Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Home

noun

       • the place where one lives; the city, etc. where one was born or reared; a place thought of as home; a household and its affairs; an institution for the aged, orphans, etc.

adjective

       • of one's home or country; domestic.

adverb

       • at, to, or in the direction of home; to the point aimed at. 

intransitive verb

       • to return home; to be guided onto a target; to head for a destination; to send or go home. 

His flight lands at eight, the winter sky as dark as the bags under his eyes and the city traffic as busy as his heartbeat where it kicks into full gear and pounds against his aching chest. Connor takes deep breaths of familiar air, of a pollution he's grown accustomed to, of buildings he's seen a thousand times before and the knowledge that he's back where he's always felt like he belonged.

He hails a cab, loads his small suitcase into the trunk, fires off the address he's having trouble waiting to get back to. He folds himself into the backseat, folds himself against the window, folds himself into the feeling of final ease this small piece of Earth brings him. He leans against the glass, watches the world fly by at a pace his mother must worry over, runs a hand down his face and wonders if Troye will be there when he arrives.

It seems like it may be a bit too much to hope for, but Connor knows somewhere in him that the progress they've made can't be reversed in just barely two weeks. He knows Troye likes his coffee and his couch and his heater and him and he knows Troye might be hesitant to fall too hard into things he thinks will slip away beneath his weight, but he also knows Troye's learning to hold on with both hands and plant his feet firmly on the ground. He has faith in the trust Troye's growing to admit to having in him.

Maybe Troye won't be there when he arrives, but Connor knows he'll show up eventually.

The cab screeches to a halt, he gathers his bag and his beating heart, and the front door to the lobby buzzes open with the reassurance that he's here, he's back where he's meant to be. The stairs thud beneath his feet, suitcase dragging against them with a screech of hard rubber wheels against hardwood and plastic coating, and he stops at a cherry door and metal numbers, 507 staring down at him like it knows things he doesn't.

He knocks once, hope flickering in his gut that there's someone on the other side to hear it, and clicks his key into the lock.

He's greeted by an empty apartment and an empty couch, but all the lights are on and there's an open first edition of The Great Gatsby on his coffee table. Connor frowns, pulling his suitcase onto the tiled floor of the kitchen and kicking the door shut behind him. Sighing, he drops his keys onto the counter and tosses his shoes off, ignoring the sound they release upon their encounter with the wall.

He pads over to the living room, marking the page with a loose slip of paper before closing the novel and setting it on top of the magazine spread. Connor sinks onto the couch a little more heavily than usual, resting his head back against it and closing his eyes as he basks in the domestic feel of the air around him. He's a little disappointed Troye isn't here now, but he's also a little pleased that he's obviously been here very recently.

Apparently, he's got some weird synergy thing going on with his boyfriend because the sound of the door opening once more echoes harshly through the open air not a moment later. It clicks, the lock sliding back, and the heavy wood slips away from its frame with a creak as distinctly recognizable converse scuff against the tiled floor. Troye's head of messy curls is ducked as he enters, a frown on his face as he tosses his own key onto the counter without looking, like he's done it a thousand times before. He kicks his shoes off at the door, raises a hand slowly to the zipper of a loose fitting jacket Connor knows doesn't actually belong to him, and shifts his grip on the coffee cup in his other hand without looking up.

And then suddenly he pauses, fingers barely pressed against the zipper, and shifts his gaze to where Connor's watching him from the living room with a bemused smirk on his face.

"Fuck," Troye mutters, blinking rapidly. "You're... home?"

Connor's laugh fills the full apartment around them, his smirk stretching into a private grin as he lifts himself from the sinking cushions of the couch. Troye gives him a suspicious look, clearly not pleased that he's basically laughing at his perfectly reasonable surprise, and huffs as he glances away, stepping over to place his heated paper coffee cup on the counter beside their keys.

"I'm home," Connor says, like somehow he needs to confirm it. He's right beside the counter now, barely a foot between him and this boy he's missed more than two weeks of absence should call for. The silence that follows as Troye turns his gaze back to Connor's feels like a pause in the busy pounding of their heartbeats, a moment where nothing passes and everything passes and they are standing still knowing they'll be sprinting again before either of them can blink.

The moment's gone and suddenly Connor's got an armful of icy skin and messy curls, face buried into the crook of Troye's neck as his fingers dig trenches into the shoulders of a jacket that pretty much belongs to Troye now. They breathe, hearts pounding back into full gear as Troye clings viciously to him and Connor clings gratefully back.

Connor smiles and Troye doesn't and maybe that's the difference between them- where Connor leaves the missing moments behind for the joy of those spent together, Troye grasps at them like a vice meant to make those spent together that much more important. Troye clings to Connor like he never wants to miss him again and Connor clings to Troye like the missing has already been forgotten.

"You're home," Troye mutters, and somehow the words feel different coming from him. Like home isn't just an apartment or a familiar gush of air, but an anchor and a feeling he can't place and maybe home is a little bit like love- the intangible made tangible, a theory made fact, something that transcends words and the synchronized beating of caring hearts but still echoes in every aspect of their actions.

Home is the look in Troye's eyes when he finally pulls away, the warmth in Connor's touch when he curls a hand across his cheek. Home is the words Connor kind of wants to say but doesn't and the smile Troye kind of wants to give but can't. Home is home and nothing more, nothing less, and Connor thinks his mother was onto something when she said he'd never float too far away if he had this to come back to.