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[byanyname]

***

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.

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[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. ]