Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Each

adjective

       • every one of two or more.

Tomorrow comes, as it always does, with liquid sunlight pooling at the base of Troye's bare spine and flowing to the fingers Connor traces delicately across it. His shirt's ridden up, white fabric bunched closer to his shoulders than his waist, and his skin is snow white basked in translucent gold as Connor's tanned hands smooth patterns into it.

His father's cluttering around the kitchen downstairs, frying pan banging against the stove and obliviousness to the boy still fast asleep upstairs ringing as high as a sharp note on the guitar. It's a sound Connor finds comfort in, the same sound he woke to every morning for eighteen years. Here, stretched out beside someone he loves in a house full of people he loves, he feels for the first time like his finger won't cramp on the slow motion button, like he's not holding anything but play and this is how the world was always meant to be. He's shaking out his hands, relaxing the cramp from the fast forward button that he'd never noticed before, and sighing in relief that he's no longer aching with the strain of speeding through a life he's never fully appreciated.

"Troye," he mutters, voice a gentle wind caressing his lover's closed eyes. "Baby, wake up."

"Ugh," Troye groans tiredly in response, turning his head to face away from Connor as he presses further into the sheets. They tangle his torso, wrapping like tightropes around his frail figure. Drawn by the melody of his mother's hushed voice in the kitchen, Connor traces two circles over Troye's hips before patting them and sliding out of bed.

"My family's waiting to interrogate you some more," he informs him happily, sweetening the deal with a dash of spiced salt. He pulls a shirt on, long-sleeved and comfortable as it hangs loosely off his frame, and slides his sleep pants away in favour of some dark-washed jeans.

"Ugh," Troye replies, more insistent this time. He doesn't move an inch from his sprawled out position, arms dug beneath the pillow his head sinks heavily into. Sunlight stretches across his whole torso now, snagging in the folds of his t-shirt before cascading down his exposed skin. He's stunning, spectacular and gorgeous and beautiful as Connor's fingers twitch for his camera.

He can't resist. Snatching the device from the front pocket of their suitcase, he focuses the lens with practiced precision and snaps six shots in quick succession. He's flicking through them, expert eye picking out the best and worst without much thought, when Troye's half-amused and half-annoyed voice cuts through his photographer's focus.

"Did you just take a picture of me?"

"Yeah," Connor replies distractedly, flipping through the photos one last time before tucking the device back into its temporary niche. Troye makes a noise of pretend disapproval, still refusing to budge even an inch. Crawling back up the bed towards him, Connor throws half his body unceremoniously on top of him and digs his chin into his raised shoulder. "Come on, get up."

Troye's response is immediate and firmly decisive. "No."

Huffing an amused breath, Connor pulls at Troye until the sunlight's swimming over half his stomach and pressing insistently at the eyes he squeezes shut. There's another groan and a hand flailed out to smack Connor, but it misses and lands haphazardly on his upper thigh instead.

Which Troye apparently decides is the perfect place to squeeze, sending Connor tumbling over in surprise as he lets out an inhuman noise.

"Ha," Troye notes monotonously, turning until his back is to his boyfriend. "I win."

Connor smacks him, his aim much better than Troye's, and hauls him back to face him. He pokes at his nose with a frown, watching it wrinkle in response. "Play nice," he commands, like Troye is a puppy still learning not to chomp down on every innocent creature that has the misfortune of crossing his path.