Tonight - A Tronnor AU

o1: avenoir

avenoir

n. the desire that memory could flow backwards (imagine you're on a boat. you're facing backwards, so you can see where you've been, but not where you're going)

Present, December 19; 5:20 pm

It's not even dusk yet, but winter has managed to coax darkness to come early. In typical Los Angeles fashion, scores of lights blink to life, shining like beacons all around. The buildings on the other side of the river mirror their silhouettes in the water, which gleams a murky gray from the point the reflection of the tallest spire ends. On this side of the river, where Connor's standing, is a water-front restaurant, one of the classiest in the area.

The tables are unoccupied, each having a little placard with the name of the person who has reservations at the place. Connor's own table touches the water front, close enough for both people to rest against the railing. A grand view of the musical fountain that will start soon enough is an added bonus. He straightens up from the railing he has been leaning against, tears his gaze away from the shady depths of the river and makes his way to his table. He might as well sit to still his nerves.

Connor sighs and slides into his seat, staring dully at his own name engraved classily in gilded silver on glossy black cardboard. Someone would have made a remark about how pretty the calligraphy is, were he present. He adjusts his blazer sleeves and folds his hands on the table. He's wondering if the tie makes him seem a tad overdressed, but since he can't get rid of it now, he merely loosens it. The tense feeling in his throat doesn't alleviate in the slightest.

With no way to escape from his self-imposed predicament, Connor's like a caged animal. He longs for the freedom to run with uncontrollable speed, for air to inflate his lungs and sweep unfiltered through his airways. He wants to get rid of the faces that pop up accusingly in his mind every time he dips into thoughts of the past.

But he can't. After months of running, tonight's the night to stop.

January 7;

Hearing voices is the first sign of insanity, isn't it? Connor didn't want to open his eyes and see nobody around him. So he didn't. But then again, the thought of someone in his room was not a pleasant thought. The voice just became more incessant, low and alluring in a way that scared him. Connor reached out to grasp his bedcovers and let out a shocked yelp as a scalding liquid spilled over his hands.

"Shit, ouch!"

Connor blinked rapidly with pain and confusion. The beige walls of the cafe came into view, and his legs protested angrily as he moved them. The cramped muscles of his neck twitched huffily to remind him to never fall asleep in hard wooden chairs in public eateries. He faintly registered someone else's exclamation, and the sound of quick footsteps.

"You alright, sir?" a voice interrupted his drowsiness. Connor was too dazed to process anything, even as he felt a washcloth filled with ice caressing his scalded fingers.

"I guess," Connor mumbled, and cleared his throat to get rid of the hoarseness. He rubbed his forehead between the thumb and forefinger of his unmaimed hand, and glanced at the man helping him for the first time. Blue eyes met his with a warm smile, before flicking down to the ice pack again. His hand was numb now, oblivious to not only the blistering sensation, but also the pair of hands clasping it. Connor coughed again. "Thank you so much."

"You're very welcome. I shouldn't have startled you like that, sorry. I feel this is my fault."

Connor smiled at the accent and his earnest tone. Now that he looked at him properly, the boy was probably younger than him. "Don't be sorry," Connor requested him softly. "I clearly brought that on myself."