minty || tronnor au

2 || troye

i turn away from this boy who can't refuse, trapped by the promise of his disgusting drink back. i smile to myself while he can't see, the sound of my boots clicking on cold cement seeming almost as confident as i am.

"so, if we're going on a date, you should tell me your name. i'm troye," i prompt, slowing my pace slightly to let him catch up. as he does, there is still visible confusion on his face. i can see it in his eyes, his jaw set, the frame of his skin over his face.

he's trying to hide it behind the green bars of his eyes. i can respect that. it's a skill i'd like to think i've perfected at this point. on him, it's cute. i get the feeling on him, anything would be cute.

no, troye, get out of this mindset. not cute. cute is for people with crushes and what they call love and pink boxes full of chocolate. he is hot, which is why you're stealing his drink and taking him out and gonna bang him in a few days.

"connor. with an 'o'. look, i don't know why you're doing this," he huffs, shoving his hands into his fleece's pockets.

he looks away, breaks eye contact as he speaks his next words.

"i'm not, you know . . . . gay."

the last word exits his mouth like a disease, disgust dripping from his tongue. it's like he can't wait to be rid of it, as though his words might turn him into that which he's describing.

my smile curves down into a pale pink frown, teeth hitting the lower half in a well-practiced habit.

this could go either way. the first would be that he's difficult to get into a bed, bent on maintaining the "straight as a nail" facade. i can work through that, so i'm not worried. in fact, that could work, as it would keep him from dragging along after.

"yeah, sure, okay," i agree sarcastically, with a roll of my eyes to match. "straight a's, right? bet you're a jockroach too, i don't know, lacrosse? lacrosse is "in" at my school, i think. where did you say you went?"

i smirk at the last question out of my mouth. asking people about things they didn't say? guaranteed to piss them off.

"um, west oak high," connor mumbles. he raises a hand to scratch the back of his neck, as if there's a layer of discomfort over his skin that he thinks he can break through.

i decide not to say that i go to the same school; he'll find out eventually.

"so, connah," i continue cheerfully. my australian accent somewhat mutilates the 'r' sound, or so people have said. "you tell me you're straight. got yourself a girlfriend, then?"

his features morph into those of doubt momentarily, and i congratulate myself on hitting a nerve. until he smirks.

"no, but i did just get the barista's number," he replies, with a decent amount of sass, if i do say so myself.

the emerald-eyed brunette then makes a sly grab for his drink, which the chill has seeped into considerably since we left the shop. smoothly, i lift it over my head to avoid his searching hands, only then noticing the tidy script on the bottom.

"oh, this number?" i ask innocently, brushing my thumb over my tongue and rubbing it against the number. within seconds, it is unreadable, unreachable, unknown.

for a fleeting moment, connor looks hurt. for a dying second, i feel like i've hurt him.

but he'll be fine.

i turn away; it always seems to help.

"come on. we're almost there."

sometimes, quiet is violent.