adjective

       • bare, without clothes; without a covering; without addition or ornament; (eye) without optical aid.

"I wrote a song."

Connor frowns, turning towards him so he can rake his gaze across Troye's entire figure. He looks uncertain, like maybe he hadn't intended to say anything or the words had possibly come out wrong, but there's something a little bit searching in the way he traces patterns resolutely across the kitchen counter.

He doesn't fully understand why he looks so unsure of himself - Troye must know by now that Connor loves to hear him play, whether it's to a large audience by the fountain or just him, and that maybe Connor doesn't see music the way he does, but he can still hear the stories that weave through the notes. Upon further speculation, that may be why he's nervous. Troye's music has always said the things he can't put into words.

"I borrowed Dan's guitar. I... felt like I needed to," Troye adds cautiously when Connor still hasn't said anything.

"You," Connor begins carefully, brushing back the curls that have toppled across Troye's ocean eyes as he comes around to his side of the counter, "wrote a song."

"Yeah," Troye murmurs, shifting uncomfortably beneath his boyfriend's touch. His fingers are twitching again, the familiar itch to play coursing obviously through his veins, and Connor can't decide whether he looks terrified or overwhelmingly eager.

Connor can't stop himself from looking at him like he doesn't know what's really happening here, like there's a mystery between them he doesn't know how to solve, and maybe like he's scared to get his hopes up. It's understandable; Troye doesn't play original things, merely twists pre-written pieces to better match the beat of his heart. He doesn't play original things and he most definitely doesn't play them on the guitar and Connor's pretty sure his expression is more terror than overwhelming eagerness, looking at it now.

"Can I hear it?" Connor prods softly, smile sweetening as he shakes away his own uncertainty. Troye looks like he wants to say yes and grab the guitar he's stashed haphazardly beside the couch, but he doesn't. He stands there and stares at his boyfriend and swallows like there's a devil dancing in his throat, wreaking havoc on his words.

Breathing deep, blue skies fall to cover a different earth. "Yeah. Yeah, just don't tell me if you think it's horrible, okay?"

Connor laughs, watching as he stands to fetch the guitar. "I won't, I promise." He's not entirely sure whether he's saying he won't think it's horrible or he's affirming that he won't tell him if it is, but it doesn't really matter when Troye's sinking onto the couch and pulling the instrument into his lap.

Connor moves to sit beside him, a cushion and a half between them as he tries to make it seem like he's not even there. He hopes it will steady Troye's shaking hands, but they stabilize themselves the moment they fall to the guitar.

The song starts with a soft flurry of notes and absolutely no warning, deft fingers plucking the strings like they're working a beautiful harp and not a cheap guitar. Connor kind of wants to close his eyes and bask in the melody floating through the air, pick out the memory Troye's written into it, but he can't tear his gaze away from the wondrous sight of his boyfriend opening his mouth to sing.

"I never really thought about it. No, I never really thought about it. It's because of you that I believe in me for the first time."

He has to take a moment before he can even process the lyrics, dazed by the very notion of Troye singing. It's not his forte, not what he does, and Connor has never once heard his voice floating atop of a melody made just to compliment it. Troye doesn't like words, isn't good with them or comfortable twisting them around, but here he is sitting on their couch with his best friend's guitar, singing to his boyfriend with an air about him that says he doesn't care how much his voice shakes.

The lyrics, when Connor finally manages to focus in on them, are probably the most vulnerable thing Troye has ever openly displayed. He's nearing the final chorus now, fingers fluttering over the strings like they're just about to shift to full chords, and he's angled half towards Connor, half away.

"Yeah, I know eventually it's all gonna happen how it's meant to be. Yeah, I'm still the same I was when you found me. You showed me what it feels like to be free. Yeah, I know eventually- Won't you tell me? Won't you tell me? Oh, tell me it's real. Tell me it's real."

The song tapers off after that, the guitar melody going from rapid fire chords to a few lone strums as his voice sounds even more exposed with so little to back it up. It's not perfect - Troye's not a singer and the guitar is not his forte - but it's open and honest and as personal as the photographs Connor transfers to his computer.

He really wishes he had his camera at this very moment, too, because Troye has never been more wholly himself, more unashamed to be sincere and so willingly vulnerable.

His boyfriend looks the same as he did that first night outside the coffee shop, where Connor snapped a picture when he thought he wasn't looking and still has it saved to his phone. He's stunning, beautiful, breath-taking, and he was right that he's still the same as he was when Connor found him. He's still a hurricane, still has whipping winds and a sense of reality so grounded it could never be unearthed. The difference, though, is that his winds know where to aim and his gentle moments are no longer few and far between. He's still a realist with a penchant for skepticism, still easily made uncomfortable and still unwelcoming to change, but the clouds that used to hover over everything that made him precious and perfect have cleared away substantially. He's still Troye, that hasn't changed, but he's a better version of himself than he's ever been before.

"Connor?" Troye prods softly. His attention snaps away from a night so many months ago at the sound, wide green eyes taking in the guitar that's drifted from Troye's lap to the floor and the hand that's now reaching for his own.

He grins. "It was great," he says, resisting the ridiculous urge to tear up or something equally as over-emotional. He feels oddly content, like he could fall into bed, sigh happily, and go right to sleep without a worry in the world.

Troye laughs, lacing their fingers together and shifting closer to him on the couch. "I pour my heart out to you and all I get is an 'It was great'?"

Nodding firmly, Connor bites back his own laugh just long enough to deadpan, "I mean, what am I supposed to say? You forbid me from telling you it was horrible."

Troye shoves him, hard on the shoulder until Connor's collapsing back against the arm of the couch with an outburst of laughter and his grin still in place, before a wide smile of his crinkles the corners of his sky blue eyes. "You suck," he snorts, shaking his head like Connor's impossible and he's given up trying to deny it.

Laughter fading quickly, Connor props himself up on one elbow and uses his free hand to pull Troye pretty much on top of him. He kisses him hard, sinking down onto the couch and wrapping both arms around his waist as he basks in the warmth of the body pressed so close to his. Pulling away a good minute later, he closes his eyes with a smile and rests their foreheads together.

"This is real," he says, no matter how sappy it sounds even to his own ears. He feels like its something Troye needs to hear.

Brushing their lips together much softer this time, Troye breathes so quietly it's barely even audible, "I love you."