adjective

       • stretched tight; tense; stressed.

No one speaks for a long time, at first. Silence is solemn and substantial in the air, hanging over their heads in a crude imitation of the sword of Damocles, waiting for the slightest shift to snap the thread and send it piercing through the both of them. Troye's all too aware of the blade brushing at the hairs of his neck, petrified to so much as twitch despite the trembles he can't abstain from quivering under the force of.

Connor's not going to say anything, that much is clear. Troye never realized how terrifying such silence was until this moment.

He doesn't know how to shape his mouth into words, though. He can't find a string that will stretch across the cushions between them anymore than he can find the strength to unfurl himself from the ball he's curled into. He doesn't know what to do here to make it all better.

He wants it to be better, he does. Part of him even wants to crawl into Connor's arms like he never has anyone's and choke the truth into his skin because maybe then it'll be better, it'll be okay, they'll be free of all this tension and this uncertainty. That's what they say, isn't it? The truth will set you free?

Troye wants to believe that more than he ever has anything, but he knows it's a lie. The truth is as heavy as the sky on Atlas's shoulders and he could never share that weight with someone like Connor, who's probably never lifted a pound in his life. The truth is an anchor to his own personal brand of hell, fiery tendrils lacing up its chains to scorch him when he least expects it. The truth is hard. He doesn't think he could speak it even if he wanted to.

"Your couch creaks," is the first thing he can force himself to say. He doesn't look up, clenches his fingers tighter into the sides of his knees, and there's no shift to the cushions to suggest that Connor's made any kind of move, either. He impels himself not to think about all the implications of his simple statement, finding some modicum of comfort in the fact that Connor probably won't understand.

The sword sways dangerously above their heads. It feels like it's scraping at his throat.

"I'm sorry," he adds eventually, because that's an easy truth.

Connor doesn't answer. The thread holding the sword aloft frays alarmingly close to snapping.

"I- I thought you were someone else," he continues, and that one's a little harder.

This time, the couch does shift. It creaks, just like he'd said it did, and he feels himself pitched slightly sideways as Connor maneuvers across the deep grey leather. Troye doesn't look up, breath knocked from his lungs and body refusing to take in any more, but he knows his companion is moving closer to him by the tension ricocheting to new heights all around them. He digs his nails into his legs, digs his teeth into his lips, digs his heart into the ground.

"Troye," Connor breathes, right beside him from the way the whisper carries to his listening ears. His name is as gentle as Connor's always been with him, as soft as the snow that's been resting at their feet for nearly a month now. He feels like a child, like a deer afraid of being hunted in its forest, like some volatile creature Connor doesn't want to set off.

Maybe that's what he is. It wouldn't be the first time someone's thought it.

"Troye," Connor repeats, a little closer this time. A little louder. A little more insistent. "You know I'd never do anything you didn't want. You know that, don't you?"

Troye does know that, as much as he sometimes convinces himself he doesn't. He knows Connor is coffee and jokes and soft smiles and photography and he knows he isn't creaking beds and raised hands and filthy looks and stomping feet. He knows, he does.

He doesn't know how to explain that to Connor. How to say that he knows, knows him, knows that all he's ever tried to do is help, but what Troye has no idea about is why. How to explain the way that terrifies him, the way kindness with no condition is such a foreign concept that it puts him constantly on edge. How to explain that it's not Connor, it's really not, it's Troye just like it always is because the only common factor in everything is him.

Troye's always been quiet about his misgivings and misfortunes, right from the moment he was born. He can't be expected to learn how to communicate it all after nearly eighteen years of being taught the opposite.

He buries his head more insistently into the sharp angles of his legs. "I know."

There's a sigh, heavy and deep and full of a weariness he's never associated with Connor before, and then the couch creaks again and the sword above them is gone. The hardwood floors of the apartment release a noise of resistance as Connor stands, louder than Troye's voice had been and sharper than Connor's. "Here, I'll make us something to eat. It's pretty much morning already."

Troye lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, nails withdrawing from the trenches they've dug into his legs. He sucks in a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut and then open, lifts his head just enough to make out the figure heading for the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," he repeats even as the words choke in his throat and something infernal burns behind his eyes. He feels like it's important, like it's the one thing he can actually bring himself to say and he has to say it, he has to. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to, I just-"

It's too close to things he doesn't want to think about, doesn't want to talk about, doesn't want to admit are real. He cuts himself off and digs his nails into his legs again, expression more open than it's ever been even as Connor turns his head to look at him.

There must be something there, in the vulnerability Troye's always done all he could not to show, because Connor's tense expression is gone in an instant. His eyes are kinder than Troye's ever noticed, pained in a way they shouldn't be, and his smile is so heartrendingly sad that it shakes him to the core.

"You have a choice," he says softly, and for some reason Troye doesn't think he's just talking about the incident. "You don't have to do things you don't want to. You can say no."

Troye doesn't breathe. Connor doesn't move.

He turns away, presses his face back into his knees, sucks in all the heavy air between them. "Maybe to you," he mutters and he doesn't really think Connor hears him, but he doesn't really want him to, either. They're not talking about what just happened anymore, not entirely; they're talking about creaking beds when all the lights are out and locked doors that never do a thing and they're talking about 'Isn't this what you want?' because that's what everyone's always wanted and Troye doesn't want Connor to know that, but he thinks he probably already does.

Connor's not stupid. Troye's not as unreadable as he thought he was.

It's not okay, not entirely, but Troye doesn't want to talk about this anymore, can't talk about it, can't think about it. It's a conversation that doesn't need to be had right now when there's a still a sword and string lying right at their feet, ready to delve into their guts and twist with wrong one move. It's a conversation for another time when nothing between them requires kid gloves or careful footsteps like they still do far too often.

It's not okay, not entirely, but for now Connor's dropping the subject and turning to make them some kind of breakfast and Troye's working hard to steady his breathing on the couch. It's not okay, but maybe it kind of is, just for now.