noun

       • grandeur; (with capital) a title used in speaking to or of a sovereign.

The streets are cold as they make their way towards the park. Troye's fingers are laced through his, frigid with the frost as they always seem to be, and both their free hands are tucked into the outside pockets of their jackets. It's snowing soft tendrils of spiraling flakes, light spatterings of untouched white trampling beneath their dawdling feet, and the sky is a neutral mix of afternoon sun and evening cloud.

Connor watches Troye's frowning expression move from their shoes to the stretchings of county-owned land right up ahead. He sighs, shifts his hand in Connor's, and jerks his head in the direction of a dark lump slumped by the park wall. "That's him, there."

Squinting hard at the figure they've nearly reached, Connor finds himself suddenly blinking down at a boy at least a few years older than him. This acquaintance of Troye's glances up at the both of them, expression gnarly and unwelcoming until his cold brown eyes meet hesitant blue. Connor easily notes the way he seems to soften ever so slightly, slumping down less defensively on the tattered blanket he's stretched across.

"This your little lover-boy?" he asks, eyebrow raised and lips almost twitched into something of a smirk. Sure enough, he's got a blunt burning in his hand and a calm sense about him, like he's definitely high as fuck the way Troye said he'd be.

Connor's not really sure whether he likes this guy or not, yet, but he can say for sure that he likes the way Troye rolls his eyes affectionately and kicks at Dan's outstretched legs. He watches them silently, feeling a smile beginning to spread across his face at the way they interact. It's almost like they're brothers, like maybe they don't always like each other but they do always love each other.

"Shut up," Troye bites off, and Connor can easily say he's never fully seen this side of Troye. He looks comfortable, entirely in his element, and tough in the way Connor knows he'll have had to be to have lived on the streets for so long. It's probably the first time Connor's really understood that this is where he comes from, this is the home he's always known, and the streets he pulled him off of are the very streets that made him who he is.

This is Troye's world. It's about time Connor was introduced to it.

"Connor, this is Dan," Troye interrupts his train of thought, turning back to him with an almost exasperated expression on his face, disrupted only by the smile he hasn't quite managed to fend off. Connor smiles right back, first at Troye and then at this mysterious Dan character who's looking at him like he can't decide whether he wants to bash his face in or offer him a fist bump.

"Hey," Connor greets, nervously stuffing both hands deeper into his pockets. He kicks at the concrete, a habit he's picked up from the boy at his side, and tries not to be too intimidated by the guy at his feet.

Dan narrows his eyes in his direction, combs them across his figure in a silent appraisal that has Troye snorting quietly under his breath. Finally, he settles back against the stone wall behind him and takes a slow drag of the joint burning in his hands. "Not quite as posh-looking as I pictured," he comments off-handedly, directing his attention back to his sort of friend.

Troye raises an eyebrow at him. "What does 'posh-looking' even mean?" he questions, throwing in some air quotes just to mock him.

"You know," Dan replies easily, like they actually do know. "Pompadour, fancy clothes, shiny shoes. A nice car, maybe."

"Nice car," Troye mutters under his breath, obviously thinking back to the barely functioning heap of junk sitting in the apartment complex's parking garage. Connor kicks his shoe, giving him a pointed look. Dan watches the exchange with calculating eyes.

"You sure you're rich?" Dan inquires after another moment of silent evaluation. Connor would think it a rather rude question if not for the fact that Dan seems to just not give a shit about anything anyway, let alone whether he's being rude or not. He seems like the kind of person to never bother beating around the bush, instead swinging full force at the branches he's already stomped all over.

Connor frowns down at him, not entirely sure what to make of the question. "I'm not rich," he says, a little confused as to where that idea even came from. "I mean, like, I'm kind of well-off, I guess. But I'm not rich."

Dan merely hums in response, a twist to his features like he doesn't fully believe him, before he takes another slow drag of his blunt. Glancing over at his boyfriend in uncertainty, Connor notes that he looks about ready to stomp his foot and either storm away or smack his supposed acquaintance over the head rather violently. Because Connor's the child in this relationship.

"Dan," Troye huffs, pinning him with an annoyed look. "Stop being rude. And stop smoking that shit, dumb-ass, or I'll check you into a psych ward whether you're certifiably crazy or not."

"Nah," Dan objects. "They won't take me unless I'm real fucked up in the head. I ain't even close yet."

"That's arguable," Troye snips back smoothly.

Connor blinks between them, feeling weirdly happy just watching them interact. He doesn't feel the need to say anything or be included in their obviously comfortable banter, content to sit back and take in all the new notions he's developing in regards to Troye. He drops his smile into the flipped up collar of his coat, peering at them studiously as he shuffles his feet in the snow.

"Do you have a lover-boy of your own?" Troye asks suddenly, giving Dan a purposefully raised eyebrow and a smug smirk, wording full of teasing intent. "Because I know for a fact that's not your coat."

As if suddenly remembering the weight on his shoulders, Dan defensively pulls the offending article tighter around him. It looks a little out of place, fresh and new and quite obviously expensive in comparison to the worn out jeans and scuffed up shoes he's sporting. Even his hair's a mess, face streaked with a perceptible layer of grime, and his eyes are deep and dark with heavy bags beneath them. It looks more than a little out of place, if Connor's being honest.

"None of your business, mate," he snaps out in a very 'fuck-off' kind of tone. Troye gives him a curious look, obviously wanting to press much harder into the subject, but his eyes dart to Connor and instead he glances away with a sigh.

"Why do I ever come see you?" he asks, the question directed to himself more than either of his two companions. "You suck."

"Wow. That hurt real bad. What an insult," Dan returns sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"See, this is what I mean. Why do I put up with this?"

Dan makes an overly mushy face up at him, the hand that isn't holding a smoking joint coming to clutch over his heart. "'Cause you love me, yeah?"

Troye merely turns his lips up in exaggerated disgust. "Yeah, right."

Connor can't help but grin. He definitely likes Dan and the way he seems to make Troye so much more secure in himself, so much more confident and comfortable and like for once he actually knows how strong he is. He likes the strange form of protectiveness Dan seems to exude over him, however subtle and unnoticeable it may be, and how obvious it is that they care about each other in a quiet kind of way that neither seems to want to acknowledge.

It makes him feel a little warm inside, knowing Troye hasn't really been alone all this time, knowing he's not the only one looking out for him.

Okay, so maybe Dan really is a bit of an asshole. Or a lot of an asshole. Either way, Connor could never dislike anyone who can make Troye feel this at ease.