Chapter 1: Anything Hurts Less Than The Quiet (Say Anything)
Troye sighed as he gazed upon the white glowing sign of the hotel he'd be staying at for the night.
"The Comfort Inn," he read silently to himself. "It's not much of a comfort when you're forced to sleep alone."
Troye sighed again and grabbed the handle of his suitcase and lugged it into the hotel lobby.
A woman, who looked to be a bit languorous with her job, sighed when she heard the automated door slide open.
"Hello, how can I help you?" she greeted him from the front desk in an exerted tone.
"Hi, how much will a suite cost?" Troye asked.
The woman pulled up a tab in the computer.
"That'll be $462 a night," she answered. "How many nights will that be?"
"Just tonight," Troye said.
"Alright, and can I get a name?" she asked.
The woman began typing out information into the hotel's computer, then smiled as she handed Troye his room key.
"Have a nice stay," she said.
Troye looked at his room number, which read '364', then headed to the elevators. He pushed the button with the arrow pointing up, and didn't have to wait long for the elevator to come. He stepped inside the lit up cabin and pressed the floor number '3', watching as the elevator doors closed.
It was quite peaceful really, hearing nothing but the soothing rolling sound of an elevator rising, and the little beeps the red numbers on the screen made whenever it reached a different floor. It was calming, hearing nothing but these mellow reverberations, instead of the riotous screeching from his fans, sobbing as they begged Troye to give them at least a microsecond of his time to take one picture. Sure, he loved the feeling of not even being able to hear his own voice over his fans screaming. He loved the rush he got when he could hear a few of them crying, just because he entered the room. He loved feeling like fucking Michael Jackson. But after all the inanity of a single day, he appreciates the quiet sounds more.
As soon as the elevator doors slid open, he grabbed a hold of his luggage handle and walked out down the hallway of hotel rooms. When he found the number 364, he held his room card in front of the lock until it signaled with a green light that it had unlocked. Upon opening the door, a draft of cool air hit his body. The entire room was freezing, actually, but hotels usually keep their rooms at cooler temperatures, so this wasn't a surprise. He settled his luggage on the king-sized bed, then quickly went to turn on the heater. He clicked the button and waited for it to come on, but he couldn't feel any heat emitting from it. So he clicked it again... and again... and again... but no matter how long he waited the heater wouldn't turn on.
Troye sat on the bed and pawed for the blanket in desperation for warmth. He huddled himself in the big, fluffy blanket, but he was still getting goosebumps from the chills of cool air circulating throughout the room. Troye reached into his pocket for his phone and looked at the time. "Only 7:45," he said. "Plenty of time to warm up in the hot tub for a bit." He slowly unwrapped himself from the safety of his blanket, the only thing he had as a source of heat. He rubbed his hands all over his goosebump-covered arms as he crawled over to the suitcase on his bed. He unzipped it and grabbed his swimming trunks from the top, then took off all his clothes and slipped them on as hastily as he could. He put his regular clothes on over it, then grabbed his phone and key and left the room.
Once he got to the entrance of the indoor swimming pools, he took a complimentary towel from the shelf and slung it over his shoulder, then walked over to the chairs. He placed his phone and room key on top of the towel on the stand, then went to turn the hot tub bubbles on. He dipped one foot into the rushing bubbles of the hot tub, the warmth relieving his cold, exposed skin. He dropped his whole body into the pool of warmth and let himself soak up the feeling as he slouched further in. Nothing but the echo of a radio playing soft, melodic indie music filled the room. None of his friends were here to sing along like off-key howler monkeys, although he did enjoy acting crazy with his friends now and then. But right now it was just the sound of the rumbling bubbles in the hot tub, and the faint music playing from the radio that Troye found to be comforting. It was nice. But he still had this slight feeling of... melancholy? What was causing this empty feeling of his even though he was in such a nice mood?
And then it hit him.
They hadn't seen each other in months. They haven't even called since then. Troye had been so busy with his tour that he barely had any time for his boyfriend.
Except they always call. They never text. He doesn't want to read an emotionless text hours later from when it was written, he wants to hear Connor's voice, right here and now. He wants to hear the cute way he gets excited whenever he gets an unexpected call from Troye. He wants to make jokes with him. He wants to hear Connor's laugh. They never text.
Troye decided to sit in the hot tub for a few more minutes until the bubbles stopped, then he got up out of the water soaking wet and squeezed the water out of his hair. He dried himself off with the towel and put his regular clothes on, then grabbed his phone and key and headed back to his hotel room.
He was finally going to call Connor.
Chapter 2: White Noise In My Mind (Won't Calm Down)
All of it was getting to be too much, and Troye was exhausted. The tour was fun in the beginning, but now he's just sick of it. Last night he ended up falling asleep, once again forgetting to call Connor. Then he woke up and had to take a seven hour trip in a car from LA to Orlando, do another show, and ended up throwing up afterwards. Now he's sprawled across the bed of another hotel, carsick, jetlagged, and worn out, wanting nothing but to hear Connor's sweet, honeylike voice. But he's just too sick and he has another show tomorrow and he just can't.
Except he does.
It takes a lot of body effort for him to sit up, then he takes out his phone and clicks Connor's contact. He sighs.
"Am I really doing this?" he asks himself.
He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, finger shaky, hovering above the call button. He hesitantly clicks.
He sits there, hands jittery and stomach plundering the more he hears the ringer going off.
And then he hears a voice. A sweet, cinnamon voice he hasn't heard in months. It was like nostalgia filling his soul.
"T-Troye?" Connor uttered in disbelief.
"I just..." Troye let out a painful breath he'd been holding back since he hit call, "I just wanted to apologize. Look, you know, I've been so tired. So so tired and I forgot to call you for weeks. And then after that, y'know, I just couldn't bring myself to call, 'cause I knew there'd be no explanation for why I hadn't called in weeks. And I just made it worse, I made the whole thing worse. And this tour, a-and... I completely forgot my priorities."
Connor was quiet.
Troye was scared.
"Troye, do you really think-" Connor's breath hitched, taking a moment. "Do you really think that I wouldn't have called you?"
Troye's heart stopped.
"What... what do you mean?" he asked.
"I haven't been calling you either," Connor sighed, "And there's a reason."
Troye could feel tears poking at his eyes, his heart pumping faster, his mind racing with endless thoughts.
"Tyler... he's been..." Connor sniffled, voice beginning to tremble, "He's been... sexually abusing me. I wanted to tell you, Troye, but I'm so... I'm so scared. It's my fault! It's my fucking fault for breaking up with him!"
Connor's words began to shake and he just cried. He was in pain. And I mean real, serious physical pain and trauma.
How could Tyler? He even befriended Connor's new boyfriend, even after a terrible breakup. He even helped set up a few dates for him and Connor. How could he?
"Baby, don't worry, I'm coming for you," Troye said.
"No, you can't, Troye, you have your tour, and-"
"You're my main priority, Connor, not this tour," Troye argued.
"But, Troye, it's in your contract!" Connor hiccuped from the crying. "You are not allowed to give up on your dream for me! You understand? I'll handle it for a few more we-"
"What kind of sick joke are you playing?" Troye asked a bit more harshly. "You want me to go live my dream while you're tortured and suffering? It just makes me sick to think about the things he's done to you."
"No. I'm coming back to LA for you tomorrow whether you like it or not. End of discussion," Troye said, then ended the phone call immediately.