Falling {Tronnor}

One

His leg was bouncing again.

Maybe it was due to the anxiety that was making his throat tight and his chest heavy.

Maybe it was due to the fact that he felt trapped, even though logically he was just sitting on another couch in another room.

Maybe it was due to his friends and family telling him that this was what he needed, that this was for his own good.

Maybe it was due to the list of things that was being said to him.

Your friends are worried about you. They're worried that certain things are affecting your life in a very negative manner, in a long-term type of way. They think you're isolating yourself. They can't tell if you're okay. They're worried that you might hurt yourself. They just want to understand what you're feeling. So they asked me, to help you figure out how to tell them, you know? I can help with that. You just need to talk to me.

Maybe it was due to the therapist being a young man, maybe his age.

Maybe it was due to the therapist's foreign accent, his beautifully styled hair, his striking blue eyes, his gentle smile.

Maybe it was due to the fact that he wouldn't admit to himself that he had noticed those traits.

Whatever the cause, his leg was bouncing again.

So he let it shake.

And he focused on the sound of the rain, rather than the voice of the person in front of him.

Just another person who was trying to figure him out.

Just another person who would fail.

The therapist seemed to come to the same conclusion, leaning back in his chair and sighing slightly at Connor's unresponsiveness.

"You know," he said finally. "Let's try this again."

Connor let his eyes meet the blue ones, tilting his head inquisitively.

"Hi." The therapist stuck out his hand. "I'm Troye."

Ignoring the hand, Connor crossed his arms. His leg bounced faster. "Why?"

"Why? You'll have to be more specific in your question." As Connor hadn't been paying attention when 'Troye' first introduced himself, he had absolutely no idea what his last name was, so he couldn't refer to him as Dr. whatever. He was literally forced to use his first name. 'Troye.'

"It's your job to figure me out, to say 'these pills will make him normal,' and to send me back into the world, right? That's what my friends asked you to do? So why are you being all friendly, Troye." He wasn't actually sure where this malice was coming from. (He had a pretty good idea, actually, he was fairly upset with his friends for sticking him in this situation. And he was also upset at himself for letting himself get into this situation, for shutting everything away and everyone out and letting things get to the point they were at. What he didn't know was why he was taking it out on the undeserving therapist).

"What if I said I didn't care about the pills or the sending you back into the world. What if I said that I just want to be your friend? Sure, I want to figure you out, but then again doesn't everybody. Don't you want to figure me out, just as much as I do you?"

For a second he felt like he could breathe again. He paused the bouncing of his leg for a second, not moving a muscle as he watched Troye's face for a sign that he was playing him. He couldn't find one.

"Maybe," he said slowly.

But there was too much of him that no one had figured out yet, too much that he didn't want the blue-eyed therapist in front of him to know about.

So he let his leg shake faster than before, raising his defenses up again. Don't let anybody in. That's how he'd gotten so far in life without running into conflict.

"Isn't making me normal all you care about? I mean, it's what you're getting paid to do."

Troye (Connor had resigned himself to calling him Troye, as he didn't have much of a choice) shook his head, a sympathetic smile crossing his face. "I'm really not getting paid for this, Connor. One of your friends is a very close friend of mine, so it's a favor. So no, I don't want to make you normal. What I want to do is help you. And that can come in many different forms. Just because I was approached by your friend because I'm a therapist doesn't mean that I have to help you by being a therapist. I can help you as a therapist, but I can also help you as a friend."

Connor didn't respond. What was he supposed to say? 'Just because you said that I'll suddenly tell you every secret I have?' That wasn't true in any way, shape, or form.

Troye sighed. "Look," he said. "Let's forget my position for a while. Let's go out for some coffee or something."

"And how am I to know you won't psychoanalyze everything I say?" Connor asked.

"I guess you won't," Troye said with a shrug. "You'll just have to take my word for it."

"No offense," Connor replied, "but that means nothing to me."

Troye sat back, pursing his lips and glancing down at the clipboard on his lap. "Look," he said. "I can give you three options. Option one is you and I stay in here and you stay clammed up like you seem to be planning on doing and then you go home and come back and waste both our time next week again."

"Then you'll get to sit in a room for an hour and relax. What could be better?"

Troye sighed. "Option two is that I decide that this refusal to discuss anything has been caused by underlying psychological problems and I find help for you accordingly, which I'm assuming right now is something you would like to avoid. Am I right?"

Connor sighed. "And option three?"

"You go out for coffee with me and let me become your friend, no strings attached, no tying it back to my job, just friendship." Troye smiled, setting the clipboard to the side. "That's the most appealing option, at least to me."

For once, Connor had no argument. He closed his eyes. This went against what he'd told himself going into this, that he'd just do one session and then tell everyone that there was no way it would help and move on with his life. He was definitely going to regret this decision.

"Fine," he said. "But you're paying."