noun

       • yearning for past times or places.

He doesn't hesitate before he grasps at the door handle and no chime rings through the room when he enters. There's the sound of Troye's shoes distributing weight across the grated floor of the entrance, cutting out when he reaches the tile. There's the sound of two teenagers laughing at a cellphone, a woman placing her order with the barista, a little boy scurrying to the bathroom.

There's also the sound of a heart pounding nervously, but Troye's pretty sure that's for his ears only.

Here, he does hesitate. His eyes scan the small shop - the same he spent many nights in through the first stages of loving Connor - and his feet still on the copper-tinted tile. His hands are steady at his side, not twisting subconsciously through the frayed edges of his sleeve, and his heart sinks to such a quiet beat that it feels like it may have stopped altogether.

Troye's not really sure what he's expecting, but he knows the man watching the entrance with wide eyes and a desperate expression is most definitely it.

He's probably tall, based on the genes Troye's received, but he's seated and slumped and it's impossible to tell. His head is bald, jaw wide, eyes blue, and the suit stretching over his shoulders fits him perfectly. The hands gripping at a paper cup of coffee are thick, clenched white at the knuckles, and holding the cardboard sleeve like it's his last hope at redemption.

Troye doesn't know what to think. He tries not to think anything at all. He tries not to even note the similarities in their appearance. He tells himself not to judge this man, not until they've spoken and he's heard the full story, until he's flipped past the book's cover and read through at least the introduction.  He tells himself not to think anything because he knows, without a doubt, that he'll only end up over-thinking everything. 

At least, that's what Connor told him. Troye's pretty sure he trusts Connor's judgement more than his own right now.

Steeling himself, he wipes away any clouds that may have crossed his face and steps towards the table. The man seated behind it, having shifted his gaze from the door to the boy coming towards him, watches his every step with the kind of nervous intent that suggests he's just as uncertain about all of this as Troye is. It's moderately reassuring to know he's not the only one with sweaty palms.

"You... You look like me. And her, of course. Like- You look like both of us," Shaun stutters the moment Troye reaches the chair across from him. There's something in his eyes like a first-time skydiver waiting for the signal to jump - high-strung, eager, jerking closer to the edge at every sound.

Troye doesn't say anything. He keeps his lips pressed firmly together until he's fully seated, at which point he brings his hands carefully to rest at the edge of the table between them.

Shaun coughs, drumming his fingers along the side of his cup. His eyes dart to the register, the teenagers in the corner, the little boy returning from the bathroom. He swallows hard.

"Can I get you anything? Hot chocolate? Or, uh, I guess you're probably old enough to drink coffee. Anything you want: it's on me."

Troye digs his nail into the wax of the table, feels it gather underneath, twists his finger sideways and draws a line through the wood. "No, I'm good. Thank you."

Shaun seems to sink dejectedly at that, like Troye not wanting anything to drink is the first sign of rejection. Maybe it is, maybe he's right to look so disheartened. Troye wouldn't know - his head is a jumbled mess of repeating Connor's advice and telling himself not to decide anything until he's got all the facts.

Sighing, Shaun seems to gather himself back together. There's a weight on his shoulders that seems unnatural, like a mule baring its first loaded wagon and crumbling beneath the shock of unfamiliar pressure, but it doesn't seem anywhere near as heavy as the sky Troye's held up his whole life.

"Look, Troye," Shaun begins, less nervously this time. His tone is propped up by resignation but carried by an urgent need to disclose every secret in his chest before the lid snaps shut forever. "I know this is hard for you. Believe me, it's hard for me too. I know you probably don't know what to make of this and- And I know you've probably been through a lot of stuff that maybe you blame me for. I get it. You're allowed to be angry that I haven't been a father to you, that you got stuck going through the system or even that we didn't love you enough to keep you. Whatever ideas you have about me, I just want a chance to clear things up and make sure they're the right ones."

Troye doesn't respond immediately. He leans back in his chair, flits his eyes across his father's face, and waits until Shaun's fingers have resumed their drumming. Finally, he breathes deep and lets himself decide what his first impression of the man across from him is.

Tired, he thinks as he notes the heavy bags under blue eyes of a shade close to his own. A mess. Desperate.

Paternal, he decides as he takes in the set of his shoulders and the wrinkles spanning from the corners of his eyes.

Humming thoughtfully, Troye shifts his gaze away from the situation and out the window beside them. "I'm not angry."

Shaun's entire body seems to halt at that, a convict awaiting his sentence with bated breath and hands chained by his crime. "You're not?"

"No," Troye reaffirms, leaning forward with an audible sigh. He meets his father's eyes directly for the first time, scratching his index finger across the back of his other hand. "I'm not angry and I don't blame you for anything I've been through. I don't know you, and the shit I've dealt with is part of what's made me who I am - which is someone I'm actually pretty happy with. I'm not going to tell you there's never been a time where I've wondered why my parents didn't want me, but I'm also not going to tell you that it's haunted me my whole life or some crap. I would have been fine never having met you or known where I came from, but I wouldn't have come if I wasn't also okay with knowing your side of the story."

"Right." Shaun nods, looking infinitely relieved and marginally unsure what to say. "You..." he trails off, chuckles under his breath, bites his lip and meets his son's eyes with something of a sad smile. "You seem like a good kid."

Troye snorts, leaning back in his seat once more. His arms remain folded across the table, chair tucked in closer now as he offers a half smile of his own in return. "Yeah," is all he says, rubbing at the scars on his wrist.

"I didn't know I had you," Shaun begins slowly, turning his attention to the cooling liquid in his cup and away from the watchful eyes of his estranged son. "That is, I didn't know you existed. Your mother and I were never really together to begin with, but when I ended things I never heard from her again. I had no idea she was pregnant, I swear."

Troye wants to tell him that he doesn't need to swear anything here, that he doesn't need to sound so much like he's begging for forgiveness.

He doesn't. He remains perfectly silent, absorbing the information and the fact that he probably got his nose from him, too.

"I'm ashamed to admit that your mother was an affair, but it's the truth. She was one of the few employees we had at the company, way back when we were just getting it off the ground. My wife and I were having difficulties with our son, Steele, and it was so tense at home that I didn't want to leave work, most nights. Laurelle, your mother, and I had been involved for around two years when she started getting forceful over me leaving my wife. I didn't want to, it was never something I had ever even considered an option, but your mother was aggressive in her assertion that we belonged together.

"She had a son already, a little boy of seven or eight by the time I broke things off. It, uh- it didn't end well. She was screaming that I was only going back to my wife because we had a child and... And she said if her son had been mine then I would've chosen her. I told her I wouldn't have, she said she never wanted to see me again, we parted ways and that was that. Looking back on it, I think she probably knew she was pregnant by then and decided not to disclose that information because of what I said.

"So that brings us to today," Shaun concludes, taking a breath. His gaze makes its way from the coffee cup to the boy raptfully intaking every word he provides. Bright white teeth gnawing at a thin lower lip, he seems to steel himself before continuing much more softly. "I went to see her a couple of months ago. A guy I used to work with told me she'd been checked into a psych ward and... I don't know. It was nice with her, at the start, and maybe I just wanted to see if that woman I'd almost loved was still in there, or if the person she was when we ended was the real her.

"Anyway, I went to see her. She's bipolar or something. Maybe schizophrenic. I don't know, that's just what I thought. She told me her son checked her in when he turned eighteen, that she'd been pretty much psychotic for years. I think I caught her on a good day, but she was so subdued and out of it that it was kind of hard to tell. That's when she told me about the ba- about you.

"I was angry for a minute, you know. I was so, so angry because I'd had this son for seventeen years and she'd never even given me a chance to know him. But-" He takes a deep breath, runs a hand down his face. His smile is soft, sad, small like the consolation he tries to offer Troye. "The thing is, your mother was never a bad person. She did bad things and I know she was awful to you, but she was sick. It wasn't really her, you know? I wish she hadn't been - I wish she'd stayed that incredible person I'd first met because I know without a doubt that she would've made such a great mother. She was a great mother, with her first kid. She was so kind and so open to everything life had to offer. I wish-"

He cuts himself off, looks away, tries another smile. "I'm sorry. For everything. Maybe it would've been better if I'd just said she was a horrible person and you're lucky not to have been raised by her."

Troye shakes his head immediately, his first reaction to anything Shaun's said, and clears the shakiness he's sure is in his vocal chords by twitching his lips into a smile of their own. "No," he replies, firm but full of as much understanding as he can bring himself to offer. "This was good. Thank you. I just wanted to hear the truth, I think."

Shaun darts his eyes between Troye's for a moment, wide and packed with inflated hope as he searches for the honesty his son offers in every feature. Finding it in abundance, he closes his eyes and clears his throat.

The awkwardness is palpable, the air between them circulated by uncertainty and a loss of what to do. Neither are particularly chatty individuals, and their social silence is only made worse by the uncomfortable unfamiliarity of the situation. There's no textbook to follow here, no experiences to draw from, and both are left fumbling for the next step to a recipe that hasn't been written yet.

"So," Troye starts in cautiously, tapping his fingers to the table and debating the continuation of his sentence. "I have brothers?"

Shaun smiles, fully this time, and Troye feels something twitch in his chest at the warmth and pride his father suddenly exudes. Like his children are his greatest accomplishment and he's thrilled to be sharing them with Troye. "Three, actually. And a sister."

Humming, Troye finds himself relaxing into his seat. "What are their names?"

Grinning full-blown now, Shaun takes the first sip of his drink since his son walked through the door. "Steele, Tyde, and Sage. Not sure about your mother's kid, but I think it may have been Daniel."

Troye takes a moment, lets the names sink in. They don't feel like family, these foreign children that share half his genes, and Shaun is not his parent by any means, but he doesn't think he'd mind it if they were.

He thinks of Cheryl in the kitchen, of 'both my boys' and 'I love you', and he thinks he might be okay with having people care about him. He thinks of Dan, of being fourteen and huddling close to him when snow settled on the ground, and he thinks maybe the scars on his wrist are only skin deep.

He thinks of Connor and he wonders if this might be that 'healthy' thing he's always going on about.

"Do you have pictures?" he asks, leaning forwards in his seat.

"Of course," Shaun scoffs, like the very idea of him not would be preposterous. He's already reaching for his phone.

"You know," Troye says, accepting the device with curious eyes. "I think I might take that coffee now."