Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Night

noun

       • the period of darkness from sunset to sunrise; nightfall; a specified or appointed evening.

It's the sound of a firm knock on the front door that rouses Troye the following morning, drawing him from peaceful slumber as wood gives way to the person stepping into their apartment. He sighs, takes a moment to lie among thin sheets of a comfortability he still finds himself adjusting to, and lets his eyes slip shut just for one more second.

He can hear Connor in the kitchen, laughing gently in a way that washes a river of love through Troye's arteries, and a distinctly female voice joining him in lighthearted humour. He can hear the whistle of the kettle, the fumbling of the coffee press, the thump of someone sitting themselves on the counter - sounds of a home and a life he never used to think he'd have.

He remembers being eight, waking to the sounds of the front door slamming shut and one of the younger children scurrying up the stairs to escape their returning dictator. He remembers being thirteen, never waking up because he could never fall asleep, digging blunt nails into his skin to keep himself from closing his eyes and missing the door creaking open after dark. He remembers being ten, waking to fragile things slammed on hard surfaces, to silence and an empty house or to screaming and fighting and footsteps creeping into his room as one of the older girls told him to close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere better.

Lying here, the sun spilling through the window and pooling in the dips of his hips like gold foil coating his skin, they barely feel like memories.

They're the past, a different life he'll never have to go back to. While they may come back to haunt him even at the best of times, they can't actually hurt him anymore. If he wakes to the bed dipping beneath an added weight, any frightful nostalgia he may feel will be washed away by Connor pressing a kiss to his head as he crawls under the sheets with him. If he wakes to something slamming, it'll just be Connor clumsily dropping whatever pan he'd been intending to fashion breakfast with. If he wakes alone to an empty, silent apartment, it won't be because he's been forgotten or abandoned. There will still be food on the shelves and things for him to do, still hold the expectation of his solitude being interrupted at some point throughout the day.

He remembers when it was different, sure, but it's in the kind of way where he can acknowledge that the past has shaped him into who he is and nothing more. It's not some omnipresent figure that will forever rule his life. It's things that happened, things that might creep back up on him but never stay, and it's things he doesn't need to spend every waking moment worrying about. It happened, it's done, there's nothing he can do to change that.

He can't protect himself from the flashbacks or the panic attacks it may bring, but he doesn't have to waste himself away just waiting for them to happen, either.

Taking a slow, even breath, Troye peels himself from the comfortable covers to move into the kitchen. Connor's leaned against the counter by the stove, Hannah swinging her legs as she sits on the one across from him, and both hold steaming cups of coffee in their hands as Troye pads up to greet them. He drops a lazy kiss to his boyfriend's cheek, reaching for the leftover coffee in the press before acknowledging the other aspects of their small world.

"Wow," Hannah throws out. She sips her coffee with an eyebrow raised sarcastically, a tilt to her lips suggesting she's trying not to smile. "Where's my kiss? Really not feeling the love, Troye."

Troye rolls his eyes, half leaning against Connor as he fills his mug to the brim with piping hot caffeine. A moment later, he drops a sloppy kiss to her cheek as well. The action is over dramatic and obviously humourous in its intent, Hannah immediately wiping her cheek with a firm declaration of disgust. Troye grins lopsidedly, enjoying the way Connor laughs against his side, and settles back to drink his coffee in peace as he lets the two friends pick their casual conversation back up.

It barely lasts a minute before Hannah gasps.

"Oh my God," she exclaims, setting her cup down beside her as she rakes her eyes up and down Troye's shirtless torso. He frowns, as does Connor, and both rake their eyes across his figure to discern the cause of her sudden surprise. "I know what you've been up to."

"Hannah," Connor sighs exasperatedly, obviously having taken note of the hickey formed proudly at the junction between his boyfriend's neck and jaw. He probably knows he has multiple to match, if the way his hand rubs absentmindedly at his own neck is anything to go by. Maybe he's even noticed the fading lines up Troye's shoulders where his fingers had dug in harshly.

Troye takes a slow drink of his coffee, watching the two battle it out with their eyes. Hannah looks far too excited at the prospect of her friend having some kind of sex life to share, and Connor looks rightfully uncomfortable with the common expectation for everyone to have everything out in the open.

"Oh, come on," Hannah sighs, rolling her eyes like he's the one being ridiculous here. She smiles warmly a moment later, kicking her feet against the cupboards below her. "As long as you were safe, I don't actually want to hear about it. You were safe, right? You got checked beforehand and everything?"

Connor chokes on nothing, gripping at his throat as he tries to clear his airway, and Troye pats his back reassuringly when he turns to set his coffee down and cough into the sink.

"I'll just take that as a yes, then. Mostly because I really don't want to hear any details, but also because it looks like you might actually be dying," Hannah chirps happily, hoping off the counter and clasping Connor's shoulder briefly. She moves towards the door with a nonchalant wave over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow. Don't forget to finishing editing those shots!"

"I'm going to kill her," Connor coughs the moment the door slams shut behind her. "Slowly and painfully and probably very creatively."

"My little murderer," Troye replies with a grin, looping his arms around his waist from behind and kissing the corner of his jaw. "Just don't forget to pick up the laundry while you're at it."

Laughing softly, Connor's eyes crinkle at the edges with the smile he turns to Troye. It's warm in a way that doesn't feel thick or heavy or stifling, in a way that's light and airy and doesn't wrap around Troye, but merely floats through him as scattered molecules of shared happiness. He kisses the smile, brushes back Connor's flatly falling hair, and basks in the contentment for as long as he can.

Standing here, the past in the past and Connor's fingers tracing truths up the vertebrae of his spine, he thinks he can understand the conditions Dan gave him. He's in a good place, feet firmly on the ground with his head on as straight as it ever will be, and it feels like he could face any demon and still emerge with minimal bruising.

Maybe he should call Phil again.