Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Aesthetic

noun

       • the philosophy of art and beauty

adjective

       • concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty

Connor's there every day for two weeks straight, sometimes perched on the fountain beside Troye as he hums along to an unfamiliar tune, sometimes shuffling his shoes against the pavement a few feet in front of the old keyboard he's grown far too familiar with. He buys the young musician coffee every time, resting it gently on the edge of the piano when he's playing or pulling him into the shop with him when he's not. Troye's smile is always absent and uncertain when he does, though pleasant surprise still outweighs anything that may have given Connor pause.

He takes a lot of pictures, some days. He snaps a shot when Troye's brow is furrowed in concentration at the notes not sounding right and another when he's running a tired hand through his messy hair. He captures the exact moment a laugh bubbles up in an under-used throat and the brief pause deft fingers make before moving to the next bar of the song.

He takes no pictures at all, some days. He gets lost in hurricane eyes and hurricane wind from thunderstorm lips and rain-cloud breaths, in blue seas he can never part enough to pass through and reach whatever's hiding across the ocean shore. He gets caught up in bitten nails picking at styrofoam cups and counting cold metal change like its all they've ever had, in the breaths Troye doesn't take and the words he doesn't say and the way he sometimes searches Connor's face for things he'll never find.

Connor doesn't ask how his parents let him spend every day busking out on the streets or why he never went to high school. He doesn't question why Troye hasn't gotten his ratty old piano fixed already or why he often flinches when someone brushes too close for comfort. He doesn't mention the thin scars across his wrists that must be from harsh blunt nails or how he'll open his mouth and not say anything like he'd been trained to keep it shut.

Connor doesn't tell him to bring a coat when he's so obviously freezing in the crisp autumn air. He simply wraps his own around Troye's frail figure and guides him to the heated entrance of their usual café, telling him to find a seat as he orders scalding cups of coffee for the both of them.

He likes what they have, likes learning more and more of the unique individuality Troye presents him with in every twitch of his chapped pink lips. Connor could spend days on end just sitting here with this beautiful enigma of a boy, tracing the contours of soft features made hard by the dark things Connor's so seamlessly avoided nearly his entire life.

Troye is magnificent in every sense of the word, a Picasso painting with perfect brushstrokes and bold dark lines Connor isn't sure how to cross. He's more genuine than any of the friends who roll their eyes when he tells them he's busy, muttering out sarcastic comments about how he must finally be getting laid or something to never have a minute to spare throughout the day.

Sometimes, Troye even reminds him a little bit of his sister.

It's mostly in the quiet strength portrayed undeniably by a firmly set jaw and stubborn disposition, in the soul-searching gaze like Troye's figuring out the answers before Connor's even thought to ask the questions. He often quirks his lip the same way she does when he emerges superiorly victorious from one of their light-hearted disputes, too.

Sometimes, it makes Connor think he might be a little bit in love with a hurricane.