Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Tart

adjective

       • having a sour, sharp taste; (speech) sharp, severe.

noun

       • an open pastry case containing fruit, jam or custard; (informal) a prostitute.

They drink their coffee as they lounge on the couch and if Troye seems a little more fidgety than normal, well then Connor's probably just over-analyzing as per usual. There's a small space between them, but their toes are virtually touching and every so often Troye will lean just that little bit closer to hear him just that little bit better. It's comfortable, for lack of a more profound word.

Troye laughs when he cracks jokes at his own expense, a happier sound draped in the warmth of Connor's apartment rather than the frigidity of Troye's concrete fountain. It's nice and it's simple and more than anything it's easy, uncomplicated and effortless as Connor reaches over to shove at his shoulder and tow himself off the charcoal printed couch.

Troye doesn't even ask him what he's doing when he makes his way towards the kitchen, a fact that sends a thrum of pleasant delight ringing through his body for some strange reason he can barely comprehend. It's like Troye trusts him, like he knows Connor's intentions will always be to help and not hinder, like they've built something between them that will stretch without fraying no matter the distance wedged between them.

Connor doesn't have to say anything when he holds up a dry bag of uncooked fettuccine, raised eyebrows and curious expression enough to pass a wordless message between them.

Yeah, Troye might look a little hesitant, a little uncertain and uncomfortable for a brief moment as wars wage behind his shadowed blue eyes, but it's gone fast enough that Connor finds a small smile gracing his features at the sight. Troye offers one in return, shrugging as a response to the unasked question.

Dinner for two it is, then.

He's got the pasta cooking and the sauce boiling by the time Troye finally plucks himself up and maneuvers to lean against the counter across from him. There's an odd expression on his face, one Connor's certain he's never seen before, and it doesn't help any that it's hidden behind an unreadable mask of equivocation. He doesn't say anything about it, doesn't say anything at all, instead turning to give what's soon to be their dinner a firm stir.

Troye speaks up just as he's turning back to face him. "I didn't know you could cook."

It's a bit of a lame attempt at starting a conversation, or so Connor thinks until he catches the quiet note to his voice and the equally soft film turning midnight blue to sapphire. He's almost taken aback for a moment by the tenderness of Troye's tone, registering vaguely that this is probably the most vulnerable and affectionate he's ever been in the photographer's presence.

Connor swallows the feeling rising in his throat right back down, chasing it with a shrug and a casual wave of his fingers. "It's not exactly noteworthy."

Troye lets out a breath nearing close to a snort, but doesn't comment any further. Instead, he settles himself a little more comfortably against the counter and watches as Connor adds the entirely mundane finishing touches to their meals. He looks a little fascinated by the colander and electric cheese grater, which is more than a little adorable if Connor's being honest here.

"We can eat at the counter or on the couch, I guess," Connor suggests, an inquisitive quirk to his brow and questioning wave to the hands holding two steaming plates piled high with pasta. Troye shrugs, still seemingly lost in thought, and eventually Connor rolls his eyes, gesturing him back to the couch.

Thankfully, the concoction tastes better than Connor had thought it would. He's by no means a great cook, barely even a good one, and his mother has informed him of such on more than one occasion. His food isn't noteworthy, precisely as he'd told Troye, and he's glad that's still relatively true. It could have just as easily turned out notably bad.

He ignores the brief hesitation in Troye's grip on his utensils, pays no heed to the purposely slow inhalation of the nourishment he's provided. Instead, he frowns down at his own plate and forgets to fill the quiet surrounding them because he's too busy thinking, thinking, thinking, always thinking.

Swallowing down what's close to being his last bite, Connor takes a deep breath and finally rotates his head to regard his companion.

"Do you..." he trails off, catches note of the odd expression twisting through hard features, changes course. "Is it okay?"

Troye gives him a different kind of odd look at that, like Connor's an idiot and it's just become blatantly obvious. "It's great, yeah. It's food."

Connor blinks, not understanding, until suddenly he does understand and he has to cough away a choke. "Right, you're right. It's food, it's more than-" he cuts himself off again, this time rubbing at his throat uncertainly as he glances away. The foot between them feels like a mile he's too out of breath to run, pumping useless legs to reach a finish line that's not anywhere near his narrowed line of sight. "Sorry. I'm better at breakfast."

Troye raises an eyebrow, giving him a long look full of the unusual perceptiveness Connor's been remarking in him quite a lot as of late. "What's that supposed to mean? I said it was good. Why are you apologizing?"

Scratching at the skin of his collar bone, Connor presses his tongue hard between his teeth and fixes his gaze firmly on the TV across the room from them. He hates this, hates this feeling that things are turning sour again and he doesn't even know why, hates this nausea in his gut telling him he's messing everything up and he has no idea how to fix it, hates this pressure in his skull that's pushing for things he knows are too much for Troye, are not enough for him, are everything and nothing and never anything in between.

But, fuck it. Connor's had enough of time wasted doing less than what he wants to, what he needs to.

"It means I want you to stay for breakfast, tomorrow."

Nothing. Silence. Connor pivots to face the other side of the couch. Troye's undeniably shell-shocked expression writhes into guarded apprehension.

"As in..." he trails off, blue eyes pitch black like the sky outside where they toss daggers into the depths of Connor's luscious emerald forests.

Connor makes his own expression into something harder, firmer, more demanding and less flexible to Troye's own iron will because he can take things slow, he can, but he can only hold the slow motion button for so long before his finger starts to cramp.

"Stay the night," he requests, his voice just that much softer than his features because Troye's beginning to look increasingly more agitated the longer they sit there staring each other down. He cuts him off with an impeaching hand before he even has the chance to respond, dropping his eyes into something more entreating, more pleading. "Come on, I have a perfectly good couch and no one to sleep on it. Plus, heat. And movies, movies are fun."

For a moment, it looks like Troye is still going to protest. There's something in his gaze, in his eyes, that's so trepidatiously frightened, shaken, apprehensive like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop and leave him covered in nothing but muddy footprints and swelling bruises.

And then, just like that, Troye clears his throat and turns away. "Yeah, I guess. Just for the movies."