transitive verb

       • to regard with honour and approval; to express admiration for.

noun - admiration

       • a feeling of pleasurable and often surprised respect; an admired person or thing.

Troye likes his coffee black and his music an odd brand of pop. His laugh is winter in the air, symmetrical snowflakes falling to bright white ground and building ephemeral houses from blankets of freshly fallen snow. His gestures are small at first, body language reserved and pensive as he seems to take full appraisal of Connor before shifting to wide and graceful, frantic hand waves with light fingers twirling through the air. He doesn't watch movies. Connor doesn't ask why.

Time is transient as they sit and talk for what feels like five minutes but could easily be five hours, the sky shifting from soft shades of reflected blue to dark hues of cloaking black.

They don't talk about anything that may matter to someone other than the two of them, don't mention life plans or childhoods or the big things society often presents as important. Connor likes this so much better, regardless. He feels like he knows Troye by the time they've stood to leave, feels like he knows the way he thinks and moves and reacts to certain things, yet still hasn't even seen the surface of so many pieces of him, let alone scratched them.

Connor hovers on the rain-soaked pavement outside for longer than he normally would with his busy days and fast-paced nights. He toys with his camera, realizing he hasn't even considered its existence in hours.

Lifting the device in the soft grip of his sensitive hands, he snaps a picture of Troye while he's not paying attention.

"I saw that," comes a quiet breath not a moment later, easing oceans swaying to a darker shade of midnight. Connor smiles, unapologetic as he glances down at the screen of his camera to review the shot.

It's beautiful, breathtaking even. Troye is a hurricane captured at its gentlest moment, winds whipping around it but parting down the center to reveal a tranquil heart made up of knowledge far beyond his years and a weight far greater than his fragile form could ever carry. It's more real than any of the photographs Connor's been proud enough of to hang on his walls. Looking at it now, he thinks he has a space just perfect for it above the couch in his living room.

His heart dances at the thought, at the idea of something so stunning and authentic resting where he'll be able to admire it every day. Casting his gaze back up to the object of his musings, he feels that same heart flip entirely over on itself at the thought of seeing the real thing every day, too. He can feel the inspiration Troye's provided him with in such a short amount of time crashing over him in waves already.

"We should do this again," he suggests, dropping the camera back down to let it hang from his neck.

Troye watches him in silence for a moment, quiet and reserved like most things he's done so far have been, before a different kind of smile than Connor's ever seen twitches at his lips. It's wholly sincere and made up entirely of a receding resignation he's never felt himself, echoes of a past Connor knows nothing of dancing in deep blue seas of hesitant hope.

There's something in his voice Connor will never be able to place as he says, "Yeah, we should."

He smiles back anyway, nodding firmly like he had the first time he saw this intriguing thunderstorm of a boy. Troye is devastation at its most dazzling, even when the lines of his body form firmly ingrained answers to questions Connor's never been unfortunate enough to have to ask.

He takes a deep breath of cool evening air and evaporated raindrops, closing his eyes as he runs over his schedule for the day beyond this night. "Will you be playing tomorrow?" 

Troye doesn't answer right away. Connor hears his shoes scuffing through puddles of the past.

"Yeah," is the soft reply, though it sounds like that wouldn't have been the answer if Connor hadn't asked the question.

Wrapping his jacket tighter around himself and wondering how Troye could possibly not have thought to bring something warmer than a jumper, Connor breaths out a cloud of condensation into the air disappearing between them.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," he affirms gently, his lips lifting a little higher at the notion.

When he leaves that night, it's with the firm knowledge of something infinitely valuable captured by the lens of his camera and the prospect of the thousand things he'll learn the more time he spends searching guarded blue eyes and wading through hurricanes. He doesn't worry about getting blown away by the wind, too caught up in the creative energy and unexpected happiness thrumming high through his veins.

No matter how busy he may be, Connor foolishly believes he'll always find the time to drop ten dollar bills into hats and buy quiet boys coffee.