adjective

       • capable of being felt, seen or noticed; substantial; real.

A normal day for Troye used to consist of groaning in irritation as the sun hit his tired eyes. It used to be flitting blue skies open to the one above his head after two hours and not anywhere near enough sleep, stretching out the sore muscles of his torso. He'd get up, crawl his way out from whatever outcropping or lonely bench he'd tucked himself under, and retrieve his broken keyboard from its untouched nook under the nearby bridge. He'd park himself on whatever street corresponded to that day of the week, play a couple hours until his fingers turned blue or the hat he borrowed from the woman down the street appeared relatively full.

It used to mean scraping together whatever money he'd made to buy a week-old loaf of bread or two from the bakery by the square. If he had enough for two, he'd traipse down to the park and toss one to the stoner perched by the wall. Dan would wave a hand in something close to thanks, Troye would make some comment about the cancer sticks crushed into the sidewalk beside him, and then he'd be heading off to find somewhere to spend the night.

A normal day for Troye used to consist of routine in the barest of ways, of survival or starvation and the tremor in his voice every time he didn't use it.

A normal day for Troye, now, is nearly the complete opposite. Nearly.

He still wakes to the antagonizing burn of the sun across his flammable paper skin, still flits blue eyes open to the grey winter sky and untucks himself from whatever cranny he crawled into. Some days he grabs his keyboard, other days he doesn't.

He goes down to the same street no matter what day of the week it is now, though. He parks himself on a cold concrete fountain and swings his legs against the falling snow as he shoves cold fingers into his faded hoodie and breathes frosted mist into the air. He watches the dwindling morning crowd and busy change of shifts and he waits, bated breath of expectations and exhilaration like water in his lungs, for the inevitable shove of a hot cup of coffee into his reaching hand.

A normal day for Troye, now, consists of routine in the fullest of ways, of bright laughs and equally bright green eyes or the blinding flash of a well-loved camera. A normal day for Troye, now, is life and like and coffee and Connor. The difference is so unbelievably subtle and so undeniably real that he feels like he should be dreaming.

Troye likes normal days much better now, he thinks.