Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Taste

transitive verb

       • to perceive (a flavour) by taking into the mouth; to try by eating and drinking a little; to sample; to experience.

intransitive verb

       • to try by the mouth; to have a specific flavour.

noun

       • the sense by which flavours are perceived; a small portion; the ability to recognize what is beautiful, attractive, etc; liking; a brief experience. 

When Connor wakes, the room is dark and silent. There's no light streaming through the windows with the promise of a new day, no birds chirping to announce their early arisings. It's pitch black with the dead of night and eerily silent with the signs of a whole city in slumber and Connor has never been one to wake before dawn, but he's also never really been one to dream about circumspect boys with broken keyboards and hands like ice.

He siphons in a breath, running a shaky hand down his weary face. It takes a minute of staring out the ebony window at absolute nothingness before he slides his way off the bed.

His feet pad against the hardwood floors of his apartment much less softly than he'd have liked, unused to the presence of the other human being he's trying arduously not to alert. Connor curses his door for being so creaky, almost smacking it in frustration before realizing that'll only make more noise.

Somehow, he makes it the rest of the way to the main area without much more distress, raking fingers through his unruly hair while he grabs a glass of water from the kitchen. He leans against the counter as he sips it, eyes finding the figure curled on the couch of their own accord, magnets drawn irrefutably to the opposite charge.

It's brighter in the living room, city lights scintillating enough to disrupt the darkness. Connor can trace the outlines of Troye's blanketed form and see the rough edges of his wild hair matted against the couch pillows, profiled by the blue glow of the world outside. He can also make out the constant shifting, Troye's head burying deep into the pillow before thrashing towards much-needed oxygen as his hands curl the blanket tighter over his shoulders before releasing it entirely.

Connor frowns, setting down his water glass with a soft clink.

He's got an odd feeling in his chest when he progresses to the couch, heavy where it furls tendrils up his throat and light where it dances between his pulsing organs. Manifesting in a crease to his brow and teeth to his lips, it settles into the marrows of his bones with a distinct sense of finality. It seems like a feeling that he's never going to shake, not without rattling a few pieces of himself out of place in the process.

For a moment, all Connor does is watch. He hovers beside the stretched sofa, weary exhaustion a dense cloud at the forefront of his mind, and he lets himself stare at the dips and hollows of Troye's cheeks, at the fluttering sweep of his lashes against pale paper skin, at the cracked nails of scarred graceful hands.

It's admittedly a little creepy, staring at him as he sleeps. Connor's far too tired to acknowledge it.

With a sigh, he glances out the dancing glass of the wide-stretching window that makes up the nearest wall, moonlight caressing the balcony railings despite the shadows fluttering across them. It's probably three or four in the morning, judging by the time he's assuming they went to sleep and how drained he still feels. He should really just go back to bed.

Except that Troye's breath fans out across his pillow a little more distressed than Connor would have liked and his hands are curled a little too violently into the covers. Connor knows it's just a nightmare and a small one at that, knows dreams can't really do any harm and it'll have switched to something different within the next five minutes, knows it'd be stupid to wake him up when it's so clear that Troye already gets so little sleep.