Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Camouflage

noun

       • a method (especially using colouring) of disguise or concealment used to deceive an enemy; a means of putting people off the scent.

transitive verb

       • to conceal by camouflage.

Troye sits in the middle of a mostly empty coffee shop, in the middle of a too large group of friends he's never met, in the middle of a conversation he doesn't know how to have, in the middle of a step he's not sure he's ready to take, in the middle of a mountain of uncomfortable shifting and a strange sense of ease that he really doesn't think should be there every time he peers at Connor.

Connor's friends are nice and don't look at him the way he'd been expecting them to, don't sneer down at the tears in his jeans and the fade of his shoes or curl their lips up at the rough skin of his hands and the fact that he's borrowed his boyfriend's jacket because he doesn't have one of his own. They smile and dart nervous glances his way and he wants to hate it, hate them, but he also wants to love them because Connor so clearly does. He can't really do either.

He shifts in his seat, ignoring the uncertain expression Hannah has every time she looks his way, and lets his eyes track the movement on the street outside. There's not much, just a sister dragging her toddler brother along behind her and a trio of thickly bundled students heading to their next classes. Troye finds it marginally fascinating nonetheless, watching the way they interact or ignore each other completely.

A hand covers his own where it hangs loosely in his lap, an attempt to draw his attention in both a gentle and hesitant manner. When he turns back to the group he's not a part of, Connor is looking at him with something he can't quite place. It's a little off-putting, Connor always wears his heart on his sleeve and never rolls it up, but he tries to ignore it. The expression doesn't seem bad, just notably different from most of what he's seen before.

Troye raises an eyebrow, a silent question, and Connor smiles softly in return, shifting his fingers until their hands are laced together entirely.

"We can leave, if you want," he says, green eyes glimmering.

Troye very much does want, but he moves his own sapphire gaze across the half a dozen unfamiliar faces staring straight at him. "It's fine," he replies, turning back to Connor. "Don't you want to spend more time with your friends?"

The word friends sits heavy on his tongue, rolling uncomfortably across it from under-use. He manages not to feel at all bitter about it, which isn't everything, but it's enough. It's progress.

Connor's smile is a little bit sad and a little bit understanding at that. He gets to his feet before Troye can say anything more in protest, drawing the younger man up with him and turning to address the group as a whole. "I'll text you."

They nod and smile and say the same and everything seems fine between them just like Connor said they would be if they did this and Troye almost feels bad for not really wanting to, but he doesn't. He tugs at Connor's hand, clasps it tighter as the cold outdoor air smacks them across their exposed skin, takes a deep breath of falling snow and streets too clean for him to ever call home.

"We didn't have to leave," he says, because he feels like he has to.

Connor looks over at him, expression almost surprised for a moment before it sinks into that warm smile that never really seems to leave. "It's fine, half of them have class in a few minutes."

Troye finds himself smiling right back at that, though it's nowhere near as bright and easy as Connor's. He shifts his step a little closer to the boy at his side, brushing their shoulders together, and curls his hand so tight around the other's that for a moment it seems like it might break.

They go home.