Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Nostalgia

noun

       • yearning for past times or places.

He doesn't hesitate before he grasps at the door handle and no chime rings through the room when he enters. There's the sound of Troye's shoes distributing weight across the grated floor of the entrance, cutting out when he reaches the tile. There's the sound of two teenagers laughing at a cellphone, a woman placing her order with the barista, a little boy scurrying to the bathroom.

There's also the sound of a heart pounding nervously, but Troye's pretty sure that's for his ears only.

Here, he does hesitate. His eyes scan the small shop - the same he spent many nights in through the first stages of loving Connor - and his feet still on the copper-tinted tile. His hands are steady at his side, not twisting subconsciously through the frayed edges of his sleeve, and his heart sinks to such a quiet beat that it feels like it may have stopped altogether.

Troye's not really sure what he's expecting, but he knows the man watching the entrance with wide eyes and a desperate expression is most definitely it.

He's probably tall, based on the genes Troye's received, but he's seated and slumped and it's impossible to tell. His head is bald, jaw wide, eyes blue, and the suit stretching over his shoulders fits him perfectly. The hands gripping at a paper cup of coffee are thick, clenched white at the knuckles, and holding the cardboard sleeve like it's his last hope at redemption.

Troye doesn't know what to think. He tries not to think anything at all. He tries not to even note the similarities in their appearance. He tells himself not to judge this man, not until they've spoken and he's heard the full story, until he's flipped past the book's cover and read through at least the introduction.  He tells himself not to think anything because he knows, without a doubt, that he'll only end up over-thinking everything. 

At least, that's what Connor told him. Troye's pretty sure he trusts Connor's judgement more than his own right now.

Steeling himself, he wipes away any clouds that may have crossed his face and steps towards the table. The man seated behind it, having shifted his gaze from the door to the boy coming towards him, watches his every step with the kind of nervous intent that suggests he's just as uncertain about all of this as Troye is. It's moderately reassuring to know he's not the only one with sweaty palms.

"You... You look like me. And her, of course. Like- You look like both of us," Shaun stutters the moment Troye reaches the chair across from him. There's something in his eyes like a first-time skydiver waiting for the signal to jump - high-strung, eager, jerking closer to the edge at every sound.

Troye doesn't say anything. He keeps his lips pressed firmly together until he's fully seated, at which point he brings his hands carefully to rest at the edge of the table between them.

Shaun coughs, drumming his fingers along the side of his cup. His eyes dart to the register, the teenagers in the corner, the little boy returning from the bathroom. He swallows hard.

"Can I get you anything? Hot chocolate? Or, uh, I guess you're probably old enough to drink coffee. Anything you want: it's on me."

Troye digs his nail into the wax of the table, feels it gather underneath, twists his finger sideways and draws a line through the wood. "No, I'm good. Thank you."

Shaun seems to sink dejectedly at that, like Troye not wanting anything to drink is the first sign of rejection. Maybe it is, maybe he's right to look so disheartened. Troye wouldn't know - his head is a jumbled mess of repeating Connor's advice and telling himself not to decide anything until he's got all the facts.