noun

       • a border, edge; the blank border of a printed or written page; an amount beyond what is needed; provision for increase, error, etc; (commerce) the difference between cost and selling price.

"Do you want to go out?" Connor asks as November fades to December and snow hangs heavy on bending branches. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table, combs a hand through Troye's tangled tousles, and leans a little deeper into the couch.

Troye frowns, presses the hand on Connor's stomach harder against the toned muscles of his abdomen, curls his feet up tighter underneath him. "No," he replies truthfully, voice like a sigh and the gentle notes of mezzo-piano he often plays by the fountain.

He can feel Connor tensing almost imperceptibly beneath his hand, fingers stilling among the chocolate curls they've been toying with. The photographer doesn't say anything, just tenses and stills and pretends he's not the least bit offended.

Troye rolls his eyes, sitting up and retracting himself from his boyfriend, only to toss a leg across Connor's lap and wrap both arms around his neck in a twisted version of a hug. "I'd rather just stay in with you," he admits, burying an almost smile into the collar of Connor's shirt. He can feel the minimal tension leaching away from relaxing muscles, a palm coming to rest at the base of his spine. His legs are pressed on either side of Connor's, body heat seized and returned in equal measures, and his long fingers move to caress at the edge of his partner's jaw.

Connor beams, warm and soft beneath the amber glow of the filtered sunlight. Their lips collide, Troye's mouth slipping open and Connor's tongue finding his. They're pressed so close together their chests move on the same breath, deft musician's fingers tangled in freshly-washed hair and expert photographer's hands running across the rising hem of a clean white shirt.

Troye smiles a little mischievously, dropping his own hand from Connor's head to toy at the fabric of his loose-fitting tee.  The other slides to the nape of his neck, curling across it as he pulls them even closer together.

Moving away from Troye's lips to mouth at his jaw instead, he slips his arms under white cotton to trace delicate fingers across delicate skin. Troye leans a little away from him as a result, turning his head ever so purposefully until Connor gets the message and traces hot paths of ghosted breath down the side of his neck.

He hums in appreciation, dragging his fingers slowly up Connor's back as the hem of his shirt catches between them. They curl around it deliberately just before it reaches Connor's shoulder blades, blunt nails digging into the soft fabric as he moves to slide it further in the same moment that Connor's hands slip deliberately up his sides.

Leaning back, Connor's touch falls completely away from him to give Troye room to pull the article over his head. He does it slowly, tracing Connor's arms as the fabric slides down it, and storming blue eyes remained locked on searing deep green. Once it's off, Troye tosses it unceremoniously aside and grabs at Connor's neck again to pull their lips together.

They move even closer to one another, were it even possible, until Connor's bare chest is pressed against Troye's and Troye's bare hands are dragging down his back. Their movements are in sync, beats in a tempo both know how to match, and even when Connor pulls Troye's shirt off and flips them in one fluid motion, it doesn't feel out of key.

Troye's pressed into the couch now, head against the armrest and back into the cushions, and Connor hovers over him with an arm on either side of his frame. Thin legs move to fold easily around Connor's body, pulling him down flush against him while a hand slides not-so-innocently down his bare torso to grip at his backside.

His heart beats faster than it probably ever has, crescending into allegro as the breath falls out of his lungs. Connor's ghosts across his skin where he's trailing his lips from Troye's neck to his chest, feeling like exhilaration and safety pressed between Troye's legs, like diving from cliffs with clear water to cushion the fall.

He wraps his legs tighter around Connor's body, pulling him harder against him as his hand presses his lower half down with a rush of hot breath leaving his open lips. Groaning quietly, Connor shifts his grip from the couch to Troye's hip before drawing his head up into a kiss and grinding his own hips down. Lips moulding together, bodies moving together, heartbeats skyrocketing together, Troye's not a storm and Connor isn't standing at its center. They're lips and bodies and heartbeats and fingertips brushing across heated skin and Troye's sharp intake of the breath Connor harshly exhales.

The hand on Troye's hip shifts from a tight grip to gentle patterns traced into the bare skin above his waistline. The legs around Connor's lower half slide down to the couch, Troye's grip moving away to rest gently at his neck instead. Their lips brush softly, less insistently, until Connor's pulled back with eyes fluttered open to smile contently down at him.

Troye grins lopsidedly in return, lifting himself to plant one last lengthened peck to his lips before sinking comfortably back onto the armrest. Curling himself into Troye's waiting arms, Connor flings a leg determinedly across his and presses himself into his side, shifting a blind hand up to search for the TV remote on the back of the couch.

"It's on the coffee table, genius," Troye snips off with an indulgent smile, smacking at Connor's searching hand to reach his own out and grab it. He presses the power button, ignores the pout on his boyfriend's lips with a laugh, and flicks through until he finds something decent to watch.

"I am a genius, thank you very much," Connor mutters indignantly into his shoulder.