F L O W E R S | TRONNOR A.U.

T E N

"Hey, Sage," Caspar says into his iPhone just above a whisper, walking down the hallway from where he just set Troye to bed.

"Is Troye at yours?" she pushes immediately, not bothering to lead up to the point. Caspar sighs, knowing Connor probably called her too.

"Yeah, tell Connor to breathe. He's safe, upset, and tired, so I got him to sleep and tucked him in bed," he tells Sage, hoping that it will calm at least a few of her nerves. "Just give the kid some space, okay? He needs to sleep, he needs to calm down, and he needs to think. I can help him with all of those things. It won't be the first time."

"Okay, yes, but we still need to talk about this. All of us. He's not okay."

Caspar frowns. "What do you mean?" he asks, but he knows what she means. Troye hasn't been bloody okay since he was 16.

"The only reason I told Connor about this was because he asked. He asked me if Troye had any issues with eating when he was growing up. Don't you get what that means? Connor sees him more than any of us do, and if he suspects something, don't you think something's up?"

Caspar lets the faint recollection of asking Troye if he was okay last week slip into his memory. He is painfully aware that Troye is ever so constantly one wrong step away from slipping into an abyss, but he watches so, so carefully. He tries his best to notice if anything seems up with him; Caspar's good at protecting from afar. He also knows (hopes) that if Troye is going over a rough patch, it isn't anything they can't survive together.

"Sage, he always seems a little iffy. He's seemed a little iffy since the first day I met him. Troye is Troye, and you know that."

He can practically hear Sage rolling her eyes. "Don't try to brush this off," she scolds him.

"I'm not, Sage. I'm just saying that we need to take it easy on him. I know how to deal with Troye, okay? I know him—"

"And I don't?"

"No, Sage. Actually, you don't. You're pretty close, but in case you don't remember, I was the one who helped him! Honestly, I'm the reason he's even alive. I was the one who he went to when he needed to cry. I was the one who visited him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday when he was in rehab—"

"Okay, Casp," Sage's voice comes through the phone, gentler this time, "I know. I'm sorry. Just—take care of him. We can talk to him about this later. You're not gonna take his side, are you?" she asks worriedly.

Caspar sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, plopping down on the couch. "I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure he's okay."

Troye is a light sleeper, so when he hears Caspar raise his voice in the other room, it easily rouses him into a confused daze. The first few things he recognizes are a headache and his surroundings: Caspar's bedroom. Then, he can hear someone saying something about how he'll wake up soon and talking to him about it, but it doesn't make much sense in his half-aware state.

The next thing he recognizes is that he's absolutely freezing, so as he squirms out of the blankets, he reaches for one of Caspar's sweaters in the closet and pulls it over his head. It's a soft, knitted, navy blue garment that goes to his mid-thigh and swallows his hands. He's got nothing else but socks and skinny jeans on, which are admittedly uncomfortable, so he steals a pair of Caspar's black, fleece joggers as well.

Fully prepared to take on the unforgiving elements, he steps outside of the doorway and pads down the hallway in his pale yellow socks. When he approaches the living room doorway, he stops for a moment to listen in to Caspar's phone call because at this point he is nearly positive that it's about him.