in Troye's hands—fingertips light as though conjuring his blush. Troye's cheeks were in his hands—palms cupping his jaw like the sea cradles the sky. The tide was gentle, their eyes steady and focussed like sea creatures', and Connor's lips parted like the moment between songs.

They kissed, and the world's seas and oceans turned candy pink.

They kissed, and pink got darker; pink turned to red. Red got in their teeth and on the inside of their cheeks as prurience brought their tongues, voicelessly, into an intimate tète-à-tète. Red got on their collars and in their pores and eyelashes. It got under their nails, hands in hair and pressing up the back—hair in hands and back to the bed, they fell to the sheets in a splash of crimson zeal and apple-skin halcyon. Eyes like painted sanddollars surfacing in that passionate sea, Connor looked upon the tidal wave of a man hovering over him.

It was red, red rapture.

"No interruptions this time." Troye panted, sitting up and back, Connor's thighs between his legs. He caught the fullness of his lower lip between his teeth, eyes on fire. "No reservations."

With handsome haste, fingernails clicked along the grooves of Connor's pants zipper. The sound was like a buzz—the warm buzz in Connor's head—and soon he felt a tab of black denim being tugged by ready fingers. "No worries." Troye's voice was deep now.

The button surrendered with a slipping noise feeble, but still made Connor's breath viscous in his throat. It did not choke him however, and came out as gaseous aphrodisia when he spoke. "Nothing but us two. Finally."

With that, Troye's spine arched, and he finished unzipping Connor's pants with his mouth pressed hard against his. "Finally," came with a pause for breath. His hands worked with fleetness to fold back denim—to pull it down past Connor's knees—to remove the first layer between them.