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He must be here soon; Connor can feel it in the way the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. His chest goes tight, and fluttery, and he can’t find a way to focus on the light fittings, or the quirky print on the wall above a blurry server.
‘’Uh, can I get something for you?”
Shit, It’s his turn in the line.
In a fit of inspiration, he asks: “do you do Flat Whites?”
The barista pauses for a minute, “uh I’ll find out?” then flies off down the counter.
This is when his phone buzzes in his pocket - his palms are so sweaty he can’t quite shimmy it out of his tight skinny jeans. It’s while all of this is happening, of course, that Troye comes in – just as the barista also is putting down the Flat Whites, it turns out they do have.
“Ooh, is that a Flat White?” He coos, making Connor almost jump out of his skin, he looks down at the phone finally and sees the text, Troye: ‘im here – back of yo head looks nice’.
Connor turns to properly regard him and opens his mouth to say Hi, which mainly comes out as a sound, followed by, “uh, oh, yes,” when he remembers he has been asked a question, as Troye just stares at him – blue eyes crinkled at the edges.
“I’ll get them shall I?” Troye grins, as Connor awkwardly shuffles away from the paying counter.
Troye reaches over Connor’s shoulder to grab their drinks - Connor only stops for a moment to consider the way his long fingers elegantly wrap themselves around the cardboard – he gulps, then looks at Troye properly.
“Hey,” Connor says, tension falling out of his shoulders, it’s only Troye after all.
Troye who he has stayed up countless times, talking to on Skype till 5am, till it would dissolve into them making stupid sounds into the microphone – and then at some point, one of them falling asleep – they’d text the next day about how they knocked their laptop over in their sleep, or how they have an unbearable crick in their neck – but unable to feel that mad at one another, they only had their selves to blame. Connor is the one Troye called when he got his record deal, in fact it would turn out he was the first one he called – as the younger boy had shyly stuttered out at the end of the conversation, trying to act like it had no significance. Troye was also the boy Connor had come out to, only month’s prior, who had held him for what felt like hours.
The thing is, this, this was all new - this was flirting, lingering touches, and being mesmerised by the line of Troye’s jaw, or the way his eyelashes brushed his cheek – 15 year old him would have joked about ‘how, like, totally Gay of him’ this was. Connor almost chuckles to himself.
In between Connor’s monologue, and awkward 'how are you' s, they manage to make it to a table, and even order some food - Troye sitting across from him, their knees occasionally touching. Troye is gushing about some new artist he met out in Australia, or Europe, Connor’s not sure, he’s lost track – much more focused on the musical rise and fall of excitement in his voice or how he talks with his hands. Connor would feel scared he was falling for him, if it wasn’t too late already.
At some point, Troye leans over, and grabs both of Connor’s hands, firmly squeezing, he says in a low voice, meant just for them, “I hope we have more breakfast dates to come,” then draws his hands away.
“Of course,” Connor whispers, smiling so hard he’s laughing, because suddenly everything seems so obvious - like they were inevitable, a hurricane, he could never have imagined, but never have stopped.