[ He hit something. He knows he hit something, possibly deep and melancholy, because there's something about the way Treavor reacts to the mention of Hollywood that feels like a mirror.
Got me, he'd said. Got me, and Alice had felt something deep and terribly sad. There's a wound with an accustomed pain, and there are words that press the pain sharp, a brief shriek before it subsides again to the familiar dull ache. What is Treavor's wound, and how did he brush up against it by mentioning Hollywood?
Feeling a pang of remorse, he eases his arm wholly around the other man's shoulders and offers a low, conciliatory: ]
Hey - hey, let's have that, okay?
[ 'That': the bottle, gently extricated and set aside - well out of reach - his words comforting as that now-empty hand returns to fuss with the blanket, to smooth Treavor's hair (Why not. Why not.), to be now-empty on the other man's now-empty hand.
And then, his voice soothing, a calm and certain hush he's used so many times before on other nights, in other places, with his arm around another's shoulders, he starts to simply talk. ]
Maybe the stars don't know what they're doing, after all. If I were one, I'd want to see Coney Island in the summer, when that old wooden roller coaster's lights are shining, and the whole boardwalk smells like hot dogs. The beach is just warm enough to put your feet in the water?
[ He inclines his head, his hair falling in a grace of a wave over his shoulder, and his eyes are searching for some sign of Treavor returning from that place (ugly place, painful place, he's sorry, he's sorry, whatever shape that place takes, he's sorry.) ]
Or Central Park in the winter, when there's snow on the ground, and no one to be seen in any direction, and it's so bright it's like day in the middle of the night?
[ A faint lift of one corner of his mouth like a question, and a squeeze of his arm: come on, it's okay. Isn't it okay? Maybe it's okay? (If Treavor can be okay, maybe he can be okay.) ]
Hey, or right here: a harbor, with the tide coming in. If the stars moved west or hid from this -
[ He pauses, scrambles for words. What would Treavor-his-officemate-say? What will reach him? ]
no subject
[ He hit something. He knows he hit something, possibly deep and melancholy, because there's something about the way Treavor reacts to the mention of Hollywood that feels like a mirror.
Got me, he'd said. Got me, and Alice had felt something deep and terribly sad. There's a wound with an accustomed pain, and there are words that press the pain sharp, a brief shriek before it subsides again to the familiar dull ache. What is Treavor's wound, and how did he brush up against it by mentioning Hollywood?
Feeling a pang of remorse, he eases his arm wholly around the other man's shoulders and offers a low, conciliatory: ]
Hey - hey, let's have that, okay?
[ 'That': the bottle, gently extricated and set aside - well out of reach - his words comforting as that now-empty hand returns to fuss with the blanket, to smooth Treavor's hair (Why not. Why not.), to be now-empty on the other man's now-empty hand.
And then, his voice soothing, a calm and certain hush he's used so many times before on other nights, in other places, with his arm around another's shoulders, he starts to simply talk. ]
Maybe the stars don't know what they're doing, after all. If I were one, I'd want to see Coney Island in the summer, when that old wooden roller coaster's lights are shining, and the whole boardwalk smells like hot dogs. The beach is just warm enough to put your feet in the water?
[ He inclines his head, his hair falling in a grace of a wave over his shoulder, and his eyes are searching for some sign of Treavor returning from that place (ugly place, painful place, he's sorry, he's sorry, whatever shape that place takes, he's sorry.) ]
Or Central Park in the winter, when there's snow on the ground, and no one to be seen in any direction, and it's so bright it's like day in the middle of the night?
[ A faint lift of one corner of his mouth like a question, and a squeeze of his arm: come on, it's okay. Isn't it okay? Maybe it's okay? (If Treavor can be okay, maybe he can be okay.) ]
Hey, or right here: a harbor, with the tide coming in. If the stars moved west or hid from this -
[ He pauses, scrambles for words. What would Treavor-his-officemate-say? What will reach him? ]
Fuck 'em.