Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Earth

noun

       • the world that we inhabit; solid ground, as opposed to sea; soil; the burrow of a badger, fox, etc; a connection between an electric device or circuit and the earth; (infinitive) a large amount of money.

transitive verb

       • to cover or bury in the earth; to connect an electrical circuit or device to earth. 

Stepping through the door to Connor's apartment is like sinking into a warm bed with silk sheets and memory foam, remnants of the nights you've spent with it captured by something as simple as a firm piece of foam. Troye sighs, takes a deep breath of clean air and no intrusive family members, and pretends not to be as relieved as he actually is when Connor casts him a sweet smile.

"Home at last!" the older of the two exclaims happily, shoving his keys into his coat as he hangs it on the rack. He purposely ignores the snort Troye lets out in response and drops their suitcase by the bedroom door as he falls unceremoniously onto the couch.

"Aren't you supposed to like visiting your family?" Troye inquires thoughtfully, peeling off his jacket at a much slower pace. He hangs it reverently beside Connor's, though technically both belong to his boyfriend, and smooths his hands through his tangled hair.

The stench of airports and airplanes and a foreign city full of foreign houses sits heavily in his pores, clogging up his arteries and weighing down his heart. He sighs, tries to clear it away with the feeling of familiarity fluttering feather-light in his chest, closes his eyes and leans against the counter as he breathes in apartment air that shouldn't feel so much like home. This isn't his home, not really, as much time as he may spend here or as often as Connor may assure him that he's always welcome. Troye's home is a bench in the park or a stretch of grass by the bridge, lungs filling with secondhand smoke from Dan's addictions and hands aching with cold as they fumble over cracked keys.

Sometimes, though, he looks at his beautiful boyfriend and he feels like maybe his home is forests of brilliant green or tucked between roots dug firmly into soil. Maybe home isn't benches or grass or smoke or the cold winter chill. Maybe it's this feeling in his chest when he looks at this man he cares so much for, the fact that he wants to write songs and sonnets for him but doesn't because he's worried his words will make this sound like less than it is, the way he knows he's safe in those arms, with those hands ghosting history across his skin, and the way he never has to worry over what he'll wake up to.

Troye opens his eyes, trailing them across the figure perched on the couch. His lips twitch, fingers twitch, heart twitches, and he can't help it when he pads slowly over to him. He may as well be the opposite charge of a magnet for how little he can resist the pull.

He doesn't say anything, just slips onto Connor's lap until his legs are pressed on either side of him, arms draped loosely over his shoulders. He buries his head into his neck, breathes hot air across it as his lips find tanned skin, and holds him even closer when Connor doesn't say anything, either.

There are things he could say - he could say three words Connor's repeated twice already or make some grand speech about how good it feels to be with him. He could say he likes his family and he wants to be a part of it or that Connor should spend more time with his friends because Troye's not going to disappear if he isn't constantly at his side. He could say that he trusts him, that that's probably a feat greater than earning his love, or that Connor's bed is his and he's glad it doesn't creak or squeak. He could say he's a live wire and Connor is the earth that keeps him grounded.

He could say a lot of things, but he doesn't. A firm believer in actions over words, he thinks the way he kisses Connor hard on the lips and trails his fingers down his spine says enough.