⁂ Time's running out, it's always running out on me, and every road I discover disappears under my feet. Some call it reckless, some call it breathing. Have I said too much or not enough? Is it overkill or is it giving up to measure out the distance of an echo's reach? ⁂ 

The truck whizzes past him with a kick-up of dirt, blowing gravel in his face and grating rocks along his outstretched arm. Troye gives it a vicious look, withdrawing his hand from its hitchhiking symbol to brush the dust out of his eyes. It doesn't really help, tear-ducts burning in resistance and skin scorching where the small chips of gravel drag across it, and he eventually gives up in favour of gritting his teeth at the vanishing form of the country asshole and his stupidly large truck. It's clearly an overcompensation.

Scowling, Troye hikes his backpack higher up on his shoulders and doesn't bother sticking his thumb out again: if it hasn't worked these last eight hours, it's not going to work now.

He'd managed to hitch a ride with a notably sweet couple around his age before then, travelling in the backseat of their Volvo for a good half a day or so as they made their way to their honeymoon destination. Troye hadn't actually asked where they'd been headed, just gratefully slid through the car door and told them he'd go wherever they were going.

In the end, he'd combed himself out of their hair when they dropped by their next rest stop nearly fourteen hours later, slipping out of their van while they were both off in the bathrooms. He'd almost felt bad, ditching them the way he had, but it's not like he actually knew them. Besides, they were on their honeymoon. Just because they were nice enough to pick him up didn't mean they actually wanted him cooped up in a car with the two of them for God knows how long.

To be fair, he'd left a half-assed note for them on Zoe's seat, scribbled on the back of a McDonald's wrapper in blue pen. It'd been a whole word, too. 'Thanks.'

Now, he finds himself dragging his feet down a mostly deserted highway of sorts, sweltering heat sending rivulets of sweat dripping down his burning skin. His legs ache and his back is sore from the bag that weighs it down, but he doesn't even think of stopping. There's nowhere safe to rest in sight, he's not going to get anywhere just sitting on his ass in the scalding sun, and this was supposed to be an adventure of sorts. He can't do much adventuring without actually moving.

Admittedly, it's not really an adventure. It's an excuse and a seriously extreme avoidance tactic and maybe even a bit of a poorly planned mission.

Adventure? Not so much.

Or, at least, it wasn't supposed to be, despite what he told his mother when she asked why he wasn't going to be answering her calls for a few months.

Or, at least, it wasn't until a bright red Prius pulls up beside him and rolls down tinted black windows, an undeniably attractive man a few years older than Troye leaning across the passenger seat.

"Do you need a ride?" the driver asks, eyebrows raised inquisitively as Troye bends down to get a better look through the open window. The guy's hair is a mess, but his clothes are pristine and clean and his car is pristine and clean and there's a small smudge of dirt on the dashboard like someone had their feet up, but it's barely noticeable without a second glance.

Troye shrugs. "Sure," he says and pulls the passenger side door open to slip inside. The car even smells clean, an impressive feat considering the state of the vehicles Troye's ventured into before.

"I'm Connor," offers the guy beside him, smiling through thin lips and a hand slipping smoothly onto the gearshift, jerking it into drive with a foot pressed lightly on the gas and the same hand now moving for the radio.

"Troye," he replies, simple and impersonal.

Connor glances over at him briefly before moving his eyes back to the dirt road stretching through the desert before them. It's the kind of road he doesn't actually need to pay too close attention to, not another car in sight for miles, but Connor watches the dust flying past them like a hawk. "Where are you headed?" he asks, complicated and personal.

Troye merely shrugs again, his own gaze shifting out the now closed window to watch the cacti whiz by. Connor's driving pretty fast for someone who owns a Prius of all things, at least fifteen over the speed limit plastered on far too many signs along the barren road, but Troye doesn't really mind. If anything, it makes him warm up to this stranger even further. He doesn't want to be safe anymore. There's no point.

"Wherever you want to take me," he tosses off, lips twitching upwards as he leans his head back against the seat with closed eyes. He breathes in the circulating car air, crisp with the autumn aroma drifting from the freshener pinned to the dash, despite it being the middle of summer.

He thinks Connor looks at him again, a little longer this time, but he can't be sure with his eyes closed. He doesn't really care, either way. Troye puts effort into not giving a shit about people nowadays, especially when they're total strangers he's just hitching a ride with for a couple of hours. He hadn't spoken much to the pair from earlier, either - had simply exchanged a few half-hearted words of congratulations at the 'Just Married!' sign trailing behind their SUV.

A sigh fills the autumn-scented air, the radio turned up by at least twenty percent, and Connor may even laugh a little bit, though Troye's not entirely sure.

He is sure of what he hears when Connor finally graces him with a reply, though.

"That's funny," he says, "because I have no idea where I'm going."

⁂

Troye learns a lot about Connor in the next two hours. He learns that he loves Adele and Taylor Swift and hates Robin Thicke like any sane person would. And-

Yeah, no. That's about it. Admittedly, they haven't spoken at all since those first couple of sentences were exchanged and the only thing Troye's really going off of is when Connor does and does not change the radio station. It's fine, though. He prefers it this way. Troye's not very fond of meaningless chatter or getting to know people who aren't going to be taking up permanent residence in his life. He used to be, but that was Before.

Before was different, Before was Before. Before, Troye could go out and joke around with his college friends without a care in the world, unconcerned by the fact that he wasn't particularly close to anyone and wouldn't trust a single one of them with anything that really mattered. Before, Troye would go to class and come home and do more schoolwork while feasting off microwave dinners and trading gossip with those same friends, never stopping to question how pointless the whole routine was. Not to mention why he'd started it in the first place when a degree in business was not what he wanted to do with his life.

Before, Troye would call his parents every weekend and hook up with his on again off again boyfriend every few days, not at all bothered by how meaningless both relationships were or how pathetic both actions were.

That was Before. Troye's living in the After, now.

They stop at a gas station after those first two hours, Connor not saying a word as he slides out of the driver side door with his credit card in hand. Troye sits patiently in his seat as the stranger fills the gas tank, eyes tracing his figure absentmindedly when he heads into the attached convenience store to pay.

Connor's pretty hot. In a stressed out, messy kind of way.

Troye notes that he's wearing converse coated in a thick layer of dirt visible even from the distance between his car and the storefront, jeans skinny but bunched up at the bottoms where they've frayed and collected their own coatings of filth. His hair's even messier than it was when he first rolled down the window, hands having been constantly raking through it while he drove down the deserted highways of God knows where. His shirt is smooth and untattered, though, pressed like it'd been ironed and fitted perfectly to his frame despite being rolled up at the elbows, muscled forearms on full display.

Troye's certainly not complaining about a single thing, considering Connor's probably the most attractive mess of a man he's seen in a very long time. So what if he's trying not to get involved with anyone nowadays? It doesn't mean he can't appreciate something good when he sees it.

Connor returns to the car a few minutes later, tossing a nutrition bar his way with a quirked brow and a slamming of the vehicle back into gear. His foot lands heavy on the pedal, wheels turning them out of the gas station as quickly as they'd turned into it, and Troye gives him an odd look but unwraps the block of granola regardless, chomping down hungrily as he kicks his feet up on the dash.

Connor shoots him a sideways glance, hand coming up to fidget with the radio again as they pick up speed on the deserted highway again. "You're going to get the dashboard dirty, asshole," he tosses out dryly, not sounding particularly concerned.

Troye shrugs, flicking his eyes skywards before landing them back on the letters scrolling across the touch screen in the center console. "As if it wasn't already," he bites back indifferently, watching the car switch from running on gas to running on battery, only to shift again not thirty seconds later.

"True," Connor admits, darting his gaze to the rear-view mirror. Troye doesn't really know why he bothers - there's no one else on the road and they've literally passed all of three cars in the two hours they've been on it. Unless he's waiting for some miraculous traffic jam to come out of nowhere, there's nothing to be checking for.

Whatever. If Connor wants to pretend to be a responsible driver while going fourty over the speed limit, that's his choice.

"How can you not know where you're going?" Troye butts in after another hour or so has passed, the sun swooping lower with every mangled tree they pass. It's not even that he's particularly curious about the matter, or that he actually wants to know. It's more so a trick to have those smouldering green eyes turned towards him again.

Sadly, Connor doesn't peel his gaze away from the road as he offers a casual shrug in response. "How can you?" he counters, reaching up a lazy hand to flick through the radio stations when some horrid rendition of a popular seventies song begins flowing from the speakers.

Troye shrugs, a mirror to Connor's motions as he finds his lips twitching upward. They don't make it very far before he sinks the corners back down, blank expression ghosting out the window. "I don't care where I'm going. I just want to get away."

It's a more honest answer than he'd been expecting to offer, more genuine than anything he said to the couple from earlier and more candid than anything he's told himself in the past two weeks. It's probably the gentle notes of Oh Wonder's 'Lose It' drifting from the radio, ironic in the sense that losing himself is precisely what he's been striving for with this impromptu road trip of his. It might have something to do with the way the air between them feels, too, like silence is comfortable and welcome and they're sharing all their secrets without breathing a word.

Which is ridiculous, considering he knows absolutely nothing about the man in the driver's seat, let alone the hidden pieces of his life.

Connor hums thoughtfully in the back of his throat, glancing out his window at the side view mirror before switching lanes. "I'll know where I'm going when I get there."

Watching him quietly for another moment as he lets the simple statement sink in, Troye finds himself rolling his eyes. His shoes shift along the dashboard, leaving muddy sweeps across it as he folds his legs over one another and scoffs under his breath. "Okay, Confucius."

"How is that any different than what you said?" Connor questions with a confused frown, meeting Troye's unimpressed gaze in the rear view mirror.

Offering a rather disgruntled noise, Troye doesn't even bother gracing that with an actual response. Instead, he lets the silence come back to reign over them with a grimy throne and broken crown, scepter made of cheap wood and cloak cut from the coarsest cloth. It sits heavily in the air this time, the sword of Damocles waiting to tumble down from above, and not even the opening notes of Who Is Fancy's 'Boys Like You' can lighten the atmosphere surrounding them.

At some point, Troye must fall asleep.

He wakes to his head thudding painfully against the door, hand slipped from under his chin as they hit a bump in the road. Groggy and disoriented, he finds himself blinking tired eyes open to a dark car with city streetlights dancing over the windows. He's not sure how long he was out - a while, by the looks of it - but they appear to be pulling into one of the multiple rest stops scattered down the highway. There's two more cars in the parking lot and the place has a bright neon sign for Subway flashing outside, so he figures they're back in a relatively frequented area and no longer travelling the abandoned dirt roads of Nowhere city in the proud state of Lost.

Troye groans, shoving himself up from where he's slumped uncomfortable in the passenger seat. "Why are we stopping?"

"I need coffee," Connor informs him patiently, rummaging through the dashboard cubby for loose change. He navigates his way into the drive-through at an agonizingly slow pace, despite the fact that they're the only car pulling in and the woman behind the window looks bored out of her mind.

Troye purses his lips, but doesn't comment. Instead, he reaches down to riffle through his backpack for some spare change of his own, tossing three coins at Connor when his fingers find them buried at the bottom. "Get me one, too."

Connor snorts, rolls his eyes, but accepts the thin slips of metal nonetheless as they pull up to the window. He tosses out the order to the overworked employee, smiles half-heartedly when she sighs at the task he's presented her with, and pulls through to the unnecessary second window to pick up their order.

"Here," he offers, thrusting Troye's coffee towards him gracelessly. It would have spilled if the lid hadn't been there, exploded across the entirety of his front seats, and not for the first time Troye wonders what kind of logic Connor's mind comes up with. Considering he drives incredibly carefully while going fourty over the speed limit and tells Troye not to get the dashboard dirty while nearly spilling coffee all over it, it's probably not very sound. Maybe the rational thinking portion of his brain isn't functioning properly.

Troye doesn't bother thanking him, just accepts the coffee with a scoff and pops the lid off to let it cool faster. Beside him, Connor does the same before pulling out of the rest stop and back onto the highway.

Neither of them touch the heated beverages resting in the cup holders between them until at least ten minutes have passed. Troye flicks the lid back on and open with a fair amount of eagerness, hitching his feet high on the dashboard as he leans back to enjoy the caffeinated surge of energy he's sure to receive. Connor gives him a disapproving glance out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing about the boot tracks marring the dash.

"Oh my God," Troye chokes, barely a moment later. The coffee in his hand, still so hot it feels like it's scorching through his skin, is dumped unceremoniously back in its cup holder as he makes a gagging sound and plants his feet back on the floor. "That's disgusting."

Connor rolls his eyes. "Don't be such a drama queen. It can't be that bad."

"Oh, yeah?" Troye challenges, a slow smirk painting his features as the sweet scent of retribution begins to drift through the car. "You try it, then."

"Fine," Connor counters firmly, pursing his lips like his taste buds are that much more evolved than Troye's. He holds an expectant hand out, wrapping cold fingers around the hot cup his companion delicately offers him, and immediately brings the beverage to his lips to take one big gulp.

His face morphs almost immediately, strain evident in every feature, and Troye watches victoriously as he coughs like he'd just choked and not because it's actually the most disgusting coffee on the face of the earth. It's painfully evident that it's an act.

"It's," he says, struggling for words as he carefully places the offending beverage back in the space between them, "not that bad."

Troye snorts. "Liar."

It's silent, after, in the way that it has been for the vast majority of their time together. It doesn't feel the same, though. It feels like maybe Connor doesn't mind Troye's boots streaking mud across the dashboard because it's adding character to his car. It feels like maybe Troye kind of has some odd form of connection to the man in the driver's seat, like they've shared more than just an awful experience with the worst coffee on the face of the earth.

The silence is comfortable, easy, thin with the knowledge of no strings attached but packed full of pounding hearts slowly synchronizing their beats.

Even when the lights flash red and they pull to a stop, the whir of the wheels dying down to nothing but their breaths in the dark and the streetlamps pooling through the window, Troye can't help but feel like he's already shared more with Connor than he has anyone else in his life. At least with Connor he isn't pretending to care about whether Kayla and Hank are getting back together or what shade Beth should paint her nails or how drunk Tyler got over spring break. He doesn't have to smile when he doesn't want to, doesn't have to laugh at things that aren't funny or dodge intrusive questions that hit too close to home.

This is nice. Easy. Troye wishes he had friends back home with whom he could just sit in silence.

"Where are you from?" he finds himself asking, despite his resolution not to get anything close to personal. He can't help it - a part of him is staring at his shoes on the dashboard and wondering what it'd be like if he didn't have to walk away from this in a couple of hours.

Connor glances over at him with an unconcerned expression, clearly not thinking as much of the question as Troye. "Minnesota."

He nods. He wants to ask something else, to make a witty comment and start some form of banter, but he stops himself. Troye wants the nice, the easy, the simple silence and he isn't about to give that up for the sake of satisfying his curiosity, as tempting as it may be.

Connor, seemingly as per usual, has other plans. "And you?"

Troye shrugs. His heart takes a forced leap off the cliff side of his chest, plunging into the rocky water of his stomach as his brain supplies an unwanted reminder of the last time he got too attached. Of the last time he got attached at all. Of any attachment he's ever formed to someone.

"LA, I guess." His voice doesn't shake, but he thinks his hands might be starting to.

"I guess?" Connor questions, shooting him a curious glance from the corner of his eye. Troye envies him the casual calm he carries, like personal information isn't caution-taped and slapped with 'FRAGILE' warnings the way it is for Troye.

He shrugs again, dropping his elbow to the door and resting his head in the palm of his hand. His nerves are better compressed by the weight of his mind, his fingers steady where they tap the hollows of his cheeks. "I wasn't born there."

The look on Connor's face is different in the dark than it would be in the day. The curiosity in his eyes is a little less demanding, a little more open and inviting like Troye could share all his secrets just because he wants to, not because he's expected to. It has his heart grasping at the cliff side of his chest again, climbing back into the forest cavity where it belongs, his nerves in need of a little less compacting as they steady their worried trembles.

The anxiety he'd felt flickering for a moment is eased ever so slightly by the knowledge that things are still different here. That learning each other's birthplaces doesn't mean they're going to end up like he and Matt, like he and Tyler, like he and Steele.

That was Before. This is not Before. No amount of meaningless chatter is going to change that.

"I'm from South Africa, originally. We moved to Australia when I was two. I've only lived in LA for a couple years now."

"Oh," Connor acknowledges, glancing at him briefly in the neon pink lighting of a diner's glowing sign. "Yeah, I thought you had a bit of an accent. Much more exciting than my life, though. I was born in Minnesota and I haven't left since. I mean, apart from now."

Troye blinks, a little flabbergasted as he gapes. "This is your first time ever crossing a state line?"

Connor's shrug is sheepish at that, smile toothy and hands loose on the wheel. He turns the corner, wheels crunching gravel slowly enough to feel every pebble. He looks like something out of a music video in this lighting, or the night scenes in a movie where the characters cruise down empty roads, each waiting for the other to break the tense silence and confront them with the resolution to the story. His hair is more distressed frenzy than careless mess now, blue lights filtering through the car window and giving his skin an eerie glow. It spreads over the dashboard, casts shadows on the console, and morphs the space inside the vehicle into another planet away from the rest of the Earth.

The car, as stupid and cliched as it seems, feels like open air to fill with their deepest fears and darkest secrets, trusting in the locks on the doors and the seals on the windows to keep them far from the outside world.

Troye must not be the only one who thinks so, too, because Connor's smile fades slowly as the car hits a low of twenty kilometres an hour. His chest lifts, the viridian lighting finding the rise of his collarbone and the dip of his breastbone, before his breath is exhaled and trapped forever in the gap between their seats.

"That's kind of why I'm out here, you know?" Connor continues eventually, settling into the off lighting like it was made just to douse him in artistic aesthetic. Troye shifts in his seat, awaiting the rest of the explanation as he tries to decide whether he's okay with hearing it or not. "Just driving around like a fucking drifter with no destination in mind. I mean, Minnesota's great and I love my life and the people and everything, but it just... doesn't feel like enough anymore. Like, what if there's somewhere else I'm supposed to be? Somewhere that's better for me? Or- Or what if Minnesota is all there is? What if that's just my whole life and I've never been anywhere else and I'm, like, eighty and I can relive a memory in every corner of my tiny town and not feel like I've left anything out?" He confesses in a rush, words exhaled like his breath and shrinking the space around them. The air is heavier with the truth, less of a weightless emptiness shrouding their silhouettes, and Troye has to bite his lip to keep from sucking in the density Connor's expunged from his system.

He lets it hang between them for a while, tracing the flashing signs they pass until there's nothing but trees and empty road, the town far behind them as they leave the world behind again.

Shrugging half-heartedly, Troye gives Connor his first real smile in a while. It's a pathetic flash of teeth, small and not at all comforting, but it's there nonetheless. "I don't know. Maybe it'd be nice to have your life all in the same place. You'd never feel scattered or like you'd forgotten something important, yeah?"

"Maybe." Connor frowns, foot tapping harder at the gas as the trees whiz past in a blur of varying shades of black. "I guess I just want to know who I am without it. Without the people who know me already and the place I've molded myself to fit into. Maybe who I am is completely different from who they've made me."

A pause. It sits - heavy, dense, plunging into the gaps still left between them. Something to be contemplated, left to weigh on their minds and pull their hearts back to the edge of the cliff. The gravity of it is strong, though, and it pulls at their tired shoulders until their backs are aching and their tired eyes work tirelessly to close against their wishes.

"This conversation," Troye decides, dropping his elbow from the door, "is way too deep for four AM."

Connor laughs, too loud and too piercing and imperfect enough to feel perfectly befitting of the moment. He shakes his head, sleep clouding his features, and mumbles something about a cheap motel room that Troye doesn't quite catch.

Whatever, he thinks, leaning against the cool glass of the passenger window. His eyes are drooping, the grotesque coffee not even serving the single purpose of keeping him awake, and the contrast in temperature to his skin scorched by secrets is enough to have his muscles relaxing immediately.

None of this really matters, in the end. He and Connor will be going their separate ways soon enough.

⁂

They pull into a motel, eventually. Muddy boots meet carpet floor and the bed sheets feel like plastic as two bodies sprawl unceremoniously across them. Connor's shoes are neatly placed by the fake wooden dresser and Troye's bag finds the centuries old armchair bolted to the mottled wood floor. There's a patch of carpet by the bed, presented in a disturbing shade of green and so thin it serves no purpose whatsoever.

It's dirty, cheap; the kind of place depicted in grungy foreign films with low budgets. Perfectly befitting of the two of them, with their frazzled hair and the dirt that coats the cuffs of their pants.

Somehow, it contributes to the feeling of escape, to the feeling of being so far away from home that neither can remember what a comfortable bed even feels like. They've each spent days sleeping in cars or atop thin mattresses with no memory foam to cling to their frames and beg them to stay.

It's nice, in a theoretical kind of way. Not so much when there's a bed spring digging into Troye's back and a hard lump of old cotton pressed against his temple. In theory, though, the aesthetic is perfectly suited to the impromptu cross-country road trip theme.

Surprisingly, he still manages to fall asleep. He must have been even more exhausted than he'd thought, because the uncomfortable accommodations don't keep him up for more than an hour at most. Or he's just so far past the point of feeling comfortable that it didn't bother him as much as he'd assumed it would.

It's at noon the next day that they wake, Troye to the crudely filtered sunlight shoving its way past the thick plastic curtains and Connor to his companion's voice as he asks if he's still asleep. It's half the volume of a whisper, but Connor's lips curl up in disapproval nonetheless.

"Well I'm not now," the driver grumbles, eyes still closed as his back faces away from the other. They're both still in their clothes from the day before, neither under the synthetic sheets and each with hands tucked under the rock-packed pillows.

"Oh," Troye mutters. He swallows against the lump formed by the light and by the knowledge that if he turns to face his friend, he won't be cast in blue or safely stationed on a planet apart from the world that's made Troye so averse to trust. "Sorry."

There's a sigh, a shift that sounds like plastic tarps blowing in the wind, and the sun doesn't seem so revealing anymore. Troye feels a little less bare - exposed, judged, like he's standing in front of everyone he knows wearing the ugliest thing he owns - when Connor clears his throat and amends, "No, it's fine. I'm so tired, fuck. You want to drive today or are you going to catch a lift from someone else?"

Because Connor doesn't assume that they're connected now, that they're attached. Because Troye is free to leave without any hurt feelings or dashed expectations. Because Connor doesn't seem to give a shit either way.

"I'll drive," Troye offers, yawning as his socked feet hit the matted carpet.

⁂

They're just pulling onto the first real highway, with electronic signs and actual other cars and everything, when Connor rests his head back and groans. His hand is pressed to the passenger side window, fingers against the cool glass and looking like he's trying to escape some kind of jail cell. Troye wonders if the car feels like a prison to him, if he's the only who sees the rolled up windows as safety glass to shield him from the shitshow of his life.

"Can we stop for coffee? Or food. Food's nice, too," Connor mutters tiredly, one eye cracked open to watch the boy in the driver's seat. His words are so slurred together, the effort to speak so minimal, that it's hard to hear over the honking of horns and whiz of the vehicles headed in the opposite direction.

Troye rolls his eyes, slowing the car nearly to a halt as they hit their first traffic jam of the trip. He glances in the rear-view mirror, swivels his head to catch sight of all their surroundings, and shrugs unapologetically when he sees no exit in sight. "It'll be a while. There's nothing around here."

"Great," Connor gripes, both eyes shut again. Troye spares him a brief glance, gaze flicking over where his t-shirt clings to his chest and hair frizzes against the seat. Connor, admittedly, is still hot even when significantly less stressed and moderately less messy. He still looks like a train-wreck, but at least he'd showered at the motel and doesn't look so worn out.

Troye turns his attention back to the road, the car ahead of him finally crawling to a start as the sign above them directs him into a different lane. Connor's car drives smoothly over the paved road, easily accelerating with no whiplash when screeching to a halt, but Troye still kind of hates the way the steering wheel feels gripped between his fingers. It's too responsive, too easy to turn the tires and send them careening to their deaths, and it makes him all the more concerned about Connor's tendency to drive at least twenty over the speed limit at all times.

It's another half hour before they hit a rest stop. Connor makes a triumphant sound as he unbuckles his seat belt, the car having barely pulled into the parking lot by the time he's reaching for the door handle. Troye barely has a chance to yank the keys from the ignition and tell him not to take ten years in there.

Connor snorts, muttering something under his breath that Troye doesn't catch, before taking off across the stretch of gravel.

"Dumbass," Troye mumbles by way of response. His eyes slip shut, head finding the rest behind it. 

He wonders what kind of conversation will strike up when Connor returns, what secrets will pass between them and words he'll use to make them feel less monumental than they really are. Wonders if this time it won't be Connor confessing to the truth of the bags packed in the trunk, but Troye admitting the reasons for the bag at his feet.

He doubts it. The atmosphere in this car at night is the kind that has him wanting to write songs he'll never show a soul, but it's not enough to make him want to relive the events of the past. And yet-

And yet. Maybe there's a part of him that craves the relief Connor exhaled with his confession, craves the feeling of sharing with no judgement and the way the blue light seemed to soften the truth without trying. Maybe he needs the release that will come with sharing the darkest parts of himself to someone he won't see long enough to drag them into the light.

Opening his eyes, he glances at the clock just as the passenger door flies open.

"Here," Connor greets, unceremoniously dumping a bag of fast food in his lap. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

⁂

The road disappears beneath them, the four wheels of Connor's car swallowing it whole. With every sign they pass, the distance to the next significant landmark decreasing, Troye's heart quickens to match the speedometer on the dashboard.

He knows he has to leave soon, that they've spent too much time together already, and he finds himself watching the mileage tick up on the car with a nervous jitter in his bloodstream. Every kilometre added sends him back to LA with Tyler and Beth and Matthew, back to loving and losing and throwing up in the bushes outside the hospital as the world threw him out to shark-infested waters without a lifeline or buoy to hold onto.

He glances at Connor. He knows he has to leave soon, but part of him wonders if telling him how the sharks feel brushing against his sides might help. If he should say something, confess like Connor had to the real reason he packed up and left without a word to anyone but his mother.

The time between them is running out. If he wants to say something, he has to say it now.  

"So what are you doing hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere?" Connor asks as the sun collides with the horizon in a burst of brilliant pink and ardent red.

Troye shrugs. "Nothing, really."

⁂

At three AM, cruising down the quiet suburban blocks of an unremarkable hole in the wall, Troye slows the car to a near stop and finds himself staring at the picketed fence of a picturesque family home. His heartbeat is steady and his hands don't shake, but the mileage has ticked high and this feels close to the end. Connor doesn't say anything, watching him watch the house in the comfort of the car's yellow headlights.

"I thought getting away for a while would make things better," he admits quietly. It's not exactly directed at the boy in the passenger seat, but it's not really for himself, either. Troye chuckles derisively under his breath, turning them away from the house with a shake of his head. "Clearly, that hasn't worked so well."

"I don't know," Connor interjects thoughtfully. "You seem like slightly less of an asshole now than you were when I picked you up. But I've only known you for, like, two days so who am I to talk?"

Troye rolls his eyes. His heart stutters as they reach the end of the block and turn onto the main street. Tongue-tied, his hands feel unsteady on the wheel and he worries they might crash into the painted sculpture decorating the sidewalk. And wouldn't that be ironic? If he were to kill the both of them right now, by accident just like the last time but his fault nonetheless.

"My friend passed away," he admits quietly, the atmosphere falling to a hushed silence like an audience waiting for the curtains to close. "I was there when it happened. Everything felt different, after, but everyone was acting the same and I just... I wanted to be different, too. To forget who I was or pretend to be someone else or just be different, I don't know. Nothing felt the same anymore. I needed to get away from it all. Be somewhere else for a while."

The air is full of the proclamation, packed with information for his companion to process or ignore, but somehow it doesn't feel as heavy as Troye had thought it would. It doesn't really feel any different at all, except that Connor is looking at him pensively and the quiet town is about to fade into the distance behind them.

"That's funny," Connor says eventually, though his tone is more perplexed than amused. "Here I am trying to find myself and all you're trying to do is lose yourself. What are the chances we'd end up doing it together?"

Troye shrugs, a breath of air exhaled from his lips as he realizes that Connor isn't going to press him for more detail. It's nice, because his confession hadn't really been about the events that had transpired Before. He'd just been trying to explain the feeling of needing to be someone else, somewhere else, for a while.

"It's not that strange," says Troye, spinning the steering wheel as they pull into the drive-through of the only coffee shop still open at this hour. "I mean, there's thousands of people doing the same. Finding themselves and losing themselves, or whatever. Realistically, the chances of two of said people meeting are actually fairly high."

Connor smacks his shoulder, scoffing as he leans back against the passenger door. "Don't be so logical. Let me dream, okay?"

Chuckling, Troye shakes his head and leans out the window to accept the coffee offered by an overworked woman with smudged makeup. "Okay," he concedes. He hands a cup off to Connor, pulling out of the parking lot and back onto the open road. "Whatever you want."

⁂

They spend another night in a cheap motel on the outskirts of the highway, taking the time to change their clothes and have a decent meal this go around. Connor mentions that his mother still does his laundry for him when they pack their dirty clothing back into their bags, admitting to probably spending more time at his parents' house than he does his own apartment. Troye scoffs, makes fun of him for being twenty-four and still a Mama's boy. It almost feels friendly, but Troye knows better than to call it such.

Later, when they're stopped at a red light with stacks of cars on either side, he admits that he might envy Connor his relationship with his parents just a little bit.

It doesn't make his heart clench or lips twist in distaste to share things like this anymore, though he's a little thrown by how quickly his change in attitude occurred. Troye's always been the kind of person to form an opinion, to make a decision, and never reconsider no matter how many people work to contradict him.

Maybe it's the realization that even though they're talking now, even though Connor's told him that his sister's an aspiring chef and his brother's working on a novel, they still don't owe each other a single thing. Troye could stop the car and get out at any point, go back to traipsing alone down the road, and he wouldn't have to feel bad in the slightest. Connor won't give a shit. Troye won't feel like he's letting anyone down.

Part of him wants to get out right now just to prove he can, but a bigger part of him prefers wheels rolling underneath him to aching feet and the scorching heat of direct sunlight.

He'll stick around at least until they hit the next state over. He tells himself that's as far as he'll go.

⁂ 

Two states later, the car door slams behind him with a feeling of release. The dirt crunching under the soles of Troye's boots feels refreshing after so long with nothing but rubber car mats and a solid dashboard. The sun is nice where it caresses his skin, the air open and breathable and clear unlike the filtered oxygen dragged through the vehicle's air vents.

He stretches for the first time in hours, joints popping and back cracking as his arms extend over his head. He hears the driver side door bang closed a moment later, his back to the car as the beat of Connor's footsteps ceases after seconds.

"Well," his companion exclaims, leaned over the top of the car as Troye turns to look him over. Connor squints his eyes at the sun, a hand raised to ward it off, and takes in their surroundings. "Good luck finding a ride out here in the assfuck of nowhere."

Troye gives him a once-over before turning his attention back to the empty field of dirt they're parked in, a lone tree or two decorating the otherwise barren landscape. There's no buildings in sight, just the road behind them and Connor's out of place Prius. It feels like a desert or the set of an old western movie, like there's nothing but open prairie for miles in any direction. Connor's car feels like the reminder that there is.

He kind of likes it. It's reminiscent of where Connor had picked him up in the first place. Maybe everything is coming full circle.

"I'll be fine," he assures, bending to retrieve his abandoned bag from the ground. "Thanks for the lift. You suck less than most of the people I rode with, I guess."

"I'm flattered," Connor counters dryly, tapping the roof of the car with an open palm before leaning away. He gives Troye an acerbic smile, tight-lipped as he shakes his head. The wind ruffles his already chaotic hair, sending it careening into his eyes before peeling it back towards his ears. The wind bitten look suits him as much as the stressed out look does, complementing the bags under his eyes and the dirt on his shirt collar.

He glances away, squinting into the sun as he examines their surroundings. Troye doesn't say anything, but he has a feeling that Connor might be expecting him to.

Finally, his companion shrugs and offers a real, full smile. "Take care," he says. "I hope things are better when you get back home."

Troye almost tells him that he isn't sure if he'll ever be headed back to LA, but he doesn't. Instead, he smiles sweetly in return, the first somewhat kind gesture he's offered in the few days since they met, and hoists his bag higher up on his shoulder. His breath is warmer than the dry breeze, the heat fanning in front of him as he reaches a hand up to swipe the gathering sweat from his face.

"Yeah, you too," he comments. And then, because maybe he really is still the person who put up with a douchebag of a boyfriend just for the decent sex, he adds, "That's a good look for you, by the way. The whole 'disgruntled mess' thing really suits you."

Connor laughs, as bright as the sun blazing down on them, and grins brilliantly. It's the kind of grin that crinkles his eyes around the corners and makes him appear a thousand times more alive, the kind Troye could form a verse in a song around or write an entire fairy tale about. Connor's kind of a prince in this light, the unhappy prodigy picking Troye up in an elegant carriage and learning how to be someone other than the person he'd been raised into.

Troye's probably the cliched damsel in this case, needing someone to rescue him from the unfortunate situation he's gotten himself into. The reluctant hero of the story, headstrong and set on being nothing like the people he's been surrounded by his entire life. The glorified scum of the earth desperately seeking a way out off the dirty floor and far from the people who stomp on his shins and tell him he's worthless.

If this were a fairy tale, this would be the part where Connor would shyly admit to not wanting to lose him. Troye would fall into his arms with the promise to stay, the two of them settling into the backseat of the carriage as the camera zooms into a heart made of flying doves and the credits begin to roll.

Because this isn't a fairy tale, Troye instead makes an offhand comment about the probability of them ever meeting again. Connor shrugs, says something along the lines of, "Who knows? Maybe we'll both be in the same place next year as we are now. Maybe I'll pick up that vaguely familiar hitchhiker looking all pathetic and alone and maybe we'll spend a few days road tripping across America again to escape our troubles. It could happen. You never know."

Light glints off the bright paint of Connor's car, bouncing reflections across it as the dirt picks up into the wind and blows onto the nearby road.

"You never know," Troye repeats softly, exhaling. Connor stares at him a moment longer, seeming to consider something, before shaking his head one last time and climbing back into the driver's seat. The engine roars to life, loud in the abandoned silence of the area, and the door shuts with the same thud as a few minutes earlier. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't roll down the window for one final goodbye, and it feels like an appropriate end to their time together.

Troye waves haphazardly after him as the vehicle pulls back onto the road, turning his back when the gravel kicks up towards his eyes. A few rocks grate the skin of his exposed arm, the reaction an unintentional wince as he brushes them away. He shoots the vanishing car a half-hearted glare, dropping it when he realizes Connor is out of sight and wouldn't notice anyway.

He sighs, back where he started three days ago. Yet, somehow, he feels like this trip may have been a success. That maybe when he returns to LA and the friends that feel more like vague acquaintances, it won't be so unbearable. Like he's gotten it out of his system - the idea that everything he has there is pointless and meaningless and less than nothing.

Or, he'll go back and everything will be the same.

Either way, he feels like he could handle it better now, with these few weeks of change and adventure and different to keep his mind company in the lonelier hours of the night.

It was worth it, he decides, even if the scrapes on his arm and burning of his tear-ducts tell a different story.

⁂ If it's all broken mirrors and a chance roll of the dice, then I'll risk everything for a glimpse of accidental light. Time's running out, it's always running out on me, and every road I discover disappears under my feet. Some call it reckless, I call it breathing. ⁂