Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Task

noun

       • a specific amount or piece of work to be undertaken; a chore.

verb

       • assign a piece of work to; make great demands on (someone's resources or abilities). 

Apparently, Connor has a knack for getting Troye to agree to things he never would have otherwise. It's both concerning and frustrating, though admittedly perplexing just as well.

He's more than exhausted his ability to resist temptation for the night, though, which is probably what contributes to him giving into Connor's request to stay. That, and the wind whipping at the windows, snow tumbling down in merciless sheets of dead winter. It helps that he's already having trouble keeping his eyes open, too, the warmth of Connor's apartment far more comforting than the familiar chill of a stone bench.

But Connor promised him movies, God damn it, and there is absolutely no way he's falling asleep without getting through at least two.

So what if the couch is probably the most deceptively soft fabrication he's ever felt or the blankets draped across them the coziest comforts he's ever known? Troye refuses to close his eyes against the bright glare of the TV no matter how safe he feels pressed up against his friend of nearly three months now, no matter how heavy fatigue rests in the creases of his falling face.

They're twenty minutes into Now And Then when Connor lets out a yawn, patting at his mouth in exhaustion as his eyes begin to droop. Troye glances over at him, turns his head back to the screen, gives Connor another indecisive look.

His voice is tentative when he invites, "Do you want to go to bed?"

Connor blinks like he's just been dragged back to the waking world, a blank look on his face for a moment too long before his features draw into something inexplicably soft. Shifting, he turns himself to lean against the armrest and lay back on the couch, opening his arms as an invitation of his own. "No, I'm good. Just wake me up if I fall asleep, okay?"

Troye hesitates, something as soft as Connor's expression unfolding in his gut like a promise he knows he's going to break. Everything breaks, he breaks everything, everything is nothing and Troye's so used to nothing that it's hard to take a step back and acknowledge its synonyms, whether he's twisted their definitions or not.

"Okay," he yields eventually, tentatively curling himself against Connor's side. "We'll just finish this one."

Connor hums, vibrations thrumming through both their bodies in a baseline beat of introduction, of the beginning to a song neither have heard before. This is the closest they've ever been, the closest Troye's ever allowed them to be, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. It feels like coming home and moving out all at once, the warm comfort of familiarity and belonging mixed with the adrenaline rush of stepping into the unknown and running from the habitual.

Connor falls asleep before the movie's even three quarters of the way through, his lips parted in peaceful slumber and his head turned away from where Troye's rests in the crook of his shoulder. Troye almost feels guilty waking him when the credits begin to roll, hesitating where he sits up against his side and staring down at a serene expression he's never been privy to before.

Something twitches in his chest. He wonders if he's having a heart attack.

"Connor," he mutters quietly at first, trying to avoid the rude awakening he usually experiences himself. "Connor, wake up."

The blanket rustles as the boy in questions shifts, turning over so his back is facing Troye and shoving him further into the couch as a result. A hand clutches at Connor's shoulder, pressing and rocking until he shifts yet again, this time with green eyes flitting open to the dark world of his apartment.

Troye gives him a look. "You're going to sleep in your room, right?"

Rubbing a hand over his face, Connor yawns for a good minute before he drops his arm to stare at his friend. "Yeah. Yeah, I am. Where else would-" he cuts himself off with another yawn, drawing himself into a more seated position. He looks a little dead to the world. "Where else would I sleep?"

Troye doesn't bother answering, just shoves at his shoulder insistently until Connor pulls himself up off the couch. It creaks under the sudden lack of weight, the blanket tumbling half onto the floor, and Troye has to catch himself against the arm rest to avoid tumbling into an awkward position.

Connor doesn't notice, sleep-walking his way around the couch and disappearing past the corner before Troye's even managed to heave himself upright again. "Goodnight," the tired man calls back over his shoulder, an afterthought Troye's surprised he actually managed to have.

"Goodnight," he whispers back, just to himself. Connor's too far gone to hear him, anyway, be it from the exhaustion or the physical distance that now lies between them.

The TV's off, no glow emitting shields of light to counter the encroaching shadows, and Troye fumbles his way in the dark to turn his head to the other armrest, where he'll be able to see the door more easily in the morning. It's with a sigh that he settles down into the couch pillows, drawing the blanket up his aching limbs, and it's with a hitch to his breath that he turns his sights to the ceiling and wills himself to sleep.

For once, he isn't worried about whether or not he'll wake up.