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Connor wakes the morning of June fifth with a leaden ball of anxiety heavy in his stomach. He pretends not to see the date on his phone's display when he checks the time and then goes to cancel the alarm that's set to ring in five minutes, as though he doesn't know it already. It's seven fourty-eight am in LA which means it's – plus fifteen – almost eleven at night in Perth. Connor's head still does the calculation automatically. Not every morning, mind you, definitely not still whenever Connor checks the time, but sometimes, when Troye's on his mind, the knowledge is right there, at the tips of his fingers.
Mind stoically blank, Connor grabs the phone and goes to make himself breakfast. He brews coffee and puts together a bowl of oatmeal – bananas, chia seeds, almond butter – sitting down at his table with the screen of his phone tauntingly black.
The silence in the apartment rings loudly in his ears, but he can't bring himself to turn on any music.
(He hasn't listened to Troye's album in months, which is sad, because it's full of absolute jams, but Connor can't hear them without thinking too many thoughts. It's not conducive to moving on.)
He's got a full day of work ahead – a few meetings, and some editing. Designs for the new Common Culture products. He made sure he wouldn't have time to think today.
(He canceled his plane tickets a month ago.)
The coffee's a bit too bitter; Connor didn't wait long enough to push down the press and there's a few grains of coffee in his mouth with every swallow. He pretends they're not there.
He pretends he's not staring at his blank phone screen, wondering what to say.
(He was meant to be in Australia today.)
If he should say anything at all. What to say. Of course he's going to say something. Or shouldn't he?
(Technically, he was meant to be in Australia two days ago. That day he managed to pretend wasn't out of the ordinary just fine.)
He grabs his spoon so he doesn't grab the phone, and starts eating his oatmeal methodically. He likes arranging it in parts; the oatmeal here, the bananas next to it, the almond butter taking up the remaining little space and the chia seeds sprinkled all over. So when he eats he takes a bit of oatmeal, a slice of banana, and dips his spoon in the almond butter. The seeds stick to it anyway.
(Troye preferred to mix it all together. Well, Troye preferred not-oatmeal for breakfast, but Troye liked indulging Connor, and Connor likes to think he grew to like oatmeal as well.
He resolutely does not wonder whether Troye has eaten any oatmeal since… since.)
The oatmeal can't last forever and when he's done it's almost nine. Almost midnight. Almost not Troye's birthday anymore.
Connor grabs the phone and has the whatsapp conversation to Troye open in barely a moment. Their last messages were before their last conversation. He tries very hard not to look at them as he stares at the keyboard, but Troye's blue little heart stays mockingly in his peripheral vision.
Happy 21st! he writes. Stares at it, and deletes it. They had plans for Troye's 21 st . He doesn't want to look like he's rubbing Troye's nose in it, like he's bitter, or hung up on what they had.
They're meant to be friends. To try to be friends, at least.
Happy Birthday, Troye! he tries next, adds - boy to it, deletes it entirely.
Happy Birthday, mate! Troye calls people that sometimes, though rarely. Connor never does.
Happy Birthday!
Connor stares at it until the screen goes dark again, adds -c when it occurs to him that Troye might have deleted his number, then sends it.
For a second he's tempted to throw his phone at the wall so he won't have to deal with the a reply – or the lack of one.
Instead he goes to have a shower.
When he comes back there are three new messages – two from Andrew, and one from Troye.
Thank you! -t
Connor stares at it and stares at it and keeps staring at it in his mind while he's getting dressed.
-t? Troye has never signed a text like that in his life. At least not one to Connor. He must know Connor hasn't deleted his number, as he messaged him first, so what – is he mocking Connor? Trying to maintain the polite distance from Connor's text?
Luckily, before Connor can think about it too much, Andrew calls.
(Connor thinks about it all day.)
(He's not sure he's doing very well at this moving on thing.)
*
“Troye said you texted him for his birthday,” Tyler says over dinner two weeks later.
Connor's heart jumps up into his throat from where it had been quite comfortably lounging in his chest.
“Oh, er, yeah,” he says.
Tyler looks at him steadily for a few moments and then smiles, very gently.
“That's good,” he says.
“Really? You think so?” Connor asks, shoulders sagging from where he hadn't even noticed they'd drawn up with tension.
“Yeah, totally,” Tyler says and leans back in his chair.
“I mean, you were an adorable couple, like, nauseating,” he says, holding Connor's eyes as if to prove his point, “But you were amazing friends before that. I'm glad you're not giving up on that.”
Connor swallows against the burning in his throat and eyes.
“Yeah, me too,” he says.
“Besides, it'll be far less exhausting being friends with both of you once you're friends again as well,” Tyler adds with a grin and a wink.
Connor makes himself laugh.
“So sorry to inconvenience you,” he says.
Tyler waves him off. “You're forgiven. Provided you come out with us in two weeks when Troye comes over?”
Connor hesitates, and Tyler's face falls. Just a little, but it's there. The resignation that he'll have to keep splitting his time between them. And everyone else. Connor understands. It's hard work, keeping in touch with so many friends, especially when they live all over the world. Even more so when you can't see all of them at the same time. It's important to all of them, that their friends can all at least stand to be in the same room as each other.
“I'll come,” he says, prompting a smile from Tyler, “but I want to talk to Troye about it first. I don't want to blindside him, and if he'd rather I'm not there, I'll respect that.”
The shadow that crosses Tyler's face briefly suggests he might not, but Connor fixes him with a gaze. Compromise. It's important.
“Alright, you're right,” Tyler says. “But do talk to him.”
“Of course,” Connor promises.
Tyler smiles again.
“Good. Dessert?”
*
Three days later finds Connor staring at his phone again, trying to think of what to say to Troye. It's a good step, seeing him again. Or if he doesn't want that, contacting him again at least.
(He wants to see Troye again.)
It's still hard.
(He doesn't want to see Troye again. Yet.)
It's hard to be polite, and cordial, and so fucking distant with someone you've grown so close to, once upon a time.
(He's scared of seeing Troye again, but he wants to. He wants to so badly some days that it scares him still. Like a mouse face to face with a snake.)
He picks up the phone, puts it down, tells himself not to be an idiot.
Hi Troye! Tyler told me you'll be in LA in two weeks and invited me along when you all go out one night. I wanted to make sure that'd be alright with you? -c
It's only when he puts the phone back down, takes a deep breath in an effort to calm his racing heart, that he notices what time it is. One pm plus fifteen – four am in Perth.
Connor leaves the phone and sets about making lunch. Troye won't respond immediately.
(Troye keeps his phone close at all times and never silences it when he sleeps – he used to say he didn't want people to ever think about whether it was alright to call or text him, and try to work out time differences. He didn't want to give them a reason not to get in touch. One text not sent so easily turns into two, then five, then suddenly weeks of silence.)
He gets as far as the fridge before his phone chimes with a new message. Connor tells his frantic heart to calm down and goes back to pick the phone up, swipes his security pattern to get to the message.
Hi Connor! Of course it's alright! It's been ages since we've spoken! -t
(Connor doesn't think of Troye in bed, waking for whatever reason and checking the time on his phone, squinting against the light of the screen only to see the message there. He can't imagine the look on his face when he sees Connor's the one who sent it. Troye probably nibbled on his lip when he composed his reply. Maybe he shoved his face into the pillow but is still staring at his phone in the corner of his eyes, waiting for Connor's reply.)
Troye texts like they're old acquaintances, not ex-boyfriends. There is entirely too much enthusiastic, correct punctuation.
Maybe that's what they need, to just get it over with. Start a friendship again. Stop tip-toeing around and just dive back in. Like pulling off a band-aid.
Great! Looking forward to it! -c
Yeah, me too! -t Troye answers immediately, like he has been waiting. At four am.
(Connor doesn't think of Troye in bed.)
*
The day Troye's set to arrive in LA – thanks, Tyler, Connor really needed that knowledge – Connor finds himself pulling the box he still has of Troye's stuff from the back of his closet. He's been successfully ignoring its existence for weeks now, but now that Troye's actually back in the city he has to wonder whether he should try to give it to him. It seems cliché, and almost a bit cruel, to remove all of Troye from his life completely and hand it back to him as though he were trying not to remember any of their time together, but maybe Troye wants some of this stuff back.
Probably he doesn't care about the t-shirts, and the beanie. Definitely not about Connor's old university sweater that Troye has habitually worn in the evenings they spent snuggled together and watching movies to the point that Connor can't consider it his anymore. But maybe he wants his books back, the two Connor found a few days after Troye left for the last time and didn't just want to ship to Troye's parents in Australia.
(There's also the matter of the birthday present Connor bought him months ago. Connor couldn't bring himself to throw it out, or give it to someone else, or return it. He'd told the sales lady about how he was buying it for his boyfriend, remembers how sure he'd been Troye would like it, and even though he's sure no one at the store remembers him, he can't face the thought of going back to say, “we broke up, I don't need this anymore”.)
He wonders if he should ask Troye over for this, if he should just grab the box and show up at Tyler's, but he doesn't want to make any sort of scene, even a cordial one, and he doesn't want this visit to hang over Troye's trip, however long it may be.
And then, of course, Tyler texts to say they're going out tonight as though Troye hasn't just crossed an ocean –
It occurs to Connor then that he doesn't know that Troye has. Maybe he's been in the US for a while.
Either way, the box can wait.
*
Seeing Troye again is both easier and harder than he thought. Troye looks… the same.
Same floppy, curly hair, same striking blue eyes, same pink lips, same slim frame, same hands, same slightly-more-fashion-than-anyone-else-here clothes.
Connor knows the hesitant smile, even. Just hasn't seen it directed at him in a while.
Tyler hugs him hello before either of them are forced to say anything to each other, and then Korey does too, and everyone follows until it's only Troye left, and Connor doesn't want to make a scene, so he hugs Troye. The paper-thin exhale Troye stutters out, like he's just as overcome by their sudden closeness, nicks Connor's heart.
“Great to see you,” Troye says when they step back from each other. His voice doesn't even waver.
“Yeah, you too, I'm glad I could make it,” Connor says.
“Right!” Tyler cuts in, clapping his hands excitedly. “Shall we uber over?”
For a moment his eyes land on Connor, and he looks a little chagrined.
Connor grins back.
“I can take a few people, I'm not drinking tonight,” he offers. “Just probably can't ferry you all home afterwards.”
Everyone nods in acknowledgment and ubers are organised quickly. Tylers gives Connor the address for the bar they've decided to go to, and then Connor's off with three passengers all chatting and laughing a-mile-a-minute.
His heart's still racing a bit, and he lets the conversation sweep him away from the feeling of Troye's body against his.
They get to the bar before the other group does and decide to make sure there's a round of shots waiting for everyone when they stumble in as though already drunk, laughing and animated. Connor smiles reflexively. He'll have a good night, he decides. Troye and he can obviously be civil, and there's no reason not to enjoy himself.
Then, of course, people shuffle around as they're all squeezing into the booth, and Connor's not really paying attention, but somehow he ends up squeezed against Troye's side, paralysed. Troye looks at him briefly, commiseration and determination to make the best of a situation passing between them, and smiles before turning back to Korey to listen to the rest of his story.
They haven't had a real conversation since breaking each others' hearts, but looking into Troye's eyes is still as intimate a connection as ever.
For a few hours they manage to politely ignore each other, except for a few looks that pass between them, until Troye literally jumps at the chance to accompany … someone to the bar to fetch their next round. The side of Connor's body he's suddenly not pressed against feels cold immediately.
He doesn't come back.
Not just to Connor's side, that was after all rather the idea of his getting up in the first place, but to the table.
Instead he gets stuck at the bar, flirting with a guy who looks like he could hide all of Troye behind his body. Twice, possibly.
Connor swallows and looks away.
The worst thing isn't even that Troye's flirting with someone else, it's that Connor can tell by Troye's body language that his heart's not in it. He's not interested in this guy, just in the distraction. This is how Troye flirts when he just doesn't want to think for a while, not when he wants to enjoy the company of his partner. It's just flirting for something to do – maybe a little making out, groping each other in some secluded corner or the bathroom.
“Hey,” Tyler catches his attention, laying a heavy hand on Connor's forearm.
Connor can't help the amused curl of his lips. Tyler's drunk.
“I'm sorry,” Tyler said. “I didn't mean for this to be so awkward. I though you were ready, you know?”
Connor pats his hand.
“It's fine, Tyler,” he says. “We're good, really.”
Tyler doesn't look like he believes him.
“I know Troye's, like, intimately connected to your whole coming out and things,” Tyler says, and Connor wants to protest, but Tyler doesn't give him the chance, “but there are other boys. Troye is not the only boy in the world.”
“I know,” Connor says, smiling for good measure. He'd argue more, about how he's not as hung up on Troye as Tyler seems to think, how it's just hard to want to keep Troye around but not know how to go about it, how difficult it is to break with someone when it's not for a lack of love, but drunk Tyler is not one to be argued with.
Tyler only drunkenly stares at his face for a bit, and then nods decisively.
“Good, yeah. Just making sure you know. Plenty of boys in the fish,” he says, then wrinkles his brow. “The sea. Boys in the…? Fish in the sea.”
Connor laughs and pats his hand again.
(He does know. He's just not ready to go fishing.)
*
Connor sends Troye a text the next day, buoyed by the way they hadn't imploded last night.
Hi! I've got a box of your stuff if you want it -c
What sort of stuff? -t Troye sends back, so Connor snaps a photo of the open box and sends it.
Is the present for me too? ;) -t Troye teases, and Connor feels his whole body tense with the imminent decision.
Yeah, he sends.
Troye's answer takes just a moment longer to come this time, just a moment for him to falter over the thought, but it comes nonetheless.
I can come by tomorrow afternoon? Around four?
Yeah, that works, Connor sends.
Okay, see you then! Troye replies, and Connor puts down the phone. Exhales a shaky breath. Closes the box and puts it back into his closet for the last time.
*
Troye hovers by the door after Connor's asked him in like he's not sure he meant it.
“Coffee?” Connor offers, instead of repeating his invitation to come inside, and Troye dutifully follows him into the kitchen.
“Yeah, thanks. Do you still do the French press stuff?” he asks.
“Obviously,” Connor says. “It's clearly the superior choice.”
“The esperesso in Italy was fantastic,” Troye says, just to be contrary, probably. He doesn't jump up to sit on the counter like Connor has asked him a hundred times not to do.
“Yes, but that was in Italy,” Connor says. It seems hardly fair to expect any kind of coffee made in Connor's little kitchen to compete with espressi being sipped in actual Italy.
Troye doesn't say anything in return.
The box stands on the dining table, clearly visible, but neither of them brings it up. Instead they stand, a respectable distance apart, side by side at the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to settle, and for Connor to be done pretending to bustle around the kitchen to fetch them mugs, and spoons, and milk, and sugar. It's only once they sit down to actually drink the coffee that they can't very well keep ignoring it. That is part of why Connor put it there, after all.
Troye takes two careful sips from his coffee, and then opens the box.
He sets the present aside without comment, and pulls out his books.
“Oh, I've been looking for this one, actually,” he says, a little laugh in his voice like it never occurred to him it might be here, with Connor.
“Well, you found it,” Connor feels obliged to say.
Troye smiles and sets the books aside, pulling out his t-shirts and beanie next. He sets those aside with his books, and then spends a good minute staring at Connor's university sweatshirt. Connor tries not to stare at Troye in return, but it's difficult when he can read the emotions flitting over his face so well.
“You can have it, if you want it,” Connor offers softly.
Troye's fingers curl into the fabric and then he sighs and puts it down – not with his other things.
“Thank you, but...” he tries, but fails to see through.
“Yeah, sure,” Connor cuts in. He gets it. There's only a few more knick-knacks, not all of which Troye decides to keep, and then they're only left with the present.
It's a long, slim box, and Connor knows exactly what's inside it.
A bracelet with three charms on. A treble clef, a rainbow, and a crown.
(When Connor had fretted about his first compilation, Troye had grabbed his shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and told him that he would be king of youtube one day. Connor had called the compilation Crown, and Troye had taken to calling Connor Prince Charming.)
Troye doesn't immediately reach for the present, stares at it instead.
“I got it for you months ago,” Connor feels pressed to explain. “I didn't know what to...”
“Yeah,” Troye says. He gets it too.
“It's yours if you want it, but if it's too… weird, that's fine too. You don't have to--” Connor says, but is cut off by Troye.
“No, I want it. I figure we'll have worked out this being-friends thing by the time it's your birthday, so it's only fair you have to get me something as well, don't you think?” he teases and grabs the box.
Connor laughs.
Troye grins at him, eyes sparkling.
(They haven't laughed together in over two months.)
A little bit of the residual awkwardness between them breaks at their shared amusement, but Connor's heart is still in his throat as Troye carefully undoes the ribbon and peels back the paper. The air between them freezes the moment Troye sees the tiny crown charm nestled on the blue velvet inside.
(When Connor bought it he imagined laughter, and sweet kisses, mutual reassurances of affection, and clasping the bracelet on Troye's tiny wrist, watching the sunlight bounce off it, and probably have Tyde rib him for not having gotten Troye a ring.)
“It's so pretty,” Troye says, voice a little gruff. He doesn't clear it, as though he doesn't want to draw any more attention to it, and Connor doesn't say anything.
Troye traces a finger along the chain and each of the charms, and then lifts it out of the box carefully. He struggles with the clasp for a moment, and Connor wants to offer help, but then Troye's got it, and it dangles off his wrist, catching the light when Troye turns his arm to look at it. His nails are the softest blue today, crips like a winter morning.
“Thank you,” he says, peeking up at Connor from underneath his eyelashes. Shy.
He's trying to hold it back, but there's a whole host of emotions on his face, plain as day when you know what to look for. Connor hasn't unlearned him yet.
“You're welcome,” he says, can't help asking, “You like it?”
Troye's face crumples as he nods. He ducks his head and rubs at his eyes, not at all subtle under all of Connor's focus. Connor sits, stricken, at a complete loss what to do. Troye's breath hitches once, then he buries his head between his arms and the tabletop.
He doesn't make another noise, but Connor knows, deep in the marrow of his bones, that he's crying. He made Troye cry. And he has, for the first time, absolutely no idea what to do about it.
(Hold him. Hold him. Hold him. Hold him. Hold him. Hold him. Hold him.)
“I'm sorry,” he stutters and watches his hand reach out for Troye as though it were someone else's.
When he touches Troye's sleeve, he caves, leans over and wraps himself around Troye like a blanket, intent on covering as much of him as possible.
“I'm sorry,” he repeats.
Troye turns into him and shakes his head. He's still so quiet, but he brings up his hands to cling to the front of Connor's t-shirt. Connor's back doesn't like being twisted and stretched like this, but he has no thoughts of moving, just curls around Troye more tightly and wills his own tears to keep at bay.
“I care about you so much,” Troye chokes out, muffled into Connor's chest, and shirt, and the table, and both their arms, but still intelligible enough.
Two hot tears escape Connor and he leans back to wipe them away.
“Me too. I care about you so much too,” he says, voice thick with unshed tears, and unspoken feelings.
He tries to coax Troye into looking up again, and when he does, their eyes catch. They're so close. Troye's lips are right there, and they could. Just… once. One last time.
(They're so raw.)
Connor grabs Troye's face and presses a kiss to his forehead, half to his skin and half to his hair.
Troye sags against him like it's absolution.
“I don't want to lose you,” he says, softly, like he's scared the words'll have more impact if he says them loudly.
“Me either,” Connor says. “Life is so much better with you.”
Troye takes a shuddery breath, like an aftershock of his tears, and they stay quiet until he sits back up.
“We'll work this out, right?” he asks.
Connor nods. There's not a doubt in his mind. Just because he stopped chasing after a boy who didn't want to be caught, not really, not now, doesn't mean he'll give up on Troye's friendship.
“Definitely,” he says.
Troye's answering smile is stronger than any of the ones Connor has seen him wear since they've seen each other again.
“Definitely,” he repeats.
(In time, they'll heal.)
The End