transitive verb

       • to separate the fibres of; to torment or irritate; to taunt playfully.

noun

       • a person who teases or torments; (infinitive) a flirt. 

The apartment is empty upon Connor's arrival, his bag dumped unceremoniously on the couch as the door swings shut behind him. He cracks his neck, sighs as he slips off his sweater, and taps his fingers on the counter in a restless beat. It's too quiet, the air uncomfortably still and distressingly empty. Everything is different when Troye's not there, and Connor feels odd at the notion that he misses him when he woke up beside him only a few hours ago.

He pulls out his phone, distractedly swipes through a few messages from his friends, and watches the clock on the stove like a hawk. His heart is disquieted by the absence of another, his blood agitated where it itches through his veins and sends his eyes darting back to the oven.

It's not even that he misses Troye, really, it's just that he feels better when he's around, that he prefers it when he's around, that his editing teacher was being a dick and all he'd wanted to do was come home to someone he loves. To melt into his lover's touch and the comfort Troye always brings and let every trivial little thing wash away with the feeling of finally being grounded, for once in his life.

His phone finds a home on the bed as he moves through the apartment, sighing again as he double-checks the time and decides Troye's probably paying Dan a visit. He'd mentioned it the other day, an offhand comment that he should make sure his friend hasn't killed himself smoking yet, and Troye doesn't really leave notes anymore when that's where he's gone. He's safe with Dan, who's always in the same place and as begrudgingly protective of Troye as Connor is, and he doesn't need to ask permission to spend time with his friend.

He isn't worried, he knows Troye's fine and free to do whatever he likes, but he's a little disappointed that he wasn't home when Connor finished class.

He checks the time again and tries to convince himself he's not being obsessive.

Shaking his head, the cobwebs of restless unease sweep to the corners of his mind, tangled in a mess of dust that's easy to ignore when it's far out of sight. The hand that runs across his face is still cold from the subtle bite of winter's leftover chill, spring not quite strong enough yet to overrule the frost. It sends a shiver down his figure, goosebumps rising on his skin like insistent demands for some kind of warmth. A heated shower sounds nice, especially considering the filth of his school and the perspiration clinging to his skin.

It's loud when he turns it on, but the sound is a soothing one as he shuts the bathroom door and locks the noise inside the room. It feels like stripping clean when his clothes meet the floor, like washing away his worries when he steps under the stream and lets everything else fall away.

The water drums a steady beat down Connor's back, blocking out the incessant noise of the outside world as it slams against the tiled floor and the mat that covers it. He rakes a hand through his hair, combs the soaked locks away from his closed eyes, and exhales deeply. Soap suds travel the slope of his spine before he shakes them out completely and turns to scrub down his front.

He's usually efficient when it comes to this, usually done in a matter of minutes and toweled dry before anyone's had the chance to miss him, but he's not this time. He leans his head back against the wall, stands under the stream of water for longer than he probably ever has in his life, and lets his mind wander as his body stays put.

Everything feels comfortable, as they are now. It's routine in a way that still provides room for spontaneity while guarding a certain sense of safety. The feeling of coming home every day to a place he shares with someone he loves, to a bedroom full of both their dreams and a closet stocked with both their insecurities, is something he's grown gradually accustomed to since Troye moved in.

There had been a time where Connor was content with an empty bedroom and the freedom of a life unentangled with anyone else's. A time where he had believed love to be something found easily, maintained easily, returned easily. A time where he hadn't thought about it for longer than a fleeting moment, had been happy to know that it'd be simple to obtain whenever he wanted to.

There had been a time where he hadn't wanted to. Where he'd gone to school and hung out with his friends and everything was simple, perfect, exhilarating in that way that recklessly throwing your life away always seems to be.

Now, an empty bedroom makes his heart clench and the idea of having no one to tangle his limbs with, his heart with, his life with, makes his stomach twist like he's been stabbed a thousand times in a thousand different places. The notion of coming home to an apartment without Troye's things scattered through it - the keyboard propped up in the corner, the jeans by the end of the bed, the sheet music on the coffee table, the new copy of Zootopia in the DVD player - is one that hurts down to his very core.

Connor's drawn from thought by the opening of the shower door, but he doesn't turn to look at the man that slips into the stall behind him. He doesn't have to; his chest expands with fresh air, his stomach stitching back together, and the breath that leaves him is sweet with contentement. All thoughts of solitude and a too clean apartment are banished in an instant.

[Removed sex scene because I'm uncomfortable with them still being up.]