Painted On

Falling

Connor (Two weeks later)

Connor was in a large room. Some sort of party was going on, but he had no idea who had invited him or why he was there. He was leaning against a wall, with only a vague recollection that his date had left to get them drinks.

He saw Troye across the room getting something from a cooler.

'Who is he here with?' Connor wondered. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. 'And why do I want it to be me so badly?' He sighed. He knew for certain that his friend was there, if for a date, with some boy who he would never see again. That's how Troye worked.

"I got your drink!" Connor opened his eyes at the voice, his face flushing red when he met his date's eyes.

Troye's eyes.

"Th-th-thanks," Connor stuttered.

"What's wrong?" Troye asked, putting a hand on Connor's shoulder comfortingly. "You look confused."

"I just... are you my date?" Connor asked.

"Of course, silly, don't you remember?"

"Remember?" Connor asked.

"This?" Troye took Connor's hand, turning his wrist upwards and revealing an intricate design that Connor couldn't quite see in the dim light. He lifted Connor's wrist and pressed his lips against the tattoo.

"A... tattoo..." Connor said slowly. "Your tattoo."

"Of course. I love you and you love me," Troye said with a smile.

He leaned forward and kissed Connor. The second their lips touched Connor was flying, flying, flying...

Falling.

He was tumbling downwards and downwards and downwards and there was nothing to hold onto and he was shouting Troye's name.

And then he was sitting up in bed, his heart racing. His breathing was irregular and his wrist was tingling.

Why was his wrist tingling?

He scrambled out of bed, tripping over his own feet as he stumbled into the bathroom. Closing the door and flicking on the light, he rolled up his sleeve cautiously.

Connor's breath caught in his throat as he stared, unbelieving, at the mark on the inside of his wrist.

It was a dark blue in color, nearly black. The design was composed of twisting lines, similar to a treble clef but not quite.

And he knew exactly who it belonged to.

Troye.

"Shit," he muttered. He knew his best friend's aversion to love, he knew that it would break their friendship.

It might even break Troye.

"What do I do?" Connor whispered to himself. In any other situation, he would've called Troye. But he couldn't do that. He didn't want to hurt him.

He'd have to hide it. He'd stopped wearing his sweaters and stuff around Troye but he'd just start again. He'd have to be careful not to let Troye see the proof, written on his skin, that Connor was in love with him.

Because Troye couldn't know.

There was no way he could ever let Troye know.

The image in his head from his dream, of him kissing Troye, surfaced. But he pushed it away, because he knew that he'd have to forget about it.

He'd have to ignore his first love, for the sake of his friendship.

For Troye.