transitive verb

       • to be in a position to do or bear without much inconvenience; to have enough time, money, or resources for; to supply, produce.

Troye laughs. "Are you asking me to have sex with you?"

He smiles wider at Connor's fondly rolling eyes, lop-sided and still small as he shoves his ice-cold hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He should have worn another over top, layered it snugly to fend off the chill radiating from fresh fallen snow and frost-bitten concrete. Cursing himself silently, Troye wraps the discoloured grey jumper tighter around him and prays tonight won't be as cold as it probably will.

"No, you moron. Get your head out of the gutter, you're like twelve," Connor snips back impatiently, his own thickly gloved hands reaching out to gently tap him upside the head. Troye doesn't even flinch, a fact he's quite proud of no matter how it makes his heart flutter with uncertainty. "I'm saying it's cold as hell and I'm getting tired of the same old coffee shop day in and day out. I have a perfectly good, heated apartment that hasn't been getting much use lately. It even has an actual coffee press."

Troye snorts, scuffing his feet through the thin film of ice coating the pavement. "A coffee press? Well, that just seals the deal. How am I supposed to turn down a coffee press?"

"Shut up," Connor laughs, shoving at his shoulder as he hops off the fountain regardless. "You probably don't even know what a coffee press is, do you?

"Hey," Troye mutters indignantly. "I know it makes coffee."

Connor rolls his eyes again, Troye's smile twitching more noticeably at the sight, and reaches out a hand towards the younger boy. Raising an eyebrow, Troye gives said hand a very pointed look as a smirk finds its way across his tired features. His eyes are light, dancing blue devils of something so close to happiness it sends shivers down his spine just to think about it. He shakes it off, shakes his head with it, and tries to stamp down the brief licks of fear fluttering through his chest with the assertion that he's allowed to feel okay, sometimes. The world isn't going to implode on him if he starts to feel like it's actually a decent place for a minute or two.

"Come on," Connor cuts in shortly, waving his lifted hand around to draw Troye's drifting attention back. Hesitantly, Troye searches his eyes for a sign that this isn't what he says it is. He doesn't find any.

Connor's hand feels warmer than the stove he burned his arms on when he was six. He holds on tighter than he maybe should, clinging to a lifeline he didn't know he needed as he's led through streets he's never once thought to venture to. He knows where they're going, sees how the buildings get taller and the roads get smoother until they're stood outside a condo made of glass walls like Troye's heart.

Connor would be one of the first to loose his home in an earthquake, Troye notes absently. He doesn't voice that out loud.

The inside is even more luxurious than the outside and Troye decides judging books by their covers is definitely fine in some cases. The entrance ceiling is high, psychedelic colours dancing across compressed sand surroundings and wide open spaces stretching bigger than most of the houses he's stayed in. There's a grouping of black leather chairs to one side, perfectly fake plants positioned precariously atop stained wood and marble end tables.

Connor heads straight for the elevators, pulling Troye along with him when he stops to take a breath and absorb it all. He's never felt the difference between them as strongly as he does now, not even when Connor buys him coffee or drops money into his hat or wraps his plush winter coat around him as he shivers. Their hands feel like red thread flung across a gaping black chasm with monsters writhing underneath, stretched thin and pulled taught and so very close to snapping, too thin to support either of their weights to let them cross.

Their hands feel like a useless attempt at bridging the gap between them, one Connor foolishly believes in but Troye sees for its truly piteous waste of an effort.

He has to remind himself to breathe the whole way up to Connor's floor.

"I'm the third door down," his companion informs him as they step off the lift and onto plush carpet cleaner than any surface Troye's ever had to eat off of. The doors are cherry wood and the walls are textured grey and the lights are muted yellow and he feels so out of place as Connor clicks his keys into 507 that it's like he's seven all over again, a happy couple hovering over him as he drew uncomfortably in on himself.

He tries to smile when Connor holds the door open for him, he really does. It's as hard as it used to be, barely a month ago now but a lifetime in the past.

"Nice place," he comments, stepping through the door and into a sparkling kitchen full of things he's never seen before in his life. There's some kind of contraption on the counter that vaguely resembles a mutated kettle. He assumes that's the coffee press.

Connor's hand brushes over Troye's shoulder, drawing a flinch out of him that he covers with a cough and a move to take off his beaten shoes the way Connor has. He doesn't have a coat to hang on the hooks Connor's throwing his over.

"Thanks. It's close to school and the neighbourhood's nice, so I guess it worked out pretty well."

Troye nods, forcing a smile, and pretends to find the statement anything but oblivious to how fortunate it really is. He wonders if Connor even has a job or if it's all simply paid for by a doting family.

"Do you want coffee?" Connor asks, moving past him to reach for what he's basically just confirmed is, in fact, the coffee press. Troye feels out of place standing in the middle of his kitchen, hands hanging useless at his sides before he brings them up to play with the hem of his ragged old t-shirt. None of Connor's things have holes in them like his do. He tries to shake the notion that he's somehow sullying the apartment just by being here.

"No, thanks," he replies because Connor doesn't need to keep giving him things when they're so clearly living in different universes.

"Oh." Connor hesitates, glancing back at him with an odd expression on his face. "Okay. You can go sit down, if you want."

His gestures point towards the living room distinctly visible through the open kitchen, a long charcoal grey couch resting against white walls and a thick black carpet, wide TV perched opposite it with remotes and magazines positioned unrealistically pristine atop a clear glass coffee table. Troye holds in the disbelieving, self-deprecating laugh and runs a shaky hand through his unwashed hair.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," he mutters, more to himself than the man wrestling with the unopened bag of coffee beans. Connor nevertheless looks up at the sound, his eyes going wide and mouth flying open before his brows are furrowed down and his lips snap shut again.

He doesn't say anything for a second, watching Troye and darting a glance to the living room before he opens his mouth again and breaks a rule they never really clarified, but always went unspoken in every conversation they had.

"Where are your parents?"