adjacent ➵ tronnor

avoid

Time seems to pass in a sort of haze over the next week or so — the days roll by like Connor never lived through them, never existed. (Except, obviously, he very much did.)

Connor feels a little lost. Lost within himself. Like he can't face anyone other than himself; he can't meet Troye in the eye no matter how hard he tries. He ignores the way Troye's body seems to sink in disappointment slightly and then tense up afterwards as he starts to walk away. He disregards the slight ache in his own chest each time he leaves his apartment and sneaks a glance at Troye's closed door, or walks past the now finally covered spot in the wall where the hole that started it all is.

He's an avid believer in the term "all or nothing", so if he's too emotionally drained to put himself out there fully, he won't at all. Bit of a stupid rule to follow sometimes, but he often can't hep it. That's just how he is. So right now, he's somewhere along the "nothing" side of the spectrum, and he'll simply just have to wait until he feels up to it.

Except, one day, he's sort of unwillingly forced into it.

"Look, I know we're not exactly on the best of terms, but there's no need to avoid me entirely. Remember, we only hate each other a little bit now, yeah? And, not to be rude, but you sort of look like shit. You OK? Like, truthfully? Wait — stupid question, f'course you aren't, never mind that. You know what? Come in. Talk to me," Troye says, and Connor musters a half-assed, small yet appreciative smile accompanied by a nod.

Connor can't say he's used to Troye rambling and muttering so fast. He's usually confident in his words, voice loud and clear, unmistakably assured. To see him tripping over his words in such a way is an odd experience, to say the least.

Not to mention the way he seems like he actually, genuinely cares. As if he could only ever want the best for Connor, in despite of the countless arguments they've had. The little frown (resembling some sort of puppy) he gives as he looks over at Connor's slumped body on his sofa (which is significantly comfier than his own) warms his heart a little, though it makes him feel guilty, too.

It sort of feels like Troye's having a bad week as well, because he doesn't seem to have the energy to add even a subtle snarky comment into his wad of rambled sentences. (You could say he's tired of being a tiring person.) But as soon as Connor thinks that, he immediately shakes the thought away, because it feel wrong accusing Troye of only being nice for that reason — he knows he's rather capable of being a decent human being.

Troye sits down next to him five minutes later and hands him a mug, not telling him what it holds. Connor looks at him inquisitively, as if to ask him so. Troye rolls his eyes, "It's tea, not fucking poison. I might be a dick sometimes, but I'm not that mean."

Connor takes a sip (and cringes at how it burns his throat), places it onto the coffee table in front of him. "I didn't think so," he says, his voice a little hoarse as he hasn't used it a lot recently.

"Sure," Troye responds simply and quickly, turning to face Connor. He pauses, presumably to try and figure out his wording, then speaks. "Bad week?" he asks, his eyes boring into Connor's.

Connor mutters, "Something like that."

"How so?"

Connor shrugs — he genuinely doesn't know. He had a good few days after he had cleared his mind and evaluated it all, and then, all of a sudden, that feeling just. . . disappeared.

Troye frowns at him again. "Oh? So you aren't gonna tell me why?"

Though he still feels reluctant to make any effort, he says, "I— I'm not sure. Not sure why."

"Oh," he says again. "You sure?"

"Positive," he tells Troye.

A third time, now, "Oh." And the room falls silent as they sip on their drinks and observe their surroundings.