Tronnor One-Shots

The Song

There was this song. This song, it was a slow song, but inscrutably licit in the world of obscure music to be more than just a slow song. It was a cut-and-paste collection of sighs and brief vibrato and muffled strums, subtle snaps of beats and a chorus hook that sent shivers down one's entire body. It wasn't immensely well written, pretentiously worded at most, but it squirmed into chests and meditated there. Leaving you closing your eyes and simply soaking in it.

Connor and Troye had it on a playlist named evenings in the kitchen, and in the first calm pump of the drums, Troye promptly placed the dishes back in the soapy sink water. He turned to Connor, who had laid his drying rag on the counter, and their eyes met with a firework of familiarity. Blue had collided with green so many times before, and their hands knew the body they touched so well. So they did what they knew better than anything: seeing each other, touching each other.

Connor touched Troye's ribs, moving delicately over the hill of the cage until fingers settled in the ridge next to his spine. He began to trail them downwards, shuffling closer as Troye's hands found their place on his waist. Palms pressed on sides that had become supple as ages greyed. Chests, sturdy homes to serenely happy hearts, brushed together as their heels lifted them in a gentle, swaying motion, to the soft beat.

Hips skimming as they danced, Connor looked up at Troye. He was older.

Fingertips rumpling sleepy t-shirts, Troye looked down at Connor. He was older too.

Coming grey shimmered in Connor's hair like the song's pensive bass, and twisted throughout Troye's curls like the yawning vocals. Crowsfeet emerged through years of eye-crinkling smiles, Connor had arthritis in his hands, and Troye's freckles were losing their faintness. Keeping on smiling, using the thumb of those arthritic hands, Connor touched those darkened freckles with the same tenderness of the hushed cello in the background.

The lyrics said I love you, and with his contently sinking eyelashes, Connor conveyed the same thing. He lowered his head to Troye's shoulder, and Troye, in the dainty kiss to his husband's earlobe, conveyed it back. Speaking it wasn't necessary, or exactly welcome, as they were so happily interlaced in this quiet togetherness. The song careened over it's bridge, and they moved like flowers weaved at the stems, overlapping at the petals, tranquil in the stable, caressing wind of veteran love.

This was everything. This was the the sound of safety, his breathing. The touch of home, his body. The gust of relief when you know that it doesn't matter if little things go wrong, because moments like this always make you realize that life is right.

Life was different, but right. It wasn't travelling and working and long-distance craziness anymore, but stability and special responsibilities. It was having only one beer if it's a weeknight, and trying to be quiet during sex, and planning outings with friends days in advance in order to hire a babysitter in time.

This was the life they made together, and they wouldn't trade it for all the freedom in the world. This was clear, as the song ended, and neither thought to move away. The dishwater went lukewarm, fruitflies feasted on unpackaged leftovers, but Connor and Troye did nothing but lean back slightly. Connor looked up, Troye looked down, and it was hard to tell who kissed who. Not that it mattered, what when the other man's lips gave him the same, powerfully dear sensation as it had for years and years prior. Twenty years together, fifteen married; being endgame felt like heaven on earth.

They smiled within the kiss, and ten-year-old Delilah giggled to herself as she peeked out from behind the wall, spying. Her two older sisters, Marilyn and Ramona, shushed her, their smiles also wide on their faces.

Delilah stopped giggling, but poked her head out of the doorway further, getting a better look. "Mary, Mona! Guess what?" She whispered rather loudly, pulling on Marilyn's sleeve incessantly.

Marilyn, who was twelve, had her cheek pressed against the crown moulding, observing. The way her face was squished made her lips pucker, and her eyes glimmered as she watched her fathers dance like they were princes. Her dreamy nature kept her from hearing her chatty sibling, but quick Ramona, fourteen, replied right away.

"Quiet down, Dee." She scolded, gently tugging at Delilah's bird's-nest of raven curls, as she does when she's commanding her. "What is it?"

Sweet flushing bursting through the darkness of her complexion, Delilah looked back into the kitchen. The did look like princes; their daddies were always princes to them. Princes very deeply in love.

Dee lay on the floor, her cheeks pushed up by her hands. "When I grow up and get married..." She tilted her head to one side, "I want Daddy and Papa's song to be my wedding song. It makes me happy, 'cause it makes them happy."

Ramona smiled to herself, feeling a strong sense of privilege as her dads went back to the dishes, their sides bumping all the while. Dragonflies dipped and soared in her stomach, because she felt so blessed to have parents like this. When she grew up and got married, she wouldn't care about the wedding music. She wanted to be marrying someone like her dads, because she wanted what she was watching. Because it was so beautifully clear.

"I don't think it's the song, Dee."

And it really wasn't. It really wasn't.