Work Text:
1.
Impulse makes him close his eyes. He doesn’t have synesthesia, but sometimes a melody makes stories and colours appear in his head, and god, this one is drawing auroras through the darkness behind his eyelids, and he’s almost scared of opening his eyes for losing what feels like reality.
Troye’s pretty sure he’s never felt this way, never fallen in love at first listen—in fact, he never thought he believed in falling in love at the very beginning of anything, but something draws him in to the words, the beat, the overwhelming feeling of utter adoration, and he can’t help being reminded of the colour green: lush, bright, starry, palpable.
2.
Connor hears it first through tinny humming coming out of his laptop speakers, and though they’re best friends and they’ve probably seen each other do the most ridiculous things, he’s embarrassed of how wide his grin is threatening to split.
Troye’s eyes catch him while he’s still looking down, and the humming turns into a quiet giggle.
“The song’s name is ILYSB.”
Connor looks up, and Troye swears he can count the eyelashes fluttering above flushed crimson cheeks, visible even through the pixelated screen. There have been very few times in recent history in Troye’s memory when Connor hasn’t been blushing, and maybe it’s that he’s naturally this rosy, but Troye can’t help but wonder if it’s him.
He also can’t help but think how much he wishes it were him.
3.
Walking to his favorite coffee shop has always been part of his weekly—okay, maybe every other day—routine, though he’s starting to invest in grinding his own beans and trying new blends and actually filtering his own favorite flavors. Connor’s particularly partial to fruity notes, but he’s branching out.
Today, retro trap in his mind syncs with his slightly jumpy steps, and while the skies are grey, blue, bright like forget-me-nots, seems to colour his world. It bores into him, runs through his veins, gives him soft chills, makes him feel a little brighter, a little more alive.
If only a hand belonging to those sparkling blues were in his own.
4.
They’re not sure how they got here, but cuddled up on the couch, enveloped in deep, rhythmic breathing, neither is ready to sleep. Their warmth is a little more than skin deep; it slides through melodies of heartbeats and light fluttering smiles.
Looking up at Connor takes Troye’s breath away, and his back starts trembling as the boy around him chuckles, sweet syncopation filling the silence around them.
It’s a good silence, Troye thinks, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever get over how much this feels like home, like he is safe, like nothing matters in this world other than this boy whose laughter decorates time with gilded sincerity and bashful honesty. His heartbeat slows down, contracting almost painfully, enclosed in lungs that feel too tight with words he cannot utter out loud—too soon, he thinks, but true. So true.
He doesn’t quite remember the full quote, but it goes something like this: when he meets the love of his life, his mind, body, and heart will be at peace. No frenzy, no insanity, no losing his mind and leaving it behind, despite how colourful and warm and nebulous he wants to paint this moment. It is quiet, both around him and in him, and he has never felt so grateful.
5.
Connor cannot breathe. He is wheezing, doubled over, nearly on the ground, laughing, gripping his stomach, holding on to what shreds of his rational mind he can. He cannot form a coherent sentence, because Troye modeling his clothing at 4am, jauntily strutting yet barely peeking out from behind his splayed fingers, is possibly the funniest and greatest thing he has ever witnessed.
Better (or worse, for his lungs) yet, Troye pulls him up into a kiss and dances him around his house, waltzing klutzily around the kitchen table and knocking over the little glass case of fairy lights off of the shelf. It reflects glitter and childish glamour all around the room, a makeshift disco ball. Troye stops them in front of the mirror, eyes glowing and body speckled in softly flashing lights. It’s a moment to breathe, and Connor relishes in how close their faces are pressed together, how their hands are clasped so tightly together, how Troye’s curled toes surround his cold feet.
It’s only a flash of green meeting blue before Connor is spun out by Troye’s surprisingly strong, thin arms, one hand desperately clinging on as giggles bubble out from their lips. He twirls back in of his own accord, slips his free hand through the short hairs at the nape of Troye’s neck and presses his lips in. This, Connor thinks, is bliss.
6.
Cooling air makes goose bumps swirl on his skin, and while he’s finally starting to breathe normally again, breaths making their way quickly down to his feet, a look at Troye is what makes his toes curl. Seeing the boy next to him, pupils blown out, lips puffy and brilliant red, even in the dark, slightly bruised under his jawline, will never cease to send thrilling and gentle jolts to his heart.
They’ve taken to playing music whenever they’re home, filling the silence with songs that they are both obsessed with, giving Troye the chance to try to make forgiving harmonies, allowing Connor to hum along and occasionally offer some lyrics.
This time, it is Connor who fills their silence to match the soft, stripped record playing around them, a melody they know so well, set to softer beats and smoother syncopation.
“Oh, my heart hurts so good…”
7.
Weeks add to months, and months add to years, and while they’re still not sure how they got here, they’re sure they want to be here. Ceremony precedes all, but afterwards, with their families and friends from all walks of life surrounding them, they are finally ready to dance for the world to see, this time with a real disco ball (cheesy, but necessary, Connor insisted) and tuxes, though Troye’s still wearing one of Connor’s bowties. Hands clasped, left ring fingers encircled by a glint of silver, green still finding home in blue.
The beat floats in, the live strumming painting glowing dawn in the air, the pre-chorus spinning them around as stripped and raw music notes fall like confetti around them.
Lips part, and before they meet, they whisper.
“I love you, babe, so bad, so bad…”