[ The warmth of another body is back, forcing itself into his personal space, forcing his arm up to permit its presence at his side, except.
Except that isn't exactly what happened, is it.
Treavor moved, and Alice moved, and they both moved, like binary stars in orbit, like a gravitational pull, and when Treavor came to his side he shifted without thinking, and drew the other man close without hesitation, and his heart, his lungs, his soul aches to its very core with want.
Because this isn't his.
Because this is an accidental collision of non-celestial bodies.
Because this is something that somewhere could exist, with someone, and oh, god, he wants it, and all the stars he could wish on are falling on the other side of the world.
Alice closes his eyes and breathes steady, gently, and feels the (rightness) (how) (utter naturalness) (complete normalcy) (how) weight of (a man) his (Treavor) charge, and reminds himself that what he feels is only loneliness, and desperation, and wishful thinking. There's nothing here but what's in his head, and the way the night can make everything strange.
(But that sound.)
(But the way Treavor came back. How he moved and Alice moved and together, together, oh -)
He's angry with himself. He's angry, he forces himself to feel angry, opens his eyes to glare at nothing and then tries to turn that anger on Treavor. If he can be angry with Treavor, if he can hate Treavor, and if he can hate himself just a little more -
Where'd my song go?
Just like that.
All the air is gone, and he knows if he looks now, there's going to be something beatific on a perfect curve of a mouth, and his head is swimming with confusion, with longing, with pleasure.
He.
His song.
(It doesn't. Have to be complicated.)
(It doesn't have to be anything.)
(It can just feel good. Taking care of someone.)
It can just feel good. Taking care of Treavor.
((He can't think about it too closely. Pleasure flooding through him like a drug, warmth humming through him, near-erotic, near-intoxicating.))
He's a little too near, and a little too familiar, and a little too warm. (But he won't. He won't. Go farther than this. Never, not with (a man) Treavor, not this way. (Drunk.)) His eyes drowsy and his smile faint, his being lulled by the curve of a half-smile and thoughts of starlight. ]
Lost it already?
[ His voice is low and mellow, unfamiliar to him in how familiarly he's speaking to anyone, to Treavor, to (a man) a man, someone held near and comfortably and.
(It's someone's place.
Treavor slipped into it so god damned easily. He fit so well.
How.)
Well. He picks up the song again, from the first line - because if he's finding the damned thing for Treavor, giving it to him, he might as well have all of it, beginning to end.
And why not the touch of a hand, too.
And why not the unimposing, focused attention of drowsy blue eyes.
no subject
Except that isn't exactly what happened, is it.
Treavor moved, and Alice moved, and they both moved, like binary stars in orbit, like a gravitational pull, and when Treavor came to his side he shifted without thinking, and drew the other man close without hesitation, and his heart, his lungs, his soul aches to its very core with want.
Because this isn't his.
Because this is an accidental collision of non-celestial bodies.
Because this is something that somewhere could exist, with someone, and oh, god, he wants it, and all the stars he could wish on are falling on the other side of the world.
Alice closes his eyes and breathes steady, gently, and feels the (rightness) (how) (utter naturalness) (complete normalcy) (how) weight of (a man) his (Treavor) charge, and reminds himself that what he feels is only loneliness, and desperation, and wishful thinking. There's nothing here but what's in his head, and the way the night can make everything strange.
(But that sound.)
(But the way Treavor came back. How he moved and Alice moved and together, together, oh -)
He's angry with himself. He's angry, he forces himself to feel angry, opens his eyes to glare at nothing and then tries to turn that anger on Treavor. If he can be angry with Treavor, if he can hate Treavor, and if he can hate himself just a little more -
Where'd my song go?
Just like that.
All the air is gone, and he knows if he looks now, there's going to be something beatific on a perfect curve of a mouth, and his head is swimming with confusion, with longing, with pleasure.
He.
His song.
(It doesn't. Have to be complicated.)
(It doesn't have to be anything.)
(It can just feel good. Taking care of someone.)
It can just feel good. Taking care of Treavor.
((He can't think about it too closely. Pleasure flooding through him like a drug, warmth humming through him, near-erotic, near-intoxicating.))
He's a little too near, and a little too familiar, and a little too warm. (But he won't. He won't. Go farther than this. Never, not with (a man) Treavor, not this way. (Drunk.)) His eyes drowsy and his smile faint, his being lulled by the curve of a half-smile and thoughts of starlight. ]
Lost it already?
[ His voice is low and mellow, unfamiliar to him in how familiarly he's speaking to anyone, to Treavor, to (a man) a man, someone held near and comfortably and.
(It's someone's place.
Treavor slipped into it so god damned easily. He fit so well.
How.)
Well. He picks up the song again, from the first line - because if he's finding the damned thing for Treavor, giving it to him, he might as well have all of it, beginning to end.
And why not the touch of a hand, too.
And why not the unimposing, focused attention of drowsy blue eyes.
Just for now, while Alice's heart aches. ]