Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Effort

noun

       • exertion; an attempt, try; a product of great exertion.

Troye wakes to the bedside table vibrating vivaciously two feet from his head. He groans, blinks, turns himself over to face the electronic device demanding his attention, and frowns when he sees the screen of Connor's phone lit up. There's a moment where he hesitates, wondering whether he should wake Connor, take a message, or ignore the call entirely, but it's gone as soon as he sees the name flashing beneath his gaze. Swiping over the green phone symbol, he brings it to his ear and sits himself up a little straighter.

"Hey, Cheryl," he greets, cutting himself off with a yawn halfway through. He glances down at the sleeping figure beside him, the bare backs of Connor's shoulders blocking his view of his face, and reaches a hand out to run through tangled cinnamon locks.

"Oh, Troye! How are you?"

He sighs, removing his hand from Connor's hair to run it tiredly through his own. "I'm okay. Connor's still asleep."

He can nearly hear the frown his easy response brings to her well-worn features, the switch of her phone from one ear to another as she settles into a more attentive state. "Doesn't he have class?" she questions carefully, tone cautious like she knows this is the less potentially explosive of his two statements to focus on.

"Yeah, not until like three or something," he concurs, fiddling with the sheets splayed across his legs. He plucks a thread loose, tries to flatten it back into something unnoticeable, moves on to picking at the tips of his fingers when that fails. 

Cheryl hums in acknowledgement, letting silence reign supreme before knocking it covertly from its throne. "I was just calling to see how things are going. You know, if both my boys are healthy and happy and all those motherly things."

Troye laughs, light and quiet in the bottom of his chest, before gnawing at his lower lip until it bleeds. It doesn't take much, chapped from days spent fighting off the winter winds and nights spent curled up with his boyfriend, and the copper taste taps at the tip of his tongue where he sweeps it across the source. "We're good," he informs her quietly, eyes trained on the sleeping figure of his lover. Troye has bruises speckled down his hips and Connor has trails of red lines up his shoulders, ghosts of a night they probably won't need to talk about, but he figures he probably shouldn't tell Connor's mother that.

"Yeah?" she replies gently, like she's not entirely sure he hasn't embellished the story or fibbed it a bit for family viewing. "Connor tells me you've moved in."

Taking a breath, Troye moves his gaze from the imprints of his fingertips to the heated windowpanes. "I have."

"That's good. I hope things are going well with you two. Nikki's been moaning all week about how upset she'll be if you don't both come to visit again soon."

"Nikki's a spoiled brat," he responds light-heartedly, snorting as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and pads towards the kitchen.

Cheryl laughs, warm and bright just like the son they both love so much, not at all offended by the arguably insulting comment directed towards her daughter. "She really is. All my children are, if we're being honest here. Connor's just the worst."

"Yeah, what a child. So immature. He threw a tantrum over his keys, once," Troye throws out sarcastically, fumbling to fill the kettle with one hand. It slips, crashes against the stove with a clash of metal on metal, but he manages to catch it before it tumbles to the floor and wakes his boyfriend.

"Ugh, I know. He must get it from his father." Troye hums, an agreement, and flicks the gas on before letting it catch and light. He grins triumphantly when the kettle finds its rightful place at one of the burners, no more noise involved than necessary. "Well, anyway. It was good to hear from you, Troye. Take care now."

"You too. I'll tell Connor you called," he returns honestly, pulling the phone away from his ear to swipe at the red phone symbol. He sighs, tossing the device onto the counter like it's burned him, before hoisting himself up beside it to watch the water heat up.

Frowning, he kicks his legs against the counter in an even beat and drums his fingers down his thigh. His eyes are wide, trained solely on the steaming kettle, and he finds himself bouncing with a new-found kind of energy. He feels like he needs to do something, like he's itching with the urge to complete some task he hasn't yet wrapped his conscious mind around. Scratching at his skin, he turns the stove off before the water's finished boiling and slips his shoes on instead.

He scrawls a note for Connor, tucks the paper half under his cellphone, and snatches his coat from the rack.