preposition

       • in opposition to; unfavourable to; in contrast to; in preparation for; in contact with; as a charge on.

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

He spits it like venom burning holes through every soft smile or quiet laugh they've ever shared, acidic accusations erecting a thornwall defense against some perceived threat. Connor flinches at the tone, poison ivy running thickly through his clotting bloodstream as his green eyes grow wide as the equator. Troye doesn't take the wall down, even when his friend's face crumples into a paper ball of upset scribbles and desperate crayon scrawls.

Connor's face hardens just as fast as it weakens.

"I know that," he states firmly, voice raising loud enough for the change to be notable. "I didn't say you couldn't."

"Then what were you saying?" Troye snaps back just as powerfully, folding protective arms across his thinly-clad chest as he stares the shorter man down. He feels like an ancient Greek statue: divine and full of a godly wrath set to rip those who scorn him to shreds, made up entirely of unbreakable stone and tempered bronze.

Connor is a fallen titan beneath his reverent fury, collapsing under the sky Troye's shoved maliciously onto his shoulders.

"I was just saying I worry about you sometimes," he fires back, pistol turning through empty chambers lacking so much as the residue of gunfire. His voice is softer, quieter, and if Troye is a great Greek God then Connor is the bastard child of one, rightfully fearing to stand up and be struck down by rapid-fire bolts of untethered lightning.

"Clearly you don't think I'm capable of taking care of myself, if you're so 'worried' about me." He uses quotations, sharp movements of brisk contempt before his arms cross back over his iron heart.

Connor's desperation is leaking all over the shining tile floor at their feet, his hands shooting up to accompany his pleading tone. "I never said that!"

Troye's about to respond, packed shells loading into the bullet-chambers of his throat, but Connor cuts off his open fire before he has the chance to pull the trigger.

"You're seventeen, Troye," he says, like somehow the boy standing defensively across from him could possibly have forgotten his own age. Like that's an explanation for his concern in and of itself. Like it's some kind of important factor in all of this. However, it's Connor's addition to the single statement that makes it so.

"You shouldn't have to take care of yourself."