Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Acquaint

transitive verb

       • to make (oneself) familiar (with); to inform.

noun - acquaintance

       • a person whom one knows only slightly.

Connor goes back the next day. He's not sure why, it's mostly on a whim, but he's never much been one to question his sudden urges. (Apart from that one time with his tenth grade biology teacher. That was definitely questionable.) He likes to go with the flow of things and see where life takes him. It's usually somewhere good, somewhere adventurous and full of experiences to be earned, and if it's worked so far he doesn't see why he should stop now.

He shows up at around the same time as the day before, scanning the dwindling afternoon crowd for ivory and oceans until his gaze locks on a boy seated atop the concrete fountain, swinging legs protected from the autumn chill by a pair of torn jeans that must be at least a size too small. He doesn't have his keyboard today, doesn't have anything but a thin blue sweater and the hem of the black t-shirt he's playing with.

Connor's disappointed. He was looking forward to hearing the haunting melodies again, but he's not really much one to dwell on the let downs in life. Combing an icy hand through his perfectly styled hair, he smiles to himself and makes his way over.

"Hey," he greets, stuffing his shivering fingers into the pockets of his jacket. The kid looks up at the sound of his voice with a surprised expression on his face, though it clears away into a frown and something Connor can't quite place as quickly as it comes.

"Hey," he replies, dropping his hands from the hem of his faded t-shirt.

Connor shuffles his feet against the concrete, absently noting they're both wearing black converse, despite the boy's being much more worn-out. "You're not playing today," he comments, glancing back up to meet curious blue eyes. He knows his own hold the same expression, amusement dancing behind it when an almost smile toys at the musician's chapped lips.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," he tosses back dryly, blue eyes bright and eyebrow raised.

Connor grins. "I'm Connor," he says, holding out a now significantly warmer hand than the one he'd used to mess up his own hair. "I like your music."

"Troye," the boy replies, reaching out a calloused hand of his own to shake as his smile stretches a little more obviously across his features. "I like your camera."

Connor's grin grows so wide and so radiant at the off-hand comment that it's nearly blinding. He casts a wayward glance down to the device hanging loosely from his neck, a few of his thoughts bouncing back to the picture he'd managed to capture yesterday. His heart feels like the butterfly in take-off he'd turned in for his photography assignment last week.

"Thanks," he replies, meaning it with every ounce of happiness fluttering through his glimmering green eyes. Troye's smile doesn't even pretend to be anything else this time, as soft and genuine as the music he'd played the day before.

And just like that, Connor wants to know the boy behind the piano. He wants to know whether he likes his coffee black or with ten sugars or not all and which of his pictures he'll be most drawn to, if he's interested in photography at all. He wants to know what his laugh feels like floating through the air, what kinds of hand gestures he uses to express himself, whether he prefers classical or pop, old films or new movies. He wants to know the little things that make Troye who he is in the way he's always been so fascinated by humanity's individuality.

It's a whim. Connor's never been one to question his whims.

"Can I buy you a coffee?"