Attachments (Tronnor AU)

Simple

adjective

       • single, uncompounded; plain, not elaborate; clear, not complicated; easy to do, understand, or solve; artless, not sophisticated; weak in intellect; unsuspecting, credulous; sheer, mere.  

Connor's ideas about love haven't changed since he was little. The only difference is that he now knows it isn't given to everyone else as freely as it's always been given to him. It's not a universal sentiment, and there are people who can't feel it when they reach out their hands or hear it when they press their ears to a heartbeat.

Some people don't grow up with it. Some people don't live long enough to experience it.

The Mellets seem to be a family full of love, each child raised with adoration and respect the way Connor had assumed everyone was. It's difficult to stand in their kitchen, watching them interact, and realize how close Troye was to this. To what he himself had.

Yet, he can't bring himself to resent them. Maybe because Troye wouldn't be the person that he is if things hadn't gone the way they did, and Connor's rather fond of the person he is. Maybe because he can't fault them for a history they hadn't known existed. They're all victims of circumstance, here.

They're nice people. Good, even. The kind he'd been surrounded by growing up, radiating with laughter and inherent decency. Kindness must be hereditary among them.

Troye seems okay, if not happy. He doesn't say anything about Connor's hovering, but he also doesn't give him any reason to keep doing it. There are no signs of an impending panic attack or PTSD episode, no signs of him shutting up and shutting down, and Connor finds himself able to step away without thinking everything will go wrong if he does.

He makes his way outside, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans to fend off the bite of winter. The air is fresh, the backyard cloaked in a film of white, and all he does is breathe. 

This is what real love is, he thinks. Not ideal or perfect or the abstract notion of unconditional adoration, but something flawed and concrete that courses through his whole body. 

When he steps back inside, Troye glances up from his conversation with a brother he's never met before. He smiles, and Connor smiles back before slinking off to the kitchen for a drink.

There's a girl already there, perched atop the marble counter with socked feet swinging against the cupboards. She nods her head politely when he enters, curious eyes tracking his movements as he pours himself a glass of water and leans back against the sink to sip at it.

"How long have you been together?" she asks suddenly, the question exploding out of her like she couldn't keep it in any more.

Connor hums thoughtfully, taking a slow drink. "A year and a half? Nearly two."

The girl bites her lip, curled blond hair tumbling down her shoulders as she leans forward on the counter. "Was it love at first sight?" she pries.

She's Troye's sister, he reminds himself. A fifteen year old girl who's never been in love and probably has a million questions about the extra brother she's suddenly received. Her eyes are bright with wonder, like the concept of Troye's life is something magical, but there's a maturity to the way she holds herself that seems to be present in every member of her family.

If she'd asked her brother that same question, Connor knows how he would have replied. He'd have hesitated, have shaken his head and smiled, and then he'd have said nothing at all. Because it wasn't, for him. He loves Connor now and he's in a good place, but he'll always be wary of new people and never fall without checking to see where he's going to land. He's never been the kind of person to believe in fairy tale falsities.  

Connor is, though. He always has been.

"For me," he says, and sets his drink down. 

The girl launches eagerly into her next set of questions and Connor happily replies to each one. He understands what it's like to want to know Troye. 

He also thinks he understands, now, why that's such a hard feat to accomplish.

Love and affection, emotions, are different for everyone. There's no one way to feel them, no universal signs and symptoms to look for. They're masks with many faces morphing to suit their wearer. 

He's learned that in the two years he's spent redefining what he knows about the world.