Tonight - A Tronnor AU

o6: klexos

klexos

n. the art of dwelling in the past

Present; 19th December; 7:25pm

Troye's eyes are focused on him, attentively, politely and correctly, but Connor finds himself squirming. His voice dies in his throat.

"Yes?" Troye repeats, more gently this time, though the icyness in his irises does not thaw. The entire thing is so horribly cliche that Connor is dazed with apathy for himself and torn between running away and cutting out the pleasantries he knows Troye will be reluctant to indulge in and which he knows he doesn't deserve.

"How have you been?" he asks softly, settling for the latter fork in the path, with a neutral question in the hope that it'll return a neutral answer.

"Okay. Not great, but okay."

He nods. He believes it. He's even slightly relieved. He glances around; there seem to be impermeable bubbles around each table, the people within them lost in their momentary private worlds. Buildings all around the restaurant beam multiple spotlights of their lights on it, but the dimmed lanterns and cupped candles create a curtain of solitude.

Troye coughs once, catching his attention. "Connor." It's the first time he has addressed him by name tonight. The Australian-accent version teases his ear lobe as it brushes past it. "This is not working."

"What?" Connor feels stupid.

"I appreciate that you arranged this, and that you're putting in so much effort, but let's be honest here. Some things just aren't meant to be. Make-up dates work out sometimes, sometimes they don't. I want the past to stay in the past. I don't want us to rake it up and start the blame game and then end it all with a fight."

Connor has paused with his glass halfway to his lips. "Wow," he lets out. "You've clearly thought everything out, like you always do. Mood kill," he adds.

Troye throws back his head with a laugh. His palm covers his mouth as he tries to muffle his mirth. "Did you actually want to fight?"

"Not really, but I wasn't expecting such a blatant 'fuck you'. I thought you'd be all moody and bitter and vengeful."

"That's you; brooding, like a mother hen."

"Shut up."

Connor falls silent with a smile, astonished that it's something so unexpected. His chest aches dully, but with an obvious pull, his shoulders slump in surrender. Opposite him, Troye reciprocates the smile with tiny one of his own, and the pinprick of warmth courses through Connor. He has been rehearsing for this day all week, since the minute he got confirmation for the reservations, and now all of that has gone for a toss. 

"Let's just have a nice evening like two friends, and not dwell upon what happened," Troye speaks up. Connor feels another thud in his chest, but he steadies it mentally, because he sees equal conflict in Troye's eyes. It seems as though Troye's not even trying to get him back, but it's okay for the moment. There's only so much the mind can soak, and Connor's is over-saturated with dregs and potions of memories and thoughts of the entire year.

"So no yelling, throwing our drinks at each other, more yelling and one of us storming away in the end?"

"Afraid not. We're mature adults who aren't legal enough to drink yet."

It's Connor's turn to laugh. "Nobody has noticed, so we're good. That'd be a disappointing story, though."

Troye rests his elbows on the table with a tiny sigh. The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Don't worry, the night is still young."