[ He does this sometimes. Starts humming and doesn't realize it, thinks the song's coming from somewhere near, someone close. Opens his eyes or touches his throat to find it's only him, him humming not even singing, alone or near people ignoring Treavor, giving Treavor the ugly eye, doing anything but being good and close.
So he starts to reach for his throat, feel the tell-tale vibrations and remind himself where he is, what's happening, of course no one's singing—
But someone is close.
(Someone is... something is? That's the wind in his hair or it doesn't feel like wind, and he knows what touch is even when it's not grasping or harried or unkind. He likes this feeling; lilting brush along his scalp.)
Someone is close, and as Treavor hones in on that someone-close, he realizes maybe - almost definitely? - the sound is coming from that person. Not from him, and if he thinks about it, his throat doesn't feel like buzzing, and he doesn't usually imagines vocals like this, does he? A singing voice he's sure he's never heard before, melting natural into the night.
It's a soothing voice, a good song. Perfect song! One Treavor might've picked out himself, and he has to check again, this time turning his head to glance at the guy beside him, make sure it looks like the guy is responsible for the music and hey, it looks like he is!
Hey, hey wait, that's the intern guy!
(Still the intern guy. He's been here for a while, huh? No one knows how he got here! Or. No Treavors can recall.)
There's another sound in the mix now, because Treavor's humming along, or adding a few bars of not-quite-cordant notes here and there, a little behind the song, drifting contented in its wake. He feels as if the air's grown warmer, as if it's a middle-of-summer evening and maybe they're not (he's not?) (they're not!) even in the city.
At some point he breaks off from the humming and stares away, envisioning the stars of a darker, freer sky, then speaks after a beat or three (or ten?). ]
no subject
So he starts to reach for his throat, feel the tell-tale vibrations and remind himself where he is, what's happening, of course no one's singing—
But someone is close.
(Someone is... something is? That's the wind in his hair or it doesn't feel like wind, and he knows what touch is even when it's not grasping or harried or unkind. He likes this feeling; lilting brush along his scalp.)
Someone is close, and as Treavor hones in on that someone-close, he realizes maybe - almost definitely? - the sound is coming from that person. Not from him, and if he thinks about it, his throat doesn't feel like buzzing, and he doesn't usually imagines vocals like this, does he? A singing voice he's sure he's never heard before, melting natural into the night.
It's a soothing voice, a good song. Perfect song! One Treavor might've picked out himself, and he has to check again, this time turning his head to glance at the guy beside him, make sure it looks like the guy is responsible for the music and hey, it looks like he is!
Hey, hey wait, that's the intern guy!
(Still the intern guy. He's been here for a while, huh? No one knows how he got here! Or. No Treavors can recall.)
There's another sound in the mix now, because Treavor's humming along, or adding a few bars of not-quite-cordant notes here and there, a little behind the song, drifting contented in its wake. He feels as if the air's grown warmer, as if it's a middle-of-summer evening and maybe they're not (he's not?) (they're not!) even in the city.
At some point he breaks off from the humming and stares away, envisioning the stars of a darker, freer sky, then speaks after a beat or three (or ten?). ]
Where're the stars brightest?