Blue House | Tronnor

Chapter 13, Connor POV

My phone was ringing. With one hand on the steering wheel, I reached over and picked up, not checking who was calling. "Hey, this is Connor Franta," I said automatically, then almost had a heart attack at the response. "Hello Connor," came a voice. The two words were wobbly and scared, but familiar nonetheless. I choked. "Troye?" Silence. "It's me, I--" he started, but I cut him off. "Troye?! Where the hell have you been? I've called, skyped, texted, even facetimed you to try and talk. And NOW you call me? What do you think you're doing? Where hav--?" Now it was his turn to cut me off. "Would you shut up and listen for a moment?" he snapped, the fear in his voice showing through his anger. I paused, remembering that scared voice. I remembered his panic attacks, and I remembered helping him. I sighed, then said shortly, "Fine. Explain." He took a shaky breath and began. "So... I know I'm kind of an asshole, but I was wondering if you could maybe pick me up?" I shook my head in disbelief. "You want me to pick you up right now?" Silence again. "Where are you?" I asked, pulling my car over and getting out. "See, that's the thing, I'm not exactly sure..." he faltered, and I put him on speakerphone, laying down on the wet hood of my car. The rain had only just stopped, but the sky was still overcast and the clouds were still gray. "I thought you flew in," I said, confusion overtaking my anger. "I did! The thing is.... Well, we kind of..." he trailed off. "Spit it out," I said venomously, then winced as I heard how harsh I had sounded. "My plane crashed and exploded and I'm not sure where I am and there's no one here and my phone's about to die and--" I didn't hear the rest, I was already back in the car. "Troye, are you ok?" I asked, keying the ignition. "I--" his voice broke. "I'm fine," he said, but I could tell that he was very much not ok. "I'll be there soon," I said, hanging up. I found Troye in my contacts and traced his location--he was about fifteen miles away from me. I floored it, my heart beating out of chest.

This kid has some nerve, ignoring me after New Years for like 6 months, getting in a plane crash, and then making me come pick him up, I thought as I pulled up to where Google Maps said he was. I slammed my car door and slid my phone into my pocket.

"Troye? TROYE?" I called, stomping through the prickly bushes. I could see a faint smoke pillar, and I trampled through the brush over to e clearing of devastation. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. The front half of the plane lay in smoldering ruin to my left, most of the windows had cobwebs of cracks in them, and the seats were either burning or gone. I saw no people, which could be a good or bad sign. To my left was the tail of the plane. The metal was half melted and torn like tin foil, and like the front of the plane, there were no people in sight. "Troye where are you?" I called, my head whipping around. Snap. I whirled and yelped, seeing a young woman behind me. I relaxed, but my face was riddled with disappointment "Please, sir, help me. I'm looking for my child," she croaked, her throat dry and caked with ash. I blinked, then replied, "I'm looking for my friend. Let's help each other?" She nodded, the dirt on her face streaked with tears. Her brown hair was tied up in a messy bun, and her sneakers were old and ratty--or maybe just destroyed due to the crash. The sun was setting by the time we found her child, and she had used my phone to call her husband and the police, giving the location and as much information as possible. People were slowly appearing and gathering around us, but I didn't see Troye. "We've called the police, they'll be here shortly," I said loudly, then slipped away. I had to find him.

I tripped, falling flat on my face into a load of dry pine needles. Cursing loudly, I turned to see what I had tripped on, then clapped a hand to my mouth. Don't puke, don't you dare puke, I ordered myself. An arm, pale and thin, stuck out from what looked like a plane door. Two feet stuck out from the opposite side of the door, wearing black platform converse. "No. No. NO!" I whispered, lowering my hand and shoving the door off of the body. Troye. Blood ran from his temple, and a large cut was planted across his face from his left eye to his chin. He was developing a black eye and his shirt was ripped in several places. Various cuts were littered across his arms, but the biggest gash was across his chest. It was deep, and it soaked the front of his baby blue shirt with dark red. His breathing was shallow, and in his hand he clutched his phone, face-down. I flipped the phone, my hand sliding from the blood on the screen. A yelp escaped my throat, and I dropped the slick piece of metal. My hand was shaking as I pushed Troye's hair back from his face, smearing blood on his forehead. I gently scooped him up, carrying him back to my car. I didn't want people seeing him, I didn't want to get caught up in the police. I would just take him straight to the hospital. I laid him down gently in the back seat, shutting the door and getting in front of the wheel, exhaling loudly. Whew.