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[byanyname]

***

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[sweatycoward]

[ That's what it was! The name, the noise, that's a pretty good fish sound, and at the 'poff' Treavor cracks a grin, barks another - less sharp, still loud - laugh, and stares at that hand as if captivated. How many fish can this guy make with his hands? He's a pretty good pro!

'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. ]

[plantdaddy]

[ For a moment - brief and shining like starlight, as though the smog and clouds cleared away - this was nice. This felt like something (innocent) (happy) (good, oh, good) without all the worries and biting efforts of the world dragging at his heels. He (a boy) had prodded Treavor (a boy) and Treavor (a boy) had laughed. Squirmed. (Pleasure. That was. Pleasure.)

(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?

[sweatycoward]

[ He starts a little, blinking but not withdrawing, aware of this guy joining in the search two eye-sets are better than one and if this guy's also looking, does it mean the eels are real?

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.

[plantdaddy]

[ 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. ]

[sweatycoward]

[ 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?). ]

Where're the stars brightest?

[plantdaddy]

[ It's a nice reprieve from - oh, everything. From the weight of doubt and distrust, from the pressure of entering an internship older than most and in the literal basement of rock bottom. From the fear of failure, fear of discovery, fear of exposure for all the things he tries so hard not to be.

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.

[sweatycoward]

[ That's fucking beautiful.

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?

[plantdaddy]

[ 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.

Just for now, while Alice's heart aches. ]