watchful eyes (tronnor)

twenty eight; the war is fought but the battle does not end

when tyler figured out that troye was in love with connor, it did not hurt.

it stung a little, to know that troye would live with a broken heart and connor would never know, but it did not hurt. it did not burn like fire and it did not fly away just away from the grasp of his mind like fireflies.

now, it hurt.

because tyler has watched his two best friends circle around each other like the sun and moon for years now.

he watched while troye cried into the rain and he watched while connor held his hand innocently and quietly. he watched while troye crashed and burned and drowned like icarus, flown too close to the sun. he watched while connor kissed lana as if it was the end of the world and there was nothing but them and god, nothing but heavenly consequences.

to want someone more than they want you is one of the worst things that can happen to a person.

to be simply friends with someone is jumping off of a cliff after looking towards the bottom. it is a safe, nine to five job, a life with no risks, a simple sentence with a verb and an adverb and a noun and a subject and a predicate.

to need someone, to love someone, to crave them and to want them is dangerous; it is jumping off of a cliff and hoping that there is something at the bottom. it is carefully placed masks and mirrors that reflect tears and it is burning at the stake while they stand with a bucket of water.

to be truly alone is to not exist.

tyler knows that connor and troye need each other.

but it burned to know that troye was falling off a cliff with his eyes closed while connor was carefully climbing down a ladder.

and it clawed at his veins to know that troye would never attempt to grab at handholds and connor would never offer him the ladder.

connor held a gun and he pointed it straight at troye's heart and troye would never move. 

he would keep letting himself get shot because he loved (wanted, needed, craved) connor. and connor would see that it was wrong but his mother would not and so connor would not see the blood. when there is approval from a god, then the misery of someone else does not matter.

and that hurt.

but then there is this.

then there is troye, sleeping.

then there is connor, away from lana and his mother.

then there is connor, telling tyler about troye's eyes, troye's smile, troye's voice, troye.

maybe when the god is not watching, the blood finally soaks through to the used's skin. maybe when connor is allowed to think of the things that he is made of and the things that he needs and the things that he loves, he finally saw the shattered glass that made up troye's eyes.

"what you are trying to say," tyler whispers to connor, voice thrown to the darkness, hoping it would reach the stars. "is that you love troye."

connor was a quiet ball of misery, the anger and confusion and sadness and fear soaking through his clothes and his skin and his blood and his eyes.

"that's not possible," connor says. his voice is the broken sound of his closed eyes and clenched fists and tensed shoulders. it is the sun, spinning backwards. it is the bite of lana's lips against connor's. it is connor's mother, telling him she knows best. it is a lie.

"of course it is," tyler tells him.

"no," connor says carefully. "that would be wrong."

(if he finds out, this will tear troye to pieces and leave him a heart covered in dust and struggling to beat. but that is what is necessary, connor tells himself.)

tyler asks, "is being gay wrong?"

connor does not answer.

"i'm gay," tyler says. it is not a confession; it is a sliver of anger. he is gay and he is proud and connor can go to hell. "am i wrong?"

the question sits in the air and the answer slits connor's throat. he does not respond.