Fifteen (Troyler)

Chapter 2 (Part 2)

Troye's POV

Stumbling off the plane, I ran a hand through my hair and glanced around warily. Other people from the flight bustled around me, heading towards missed family members and the baggage claim. My eyes skirted around the landing area, not seeing Tyler anywhere.

I checked my phone again, rereading the conversation where I told him that I was coming to ensure I had given him the right flight times. I had. Was he just late?

As I was about to pocket my phone, a pair of arms flew around my neck and a face buried into my shoulder, a shadow of the famous hair grazing my peripheral vision. "Troye!" Tyler hollered, allowing me to turn around before attacking me in another embrace.

My carry-on fell to the floor, forgotten, as I hugged my best friend with all my might. My arms secured around his waist, as his dangled around my shoulders, his face digging into my neck as mine fell into his hair. We stood like that for a while, lost in the moment. I hadn't seen Tyler since the last convention, months ago, and since then had been diagnosed with a fatal tumor that he didn't know about. I think a good hug was in order.

Eventually we broke apart, giving wide toothy smiles at each other. We started off into basic small talk (how did your flight go, how's the family, blah blah blah) before Tyler's enthusiastic chatter took over the conversation, filling me in on all the Los Angeles news as we collected my luggage and headed towards the car. This was the great thing about Tyler- there was never not something to talk about, and while he was always lively, he always stopped to listen to the other person's contributions and allowed them to actually participate in the conversation.

We were about halfway to Tyler's apartment, driving through the loaded streets, when he caught sight of something in the shop-lined sidewalk, immediately pulling over to a vacant parking spot. "Troye! That looks like the cutest place ever! We have to go. Now." He stared at me, frantically pointing at the cafe he had spotted.

"Tyler, I'm really jetlagged and tired and-" my excuses were paused by the absolutely adorable puppy dog face that Tyler was giving me, his eyes big and pronounced underneath his fluttering eyelashes.

"Please, TimTam?" He pouted, grabbing my arm and clutching it to his chest, running the tips of his fingers over it. My face softened the slightest bit, giving in to him a little but not completely. Undeterred, he pressed delicate, fluttering kisses to the back of my hand, moving to the tips of my fingers.

Tyler had always been a touchy feely person- always open to cuddling under the sheets or wrapping an arm around my waist when we walked down the street or cracking my fingers absentmindedly when we watched movies together. It was all just so Tyler that I had never questioned it, dismissing it as another unique quirk in our already different friendship. But now, staring down at my best friend as he kissed the tips of my fingers, making the cutest face I'd ever seen trying to convince me to go into some stupid coffee shop, I felt something shift. It felt a little different, somehow.

I was so lost in the moment that I barely even noticed the reluctant "Fine" tumbling through my lips until Tyler releases my arm, a wide grin on his face.

"Great!" He exclaims, clapping his hands in joy like a little kid as he bounds out of the car. I roll my eyes and groan at my weakness for Tyler, shuffling out of the car and following him.

From the outside, it looks like nothing. Beaten bricks make it look boring, stuck in between a glamorous boutique and a candle shop that easily outshine it. But as soon as you enter, it's like you've stepped into a whole other world. It's a little cramped, but the dim lighting and the thick rugs covering the floor give it a cozy feeling. Cherry wood tables sprinkle the floor, and a little countertop is pushing against the wall. Bookshelves covered in well-loved books line the walls, a few stuffed, well worn armchairs and loveseats are positioned near them decoratively. The girl working the counter, an exhausted looking teenager, shoots up from her chair at the bell chiming above our heads, slamming shut a book so beaten and dog-eared that the title can no longer be seen.