intransitive verb

       • to melt or grow liquid; to become friendly.

transitive verb

       • to cause to melt.

noun

       • the melting of ice or snow by warm weather.

"We need more lettuce," Connor discerns, eyeing the lacking contents of their shopping cart. He's a man on a mission, recalculating at every turn to tackle the obstacle ahead. He shakes his troubled expression away, tapping his fingers anxiously on the plastic child's seat, and scans the rows before them for the produce section. Troye leans over the handle with an amused expression on his face, watching Connor's frown of concentration as he goes over the grocery list for the billionth time.

Connor gives him a look when he notices. "This is serious business," he states, neatly folding the torn notebook paper and slipping it back in his pocket. "What will your father think if we show up with a mediocre salad? It has to be perfect, Troye."

He almost misses the way Troye's easy smile confuses itself, tipping down at the edges as the wrinkles by his eyes move to the space between his brows. Almost, but not.

He's Connor and Troye is Troye and he's always painfully aware of the expression he wears. He has to be, or he'd never know a single thing his boyfriend is thinking.

"Hey," he says, turning the cart towards the produce aisle. "It's just a dinner. We can leave whenever we want and you don't have to talk to anyone you don't want to."

Troye shakes his head. "Yes I do, but that's not the point. It's... It's not going to be perfect no matter how hard you try, Con."

His expression is part imploring and part understanding, like he can't decide if he's begging Connor to stop expecting so much or worrying that he's putting too much of that expectation on himself.

"Okay," Connor acquiesces, stopping the cart in front of a shelf full of healthy green vegetables. He shifts to face Troye, sliding his hands into the back pockets of his partner's jeans as he pulls him closer with a sheepish smile. "Perfect was a bad choice of word. I just want it to be the best it can be."

Troye gives a short, silent laugh. The breath of it fans over Connor's cheek, warm and hinting at the spearmint gum he'd been chewing in the car. "I know," Troye says, his expression something between adoring and pacifying this time. "You always do. It's what I love about you."

Connor grins. Bright like the sun, the way he knows Troye fancies. He kisses his cheek quickly, just above the birthmark interrupting pale expanses of soft skin. "I love you too," he replies, and pulls back to inspect a particularly promising head of lettuce. Behind him, Troye leans once more against the plastic handle of their cart.

"That's wilting," Troye supplies helpfully from over his shoulder. He sounds like he's on the verge of real laughter. Connor purses his lips and selects a different gathering of green.

It's not that he's really worried about the invitation dinner from Troye's father. In fact, he'd been happy to receive the news moments after his boyfriend hung up the phone the other night. It's not even that he's worried about Troye at the dinner.

It's that he doesn't have any idea what to expect, what to prepare for, what kind of punches he's going to have to roll with. Not that he's expecting there to be punches, because Troye had reiterated a billion times over the past few days that his father really did seem like a nice guy.

It's a situation he's never been in and has no concept of how to handle and, while that's usually the case with all things Troye-related, this feels different somehow. More important. More on the line.

Maybe that's just because it isn't only the two of them involved this time.

He doesn't know how to explain to Troye that the thing he's most worried about here is himself - saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing or doing nothing at all when he's supposed to. He hasn't been in a relationship healthy enough and long-term enough to have met their parents since he graduated high school and it was no longer a necessity in the dating process. There's also the fact that Troye's parents aren't really his parents, because Troye was raised by numerous strangers and the severely flawed foster care system.

He's not sure what kind of dynamic there's going to be there, what kind of atmosphere that knowledge is going to create as it hangs over everyone's heads. He's not sure what's appropriate to say or share with a family that was never a family to the guy who's now his family.

He's had time to get used to the idea, the notion that he will most likely meet them in the somewhat near future. It's been months since Troye first met with his father, and the occasional phone calls between the two of them in that time have pointed at this in every way. Except it's different to expect something someday than to be facing it on a suddenly very defined, very close day.

It's complicated. Definitely worthy of the headache he's got by the time they finish shopping and reach the small diner serving their breakfast.

Troye's hand feels warm in his, a contrast to the perpetual cold it clung to in the first few months of their relationship. His fingers are still calloused and rough, but there's a gentleness to them where they trace the veins cutting towards Connor's knuckles.

"What are you thinking?" Troye questions carefully, once the waitress has poured their drinks and safely vacated the area. The soft edges of his tone fit the scene around them, mitigating the sharp clangs of utensils on china plates.

Connor lets his eyes wander out the window beside them, tracing the backwards signage through the glass. He's acutely aware of the man beside them staring at their joined hands. "Nothing." Then, at Troye's unwavering gaze, "Just wondering what the protocol is for meeting your boyfriend's estranged father and half-siblings that he hasn't even met yet."

Troye snorts. He withdraws his hand from Connor's, who immediately misses the touch. "Yeah, well. I'm not sure either, so at least we're in it together."

Connor smiles despite himself. He taps his fingers on the laminated table between them, picking at the wood peeking out from underneath the coloured coating. It's reassuring to know that Troye isn't an expert on this either, that this is just another battle they'll be fighting side by side.

He likes that feeling of knowing he isn't in this alone. Isn't in anything alone. He feels much more stable realizing he'll always have someone to fall back on when he needs to, someone to come home to when he's lonely, someone to remind him what he's capable of when he can't make himself believe his own reassurances.

"I don't work until four," Troye says, resting his elbows on the table and leaning over them. There's something effortlessly graceful in every move he makes, and it never fails to take Connor's breath away. He's still not entirely sure how they wound up here, together, with plans for a future that entails the two of them entangled. "Do you want to head to the park after this?"

Connor hums thoughtfully, nursing the coffee in his hands to fend off the chill floating in through the vents. The dark liquid swirls invitingly inside the dip of white clay, caffeine buzz calling to him the way it does every morning.

"You sure it's not too cold?" he asks, taking a slow sip of the warm beverage. Outside, the first signs of winter have begun to take hold in the form of heavy coats and woolen gloves.

Troye shrugs. "Part of the charm."

"Freezing our asses off together? You're wooing tactics could use some work."

"I don't know," Troye considers. "They seem to have managed pretty well so far."

Connor gives him a waning look, like he's regretting ever having responded to his charms. It's completely ineffective when Troye knows just as well as he does that Connor's completely smitten here. He'd never take back a thing.

He shakes his head. "Unfortunately."

Troye makes a vaguely offended noise, until Connor leans across the table to kiss it away.