Mickey Doyle (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
byanyname) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
byanyname) wrote in kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
tfln open post
***
either leave a message (or set of muses) for one of my assholes, or request a message from one of them. choose messages from the classic source, from your own skull, or whatever you may please.
no subject
(But the guy had been playing, at least. The guy talked about it like a game, and people don't really do that, or they don't do that with Treavor, and that means something, so okay, maybe the guy actually does win something, wins the Treavor-isn't-gonna-bite prize, and—)
And?
And?? Where did that blanket come from??
(Nobody brings blankets. That isn't how fetch-Treavor goes, or how anything goes.)
Where did that. Hand? Come from?
He's suddenly pretty cozy. He suddenly doesn't feel any kind of chill and feels maybe a little less like he should jump in the water try to be a fish. Because right now? Where he is feels kind of okay. ((Is this a trick? A trap? He doesn't think so. He doesn't want to think about it, anyway.)) And his hand is sinking, bottle resting on the floor, the ground, the whatever for now, and Treavor's gone quiet, just letting himself feel the soft of the blanket.
(It is a soft blanket. Good of this blanket to be soft!) ]
Got me.
[ It's a drifting observation, something to say as he cants his head, realizes Golden Boy maybe said something, gripping tight to the rye and then relaxing a little, barking a laugh because hey, hey! The guy's got a point? ]
Hmm, want it for you, don't you?
[ Did Treavor say he'd show this guy the stars? Is this guy worthy of seeing any stars? Not like it matters. Stars are for everyone. If this guy wants to see, who's Treavor to deny him? ]
Gotta know how to look for stars. City makes em hide.
[ There's a hand on his shoulder and it isn't a guiding hand, redirecting hand, harming hand. (Maybe.) (Yet.) It's kind of nice. Suddenly, he's at the docks but not alone. ]
no subject
The words echo in the back of his mind, a forlorn resonance of wanting and wishing - not for Treavor, and not because Treavor means anything in particular by the words. But for what the words could mean, from someone who could mean them in his direction.
It's that hour of night, after all, when the world goes quiet and thoughts begin to clamor. When the heavy, sick feeling of lonesome wakefulness mingles with the surreal quality of the city at midnight. (It's not true, really - when they say New York is the city that never sleeps.)
Alice tries to give the other man a game sort of smile, but it only looks like his smiles - his real, unforced smiles - ever do anymore: tired. Sad. Lacking.
He can't play well. Not the lighthearted teasing that permeates men of his age, not loud, brash joking. He never really could. His humor falls sideways and dry, and his play slips into dreaming.
So, instead of trying to draw another laugh (that sharp sound that startled him a little - that was a laugh, wasn't it?), he reconciles himself to the idea that he'll be sitting out here for a while. Until he can coax Treavor into a car, and maybe to his apartment. He eases down to the ground, dimly aware of the grime and the certain cost of having his clothes dry-cleaned (and dimly aware, too, that some things matter more.)
His hand moves with friendly familiarity now from Treavor's shoulder to his back, rubs a comforting path up and down. The actions of a sober man caring for a drunk...friend. Well, why not. For now.
He seems like he needs one. ]
Maybe the city doesn't make them hide. Maybe they moved. Packed up and went to Hollywood. Can't be much of a star on Broadway anymore unless you're already on television, right?
[ As he talks, he relaxes - and his perfected (oh, performative) Mid-Atlantic accent slips, like a curtain drawn aside. ]
no subject
And hey the guy's on the ground beside him! Treavor's looking over now, taking in the... hey, those aren't intern clothes. Those're pretty good clothes? All over the pretty good solid ground.
He's about to say something about the clothes and hey how many anyones in that shitty shitty law firm have pretty good even pretty okay clothes not fucking tree-trunk-up-the-ass boring fucking clothes, but Golden Guy's speaking again (Golden Guy's sounding a little... different? or Treavor's drunk and making shit up again, hm, always possible) and maybe the stars did move and Treavor likes that idea, or likes that idea until he hears where the stars moved and that's real far away but more importantly, with a little more sting—
He lifts his hand to take a drink, automatic. ]
Stars know what they're doing.
[ A nod, serious.
Stars have the right idea, moving to Hollywood. Way way across the shitty country.
Should've fuckin' stayed out there with all the stars. Not that he was ever in Hollywood, they would've kicked him out for uglying up the place, but. Close enough. And better than Hollywood, anyway. And still far the fuck across this shitty fucking country, away from this shitty fucking city.
He's not happy. He's going to take another drink.
And, because he doesn't like this moment, doesn't precisely remember what he said but doesn't like its wake, he adds— ]
You were on Broadway?
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.
no subject
A voice that wraps allaying around him, soft like the soft soft blanket, and it feels like a real physical presence or that's someone holding him, why would someone be holding him, well he's going to nestle back against that feels-like-an-arm anyway, just in case, just because it feels all right.
Whatever had been biting's gone now, mostly and then maybe completely, thank you whiskey, thank you better-than-buzzed, thank you this guy's voice and the not-too-chilly night, and Treavor's likes the idea of warm water distant roller coasters people having a good damn time and isn't it good when parks are bright without burning and it's true, even this harbor's all right, that's why he's here, that's why—
Is that why the intern guy's here? To see the harbor?
It's not a bad call. Intern guy's got some taste. Got some good hair too, and Treavor can appreciate that, can respect a guy who shows his hair right.
(There are reasons he. Doesn't like intern guy very much, right? But he doesn't see those reasons not and he boots the thought away. No need for it, no use for it, why let it cramp a good time? Anyway Treavor's been wrong before about people. Usually about okay-seeming people ending up shitty, but whatever, same idea, bad fuckin judgment. And maybe night!intern guy is his own dude? Also very possible.)
(Hey, hey, did someone squeeze his arm? That was nice, too. (Why is this evening so nice now? And what's gonna break it crashing down?) (Hey, never mind. Hey, take it while it lasts.))
His head falls back so he can better regard the sky, think about. Stars. Where they are. ]
Nah, don't wanna fuck the stars.
[ Let 'em be stars. Treavor's tone isn't argumentative; just a soft shrugging away from the idea. He gets where Alice was coming from and the sentiment of it wasn't shitty. It's just that stars should do what they want.
Again he nudges back a little, maybe testing to see whether that pressure around his shoulders is still there. ]
Maybe they saw enough, got the idea and moved on.
Or maybe—
[ There's a small, lopsided grin, and he's about to say 'there's one' and point, about to direct the guy's attention to some place in the sky where a star hypothetically could be if you watched hard enough with pretending eyes, but.
But his hand can't really move.
Or. There's a hand on his hand. (Didn't he have something in his hand?) (Eh, he'll figure it out.) He tried to move his hand but even a little moving told him— Something's there. Someone's there. And he's...
When'd that get there?
He was saying something. He's still looking at his hand and the hand on his hand but he's pretty sure he was saying something. He has no idea what, and what he finds to offer is— ]
Would you be a fish?
I mean, what kind? Doesn't have to be a harbor fish.
no subject
(Still. Still, Alice looks down and away, his smile not a smile at all, but something lost and stranded. And Alice thinks of this familiar sense of reaching out and meeting nothing at all. Of the imploring words of a sober man to a drunken one. Rationality speaking to inanity, sobriety to intoxication, waking to dreaming.
Why is it so easy to speak this way, openly, vulnerably, to a drunk man, when he knows the words will pass away, forgotten? When he knows there will be no spark of connection, no meeting or reception or comprehension? And why can't he speak this way to someone sober?
What would it feel like to talk of snow and starlight and roller coasters and all things bright and beautiful to someone whose eyes light with presence of mind?
What would it feel like to be found, and known?)
A moment passes, silence and his stillness not a condemnation; only calming, only restful. And he considers the question very seriously before answering. ]
I suppose that depends. Can I be any kind of fish, or can I only be a kind of fish based on my personality?
If I can pick anything, I'd like to be something pretty and interesting. A jellyfish, maybe.
[ He turns his attention back to Treavor and raises his hand briefly from its place of rest, fingers downward to imitate the dangling tentacles of the creature in question. ]
Floating without a care in the world, and stinging anyone who tried to do me harm? Or maybe a pufferfish.
[ Here, he gestures again, balling his hand and then splaying it suddenly, mimicking the POOF of the fish in question. ]
But if we're going off personality - [ A little, unhappy noise, and his gaze is back out on the water. ]
Something hiding in the sand. Camouflaged. What are they, mm - flatfish. The boring ones. The cowards. Keep your head low and ambush your meal.
no subject
There's another answer, though, a next answer, and this one's not the same, and there's no hand-fish to accompany, and maybe (is it his imagination or is maybe) the guy's not quite here no, or just went a little more gone.
Well maybe this guy's been drinking, too. (Are interns allowed to drink? Fuck rules! Maybe this guy's a rebel at heart? Punk rock jellyfish!)
Anyway, that answer strikes him as strange, that answer's wrong, and Treavor can't let a wrong fish answer stand! Sharply he turns his head, vision not quite catching up with motion but at least he doesn't feel sick, and he's still able to flash a look of exaggerated disbelief at the guy, tossing his head just a little (still enough to dizzy him, oops, that one got him a little, feeling just a little sick for just a moment). ]
Pfff no way are you a coward, intern guy.
[ There are reasons he's certain of this. He doesn't know now what those reasons are, but he knows they exist. (Boring ones don't have good beards?) (Cowards don't come near his brothers unless they're already stuck near his brothers.) (Cowards don't walk out to the docks in the late-night with blankets.) Golden Guy doesn't feel like any kind of coward Treavor's known, and Treavor's pretty much an expert on cowards!
Golden Guy's features are finally swimming (ha ha swimiming!) into focus when Treavor tilts his focus away, back toward the water, the stars he's sure are there. ]
Where're you gonna blend in, anyway?
[ Nah, this guy's got personal features, enough so that Treavor sort of kind of recognized him here, enough so he doesn't feel like a stranger and who could hide in sand with that hair? ]
Can't lie about fish, pal.
[ Maybe that sounded mean? He should— ]
The jellyfish was pretty good. Also the...
[ He mimics the pufferfish motion. Fuck if he can find the word. ]
no subject
And so to hear his own claims to cowardice decried rings hollow.
What is he, if not hiding? Who is he, if not an altered state, carefully crafted to obscure himself in plain sight?
Ah, nevermind. Treavor is drunk. Treavor is drunk and the night is late and sick, and the water is peaceful, and he doesn’t have to convince anyone of what he really is.
Instead, he watches the other man attempt and fail to execute the little pufferfish gesture he made a moment before. Feeling oddly generous, he lifts his hand and repeats it - fist and then sudden splay of fingers, with a soft little sound effect now for Treavor’s entertainment. ]
Poff!
[ And a soft chuckle, self-deprecating, could-be-abashed. ]
Pufferfish. Or -
[ He draws out the “or”, thoughtful and looking out at the water, then hums upon reaching a new solution. ]
An electric eel?
[ A new movement of his hand, sinuous and serpentine, towards Treavor, until his fingers suddenly connect with the other man’s stomach - a gentle poke. ]
Zzzt.
no subject
'Poff,' Treavor thinks. It's a good sound. He'll have to try out that sound, is on the verge of trying that sound but instead he's giving a minor yelp, confused and then delighted, because something's got him again, but it wasn't any kind of eel, and yeah maybe he's giggling a little squirming back a little now because that eel didn't quite tickle but it caught him by surprise!
And! It was a good eel noise. (Probably? What do eels sound like? Just like that, like 'zzzt', Treavor decides.)
He bats where the poking hand was, whether the hand's still there or not. It's a clumsy swipe, playful, and yeah he's still grinning and also he would like a drink but he moves his hand and there's no bottle, he'll have to find the bottle, trouble for a minute from now or whenever from now, because at this moment it's more important that he say something, because his chest tells him he feels like talking and his mouth's coming up with words and-- ]
Think there're eels there?
[ Is he looking at the water? Somewhere in that direction. And, an idea!, accompanied by a slight shift forward, as if trying to see, as if maybe thinking the best way to find an answer would be to see for himself. ]
no subject
(His heart clenches. When was the last time he pleased anyone? When was the last time he himself felt a glow of warm contentment, felt happy, felt playful?) (He'd like to.) ((It would be nice to. Hear that laughter again.))
And for another moment, he's also maybe smiling, because Treavor's smiling, and his coworker has a nice smile and a nice laugh, and this is easy, this is fun and nothing has to be unkind about it.
It slips away so fast.
Treavor, searching for a drink. Treavor's eyes gone and his smile elsewhere and Alice blinking confusion that he could, much less would, be so enmeshed in any one or two moments of a smile. Alice looking at his now-empty hand (it's always empty) and flexing, slowly, fingers curling open and closed and open again. Alice looking out at the water with a little frown. ]
With all the garbage and chemicals -
[ Treavor's drunk, he reminds himself. And his own pessimism doesn't need to permeate the night's melancholy. It's sad enough without him. So he leans forward, too. ]
- if there are, they're ten feet long, and they've got three eyes. Can you see anything glowing neon down there?
no subject
In a hushed whisper— ]
Real eels.
[ And then, at full volume— ]
Shit, you're right.
[ Monster eels, glowing eels, like in that book, that... There was a book about a giant toothy eel, right? Or was it the Loch Ness monster? Baby Loch Ness monster? (Shit it'd be cool if they saw a baby Loch Ness monster right now, maybe they could take it home.) It did a lot of chomping, chomped a guy's legs right off, and you know what, maybe Treavor doesn't need to see the monster eels, maybe thinking about them's already pushing his luck, so he's gonna stop staring off into the water before he does see neon, you know what, you know what, he's not brave enough for that shit.
So okay goodbye eels. So he settles back a little, finds himself tending to the side, like there's a magnet drawing him, calling him, and it turns out that magnet is a shoulder and he's nudged his head against the shoulder, a nice little trick against gravity and aching heads and also this shoulder doesn't smell so bad and between the shoulder and the soft something soft blanket he's really very comfortable?
Treavor smiles a little, looking out toward the sky, out past the eels and squid and where water turns to starscape. ]
Maybe let eels be eels. They've got enough to worry about.
[ What with the sludge and all and guys trying to stare at them? probably.
And, his eyes slipping shut a little as he lingers in the warmth of this little pocket of time— ]
Poff.
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. ]
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?
no subject
For a few minutes, it's just him, and just someone, could be anyone, and they're not making any kind of music in harmony, but it's delightful anyhow. To have his arm around (a man) someone, to touch (a man) someone, to give care and regard and comfort. For a few minutes, he's almost smiling. (And wouldn't it be perfect if someone (a man) (this man?) would look back at him, would put an arm around him, would touch him, would give him -) (No. Because.)
(Because.)
(Everything would be ruined.)
(But it would feel so good.)
((And if someone (a man) (with a mouth like that) kissed him, everything would be ruined, yes, but for a moment. For one fucking moment, everything would feel good. And lately, nothing feels good.
Nothing has felt good for.
A while.))
(Except this.)
This feels. Pretty good.
And then it doesn't. Or it's gone, drifting away because Treavor's drifting away, and the song's over and the night's gone quiet and empty, leaving Alice to stare into the dark. He swallows against the stone in his throat, feels the emptiness of his hand (it didn't feel empty just now, while it worked through strands of hair, and it didn't feel empty resting comfortingly against a cheek - but hands don't keep things that don't belong in them. They don't keep the things that do, more often than not. And Treavor is just someone in need of no one in particular, whereas Alice is someone in need of someone.
Treavor isn't that someone.
It's not fair.)
He's staring at his hand when the other man speaks, watching it slowly open and close (poff). He considers the question soberly before offering any kind of answer. ]
Oh, I expect there's a place on the other side of the world. If you drive out past the city limits, into the wilderness so far that you can't see even the glow anymore...
[ He's drawing on a distant memory, editing perhaps words like 'wilderness' instead of 'bush' out of habit rather than wariness - yet still, still careful not to leave Treavor with more than faint impressions of who was here, beside him. Who held him. ]
Out there, if you look up, you can see the whole Milky Way like a river of light. You could spend thirty lifetimes counting all those tiny pinpricks and still only see a fraction of them. And you could hoard all the wishes in the world, because there's no better place to see shooting stars.
First come, first served.
[ A beat, and then -]
Hm. Maybe that's where all the stars have gone from here.
no subject
It's a thought that doesn't quite form, a recognition that leaves his heart tangled in his throat, his lungs knotted, the air cutting and bright and the entire sky explodes in stars.
Like a river of light.
That's what the voice - the guy - said: a river of light. And the words move through Treavor like revelation and renewal. And he's gaping at the sky, as if the stars described were laid before him, and doesn't it feel that way? Didn't this guy just fill the sky with stars?
His head hurts a little. It's a lot, fuck, it's so much.
His voice is a little wavered when he speaks, a lot struck with awe— ]
We'll have to bring them back.
[ All from the other side of the world. Or go to them? Who put them there, or what do the stars know, and why can't he follow them?
Why hasn't he followed them.
It's a cold thought, or he's cold, or/and he's cold, there's a blanket around him still but something's gone, there was another warmth real recently, and Treavor doesn't know where the warmth went.
(Treavor moved away.)
(To look at the stars?)
(But he can look at the stars and be warm and close too. If he's allowed.)
(Well, allowed or not, he—)
He's shouldering up against the warmth again, the person the guy again (he knows this guy; he knows who this guy is; he's not gonna dwell on that now, just let this guy keep being near and close and calm, please), his eyes still on the sky as he settles his head toward what might be the guy's shoulder, a very solid shoulder, Treavor even remembers that!
He hums at the back of his throat, a soft sound, sound of settling in and comfort in resuming his place. And - chest still tangled, lungs burning a little - he crooks a half-smile. ]
Hey, where'd my song go?
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. ]