transitive verb

       • to exaggerate; to increase the apparent size of (an object) as (with) a lens.

There's music blasting through the apartment, bursts of passion and reaction flying high through the afternoon air, and Troye doesn't have it in him to be at all bothered by how off-key Connor's background vocals are. He snorts, presses further back into the body stretched out half behind him, and drums his fingers along to the changing beats on Connor's knee. He can practically feel the grin that earns him from the boy he's curled up into, Connor's own fingers tracing stripes of patterns down his arm as the couch shifts with his stretching leg.

"Stop moving," Troye whines, tapping more insistently at his thigh like that'll stop it from making any further motion. He falls back more firmly into Connor's chest as a result of the unwanted shifting, feeling the vibrations of the laugh that echoes from behind him.

"Sorry," Connor apologizes, not at all sorry. The hand on Troye's arm sinks to his lap, resting in the crease bent between his thigh and hip. Groaning, Troye slumps down against him with a pout and reaches out to grab at Connor's leg, heaving it up until it's tangled more purposefully with his own.

Connor laughs a little louder at that, dropping his head against the back of Troye's. "You're such a child."

Quirking an eyebrow, Troye moves to glance over his shoulder at him. "I'm not the one who throws tantrums over a coffee press."

"It broke," Connor huffs, indignant. "I specifically told it not to break."

Troye gives the ceiling a thoughtful look. "I take it back. You're not a child, you're just crazy."

"You would know," Connor mutters into the nape of his neck, breath ghosting goosebumps across his heated skin.

The silence that follows is comfortable, whether it's interrupted by the feminine falsetto drifting hauntingly from the stereo or not. Troye stretches his legs out beneath Connor's, leaning back further into his embrace as he turns his wandering gaze to the pristine plaster above their heads. There's a thought, bouncing around the confines of his resting mind as Connor hums softly out of tune.

He sighs, shifts with the change in subject. "If I'm meeting your family, I guess it's only fair for you to meet mine."

It takes a moment- a long, tense moment -before Connor seems to realize what he's talking about. He shifts, sits a little straighter against the armrest of the couch, and his leg untangles itself from Troye's. "Your acquaintance at the park."

"His name's Dan," Troye corrects reluctantly. "He's an asshole and he'll probably be high as fuck, but I don't know." He shrugs, making an indifferent face. "He's what I've got."

Connor presses a smile into the skin of his shoulder, presses a kiss into the skin of his neck, smooths his hand across Troye's stomach, under his shirt where the heat from his skin is pleasant and comforting. His tone's a little excited, a little ecstatically content when he affirms, "I bet he's great."

Troye gives him a look. "He's an asshole," he repeats purposefully, adding emphasis just to make it that much more earnest.

Connor laughs.