[ The weight of a head against his shoulder, the warmth of a body at his side. He's careful with his own breathing, keeps it steady and rhythmic because if he doesn't breathe the same gentle square (one-two-three-four-hold-one-two-three-four-exhale-one-two-three-four-hold) he'll stop entirely.
A slight turn of his head, shadows contrast to obscure his eyes and turn the careful neutrality of his mouth to something far more grim. But it doesn't matter what wistfulness might have passed in a flicker through his expression: Treavor isn't looking. Treavor is looking at the sky. (And his mouth is a perfect curve, and if he were someone else and Alice were someone else, and this were someplace else, the someone else he'd be would trace a fingertip over someone else's perfect curve of a smile.)
(He wishes.) (He wishes he could. Feel this weight with someone who needed him, and not with someone who just needed anyone at all.) ((A man with a perfect, curving smile.))
Anyway.
It's not right to think about Treavor that way - not even as the stand-in for an absent participant, not even in the distant hypothetical. It's not right to be thinking about men.
That way.
He feels a momentary panic set in, bone-deep, the fear that someone might see him with his arm around Treavor's shoulders and Treavor's head against him, and Treavor smiling, and someone might. Someone could. Get the wrong impression. And what if they told his employers? What if someone told his father? What if and what if and what if?
(Already, he's imagining how he would defend himself. I'm not gay. (The therapy. Years of therapy to fix the problem.) Not a fucking queer. (No, he - can't sound that way, he has to be moderate and temperate.) This is all a misunderstanding. (He'll delete the app from his phone he has to delete that goddamned app from his phone before someone sees it and tonight when he goes home the browser history on his laptop he'll have to clear that up too fuck he's been -))
He should leave. He should get up and leave.
But.
But also. What would happen if he jerked away, and left this man alone, and cold, and drunk here on the docks?
He's watching Treavor more intently than perhaps he realized, lost in his own thoughts. The other man's eyes are closed, and he looks...so peaceful. A warmth blooms in the vicinity of Alice's chest, platonic and kind - an affection of one human being for another. A pleasure at having pleased, at having cared for someone.
("Poff", he'd echoed. Oh, he's. Not so bad at all, when he's not throwing crumpled paper and being a prick.) ]
Poff.
[ Idly, Alice raises his empty hand and traces his fingertips along Treavor's hairline, gently sorting out his mess of hair. Soothing, the way he used to do - years ago. And for his sister, when she was little. And. It's nice. It's nice now, to do it for this person, while the water laps at the dock and the night stretches on.
In a low voice, he starts to sing the first thing to occur to him - from the middle, the lyrics coming because he's lonesome, and he thinks maybe Treavor is, too. But there's something about the song that doesn't quite give in to the sadness of having nothing to live for; rather, he thinks, Otis Redding must have decided to give a bad stretch of life a 'fuck it' (the old Treavor-ism, ha) and go hang out on some docks.
It feels quite right, for the moment.
In any case. He knows all the words to this one. And his voice - just barely baritone - can carry it. ]
no subject
A slight turn of his head, shadows contrast to obscure his eyes and turn the careful neutrality of his mouth to something far more grim. But it doesn't matter what wistfulness might have passed in a flicker through his expression: Treavor isn't looking. Treavor is looking at the sky. (And his mouth is a perfect curve, and if he were someone else and Alice were someone else, and this were someplace else, the someone else he'd be would trace a fingertip over someone else's perfect curve of a smile.)
(He wishes.) (He wishes he could. Feel this weight with someone who needed him, and not with someone who just needed anyone at all.) ((A man with a perfect, curving smile.))
Anyway.
It's not right to think about Treavor that way - not even as the stand-in for an absent participant, not even in the distant hypothetical. It's not right to be thinking about men.
That way.
He feels a momentary panic set in, bone-deep, the fear that someone might see him with his arm around Treavor's shoulders and Treavor's head against him, and Treavor smiling, and someone might. Someone could. Get the wrong impression. And what if they told his employers? What if someone told his father? What if and what if and what if?
(Already, he's imagining how he would defend himself. I'm not gay. (The therapy. Years of therapy to fix the problem.) Not a fucking queer. (No, he - can't sound that way, he has to be moderate and temperate.) This is all a misunderstanding. (He'll delete the app from his phone he has to delete that goddamned app from his phone before someone sees it and tonight when he goes home the browser history on his laptop he'll have to clear that up too fuck he's been -))
He should leave. He should get up and leave.
But.
But also. What would happen if he jerked away, and left this man alone, and cold, and drunk here on the docks?
He's watching Treavor more intently than perhaps he realized, lost in his own thoughts. The other man's eyes are closed, and he looks...so peaceful. A warmth blooms in the vicinity of Alice's chest, platonic and kind - an affection of one human being for another. A pleasure at having pleased, at having cared for someone.
("Poff", he'd echoed. Oh, he's. Not so bad at all, when he's not throwing crumpled paper and being a prick.) ]
Poff.
[ Idly, Alice raises his empty hand and traces his fingertips along Treavor's hairline, gently sorting out his mess of hair. Soothing, the way he used to do - years ago. And for his sister, when she was little. And. It's nice. It's nice now, to do it for this person, while the water laps at the dock and the night stretches on.
In a low voice, he starts to sing the first thing to occur to him - from the middle, the lyrics coming because he's lonesome, and he thinks maybe Treavor is, too. But there's something about the song that doesn't quite give in to the sadness of having nothing to live for; rather, he thinks, Otis Redding must have decided to give a bad stretch of life a 'fuck it' (the old Treavor-ism, ha) and go hang out on some docks.
It feels quite right, for the moment.
In any case. He knows all the words to this one. And his voice - just barely baritone - can carry it. ]