Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Martyr

noun

       • a person tortured for a belief or cause; a person who suffers from an illness.

transitive verb

       • to kill as a martyr; to make a martyr of. 

He's high-strung and frantic, heart pounding and body shaking as he launches item after item into an already stuffed suitcase. His hands are fast and shaking, frazzled nerves evident in the wild hair he's sporting, and his eyes dart madly all across the room. Combing aching fingers through his tangled locks, Connor steps back to review his work and make a mental checklist of anything he may have forgotten. Seated at the foot of the bed, Troye watches him avidly without a word.

"Do we have everything?" he questions frenziedly, despite the fact that Troye's obviously not going to know. "I think we have everything."

Troye doesn't say anything, just moves his steady gaze from the packed suitcase to Connor's bright green eyes. He feels a little off, meeting a blue stare that's suddenly as unreadable as it was the day they met. It hasn't really been that way in a considerable amount of time, at least not for more than two brief seconds, and part of his wild excitement leeches away at the sight.

Frowning, Connor moves to shove the suitcase away and sink himself down beside the boy he's grown so fond of. He's not entirely sure whether to say something or not, whether this is one of those things he should just wait for Troye to tell him in his own time, but either way he's never been much good at keeping his mouth shut. Better with Troye, sure, but still not anywhere close to great.

"What's wrong?" he sighs, running his gentle fingers along the ridges of his boyfriend's hands. Connor gives him a meaningful glance, hoping with everything in him that it won't be anything bad, that this isn't Troye wanting to back out of going with him to Minnesota. Admittedly, he's been looking forward to this since his mother brought it up.

Troye purses his lips, furrows his brow, looks away. "Nothing."

Groaning, Connor can feel something in him getting a little defensive. He's never been angry at Troye, never been frustrated in any way that counts, but he can feel it setting in now. This is his family, his home, and there's no part of him that won't put it above being considerate to his currently difficult boyfriend. Especially when it really is just Troye being difficult and disrespectful to this part of Connor's life, which he's almost certain it is.

"Troye," he says, voice harder than it's ever been with the musician's hands clasped in his. The boy in question sighs, eyes still fixed somewhere far away, and Connor wonders briefly if the hurricane's come back and shut him out.

"I just..." Troye starts, hesitant and uncertain in the vulnerable kind of way he's always so reluctant to be. Connor shifts, softens, traces his features with waiting eyes. Turning back to look at him, Troye lets out another heavy sigh like sleep is a waking dream and the sky is resting heavy on his shoulders. "Parents don't like me."

Oh, Connor thinks, and feels himself freeze.

"That's ridiculous," he tries, tone a little more desperate than he'd thought it would be. Troye just gives him a rather pointed look, like he's being an idiot and it's painfully obvious he's wrong, and Connor kind of wants to shake him until he realizes people aren't as awful as he thinks.

But he can't because he gets it. Because Troye's never really felt safe before and the callouses he can feel beneath his fingertips are indicators of a childhood much different from Connor's. Because Troye is scared this isn't real, it can't be real, and it's going to take more than a couple of months to convince him that beds don't have to creak anymore and nails weren't made to dig into his wrists. Because Troye feels like his skin's wrong and everything's wrong and he's wrong and Connor can't understand that feeling, but he understands that it's awful and hard and the reason Troye's sometimes out of the apartment before Connor's even woken up. Because PTSD is a big word they've only said once and just saying it out loud doesn't make it go away.

Connor takes a breath, tries out a sad little smile, and draws Troye's hands up to kiss at his knuckles. "They love you already," he reassures softly. "They love anyone who makes me happy. I wish you wouldn't put yourself down like that, or my parents for that matter. They're good people, Troye. They don't care where you came from, they just care that you're a good person, too, and that I love you as much as they love me."

Troye frowns again, lips tighter than before, and purposefully turns his head away to stare straight ahead. There's something unrecognizable but not deliberately unreadable in his thunderstorm eyes. Connor's own gaze rests on his face with concern etched in every fleck of green, silently hoping to Gods he doesn't believe in that for once he's gotten through to him.

"What if there's something wrong with me?" Troye asks, softly breaking the silence that's stretched into more than just a quiet pause. Connor gets the feeling they're not talking about his parents anymore. "I mean, there has to be, right? Why else would it always end up the same?  Why else would it take seventeen fucking years for just one person to actually care about me?"

And if that doesn't knock the breath right out of Connor, then pigs must be taking flight somewhere. His throat feels thick and his eyes sting and he doesn't know why these words are the ones that finally have him feeling like he needs to cry, but they are. Some part of him has always known this is what's etched in Troye's features when he pulls back from Connor's care, but it's different to hear it out loud. It's different when Troye's tone can't decide between angry desperation and hopeless anguish, when Troye is usually silent and proud or storming and vicious and always ten times stronger than Connor's ever hoped to be. It's different when Troye never wants to tell him how he feels until it comes pouring out in sporadic bursts of temporary insanity, when even in the moments Troye does tell him it's usually so controlled, so careful, with words cut off halfway through when he feels like he's getting too emotional.

Connor tries to pull his breath back in. He slides his hands off his partner's, moves to wrap one around the back of Troye's neck and draw him against his chest.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he says, pretending not to notice how hard Troye's trembling in his arms. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't really think Troye would believe him if he did.

Hands clutching at the back of Connor's shirt, Troye buries his face into his shoulder and mutters, "Your camera." Sensing Connor's frown, he pulls back with his head turned away to hide the expression painted plain across his features. "You don't have your camera."

"Oh," Connor replies, eyes wide. He immediately shoots up as the words actually sink in, raising frantic arms as he scans the room for the device. "Oh, fuck. You're right. Thank God, that would have been awful."

"What would you do without me?" Troye mutters, clearly going for teasing but coming out a little more serious than necessary. Connor, retrieving his camera from the desk-chair by the window, turns back to him with a blinding grin.

"Crash and burn, probably," he replies easily, dropping the expensive piece of technology into their now overflowing suitcase.

Troye almost manages a real smile back. If his eyes look a little red, Connor most definitely does not notice. At least, he'll pretend he doesn't.