Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Tantrum

noun

       • a childish fit of bad temper.

Troye gives Connor nothing but an amused look and a quiet snort as he fumbles with his car keys, dropping them into an ankle-high patch of slush with a great big slop. Of course he does, it's funny, regardless of the vicious glare he receives in return.

"Stop laughing," Connor whines, high like a five-year-old stomping their foot in the mud. Troye holds his hands up in defense, surrendering whole-heartedly to his friend's childish fit of frustration, but he can't keep the grin from splitting his face in two.

Connor pauses, staring at him for a brief beat of awkward discomfort that's still just a little too long. Troye shakes it off when the older man turns back to stare dishearteningly at the heap of dirt and melted snow beneath his feet, heaving a great sigh like the world's about to end and there's nothing he can do to stop it. It's a little dramatic if you ask Troye, but at the same time he hasn't grinned this much in... well, probably ever.

He's so thoroughly distracted by the thoughts that have furrowed a frown into his smile that he misses Connor's retrieval of his car keys. Brought back to Earth by the triumphant whoop of joy sounding down the street, his eyes land immediately on the dancing figure at his side. Raising an eyebrow, he doesn't comment on the ridiculously accomplished expression planted firmly on Connor's face as he twists the thin piece of metal into his car door.

He feels a little awkward, though, standing around on an empty street by a car he didn't even know Connor had, waiting for the man who's probably his best friend to drive off and leave him there. He shouldn't have walked with him, should have bid him farewell at the park they'd decided to take a stroll through as a nice change of scenery for once. He should have just waved and said he'd see him tomorrow and started off in the opposite direction like he'd been intending to all along.

So why hadn't he?

Troye pauses, cold fingers twitching in the pockets of his torn hoodie. Connor gives another victorious shout of accomplishment, waving his keys through the air like an actual eight-year-old who's just successfully thrown their little sister under the bus. His smile's so radiant it's as blinding as the sun on the mornings Troye wakes with the light, a bright gleam of youth to his warm green eyes and a pink flush to his cheeks from the cold.

Why hadn't he?

Troye lets a soft smile of his own twitch the corners of lips up more gently than ever before. How could he have ever passed up more time under the bright glow of such a beautiful light?