intransitive verb (metal)

       • to lose its luster or discolour due to exposure to the air.

noun or transitive verb (reputation)

       • to taint

Troye's a fucking idiot. It hits him as he's sitting in Connor's car, curling his hands against the heat blowing his way and gnawing on his lower lip as the five o'clock radio remixes permeate the air. It hits him again as he's stepping out of the vehicle and into a frigid parking garage, abrading his feet against the damp concrete while Connor grabs a textbook from the backseat and turns his key in the door. It hits him for the third and final time as he's stepping into an apartment he's been in before, felt like damaged goods in before, ran out of like a coward before. This time, the feeling sticks.

"Do you want coffee?" Connor inquires hesitantly when the door fastens shut behind them in a reflection of dreaded finality, Troye's window to escape unscathed gone in a single instant. It's far too reminiscent of a time that might as well have been yesterday for how vivid it stretches into Troye's thoughts, the same exact question followed by the same exact movements echoing like a nightmare he never wants to relive. Troye has a lot of those, admittedly.

So this time instead of turning down the proffered drink like he would have, Troye twitches his lips and agrees. "Yeah, that'd be cool. Thanks."

Connor quirks his own lips up in response, small and secretly pleased in an entirely obvious way.

They don't really speak as Connor brews the coffee for them, settling into silence that isn't comfortable but isn't necessarily uncomfortable, either. It's a tightrope suspended in the air between them, just waiting for one of them to take a leap of faith and try to cross before the slowly fraying ends snap apart.

Troye sucks in deep breaths, slowly slipping off his shoes and leaving them in neighbour to Connor's. His hands are quaking in gentle reflections of the earthquake that could so easily rip Connor's glass house from him, and he stares down at them for longer than he probably should. His nails are shambled reflections of a life that doesn't belong here in this part of the city, in this expensive complex, in this exorbitant apartment, and his knuckles are cracked and calloused and his fingers are dry and calloused and his palms are scarred and calloused and everything is calloused because Troye has never had a day where he didn't fall asleep sore and aching and so exhausted from the adamantine chains of hardship the world has tethered him with.

He takes another breath just as Connor maneuvers his way to the mugs.

"Do you want milk or anything?" he asks, unsuccessfully chopping Troye's spiraling thoughts to haywire shreds.

"No," Troye replies because milk is expensive and so is sugar and Connor can probably afford it but Troye vindictively wishes he couldn't. He locks his eyes on his bare feet against the tiled kitchen floor, refusing to tear them back to the boy barely two meters away.

His toenails aren't any better off than his fingernails, though at least they haven't been ripped so short they're scabbing over where they've bled. There's dirt caked in the crevices and climbing up his ankles, swooping under the legs of his jeans where the trails disappear, duly reminding him that he needs to see if Dan or that lady at the end of the road has an extra pair of socks for the winter.

A stripe of panic coats his wind-bitten flesh and suddenly he's terrified that he's tracking dirt through Connor's nice apartment. It doesn't matter that he's barely taken three steps inside, that the dirt is thin and deep in his skin, that Connor's floor most likely already has specks of dirt tracked throughout it. All that matters is that the sensation from the last time he was here is back and it feels like he's choking, like he's suffocating, like all the air in the room has been poisoned by his filth and-

Connor whirls, handing him a mug of hot java with a blinding grin. Troye's responding smile is thin and shaky and it feels more than a little uncomfortable stretching his panicked features into something of a lie, but he accepts the cup with shaky hands and a feeling like he needs to flee.

And then-

And then Connor turns back to grab his own cup and he drops it, he drops it and it smashes across the kitchen tiles with a loud crash and coffee and glass are everywhere and Connor looks absolutely mortified blinking down at the mess and-

And suddenly Troye doesn't feel like he's sullying the nice apartment. He even feels almost welcome here, like maybe this is where he could spend the coldest days of the year and not worry about being thrown out or shoved down.

He snorts, prodding at a piece of broken glass with a careful toe. "Smooth," he comments dryly, hints of amusement playing across his lightened features.

Connor shoves him. "Smooth is still my middle name, asshole."