OPEN RP POST

[loyalless]

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letter to moira (for shitship classic psl)

[loyalless]

Moira Dear Moira Moira Hello,

It has been some time.

You know I’m no good with I have no talent with You’ll forgive me for I’ve begun a dozen letters to you, burned each before I could risk sending.

I’m overdue in writing. I won’t deny, and I won’t make excuses. With luck, you’ll entertain this letter in spite of my long silence.

I expect by now you’ve heard about my family. It’s true they’re dead; a sudden and unresolved affair. I needn’t dwell on their so-called loss. You saw well enough what they were.

You may also know that I’ve married. She’s It hasn’t been so wretchedly I am less

Do you remember I believe I recall You told me that I’d do well not to think about my life as ended. That even in Manhattan, I might find others worthy of my regard who would do more good than harm.

You weren’t so far off. These days I feel Around her I find myself The girl’s name is Katrina. She has been good to necessary for me welcome.

You would, I think, like her.

If you might care to find time to happen to send word of how you’ve fared, I would receive it gladly. I won’t say that I don’t think about you. You were a good friend when a good friend when all else proved arduous. Please, give my regards to your spouse. And be as well as you’re able.

Fond Not Un-fond With Regards,

Treavor

without the strikethroughs bc ffs treavor

[loyalless]

Hello,

It has been some time.

I’m overdue in writing. I won’t deny, and I won’t make excuses. With luck, you’ll entertain this letter in spite of my long silence.

I expect by now you’ve heard about my family. It’s true they’re dead; a sudden and unresolved affair. I needn’t dwell on their loss. You saw well enough what they were.

You may also know that I’ve married.

You told me that I’d do well not to think about my life as ended. That even in Manhattan, I might find others who would do more good than harm.

You weren’t so far off. The girl’s name is Katrina. She has been welcome.

You would, I think, like her.

If you happen to send word of how you’ve fared, I would receive it gladly. I won’t say that I don’t think about you. You were a good friend when all else proved arduous. Please, give my regards to your spouse. And be as well as you’re able.

With Regards,

Treavor

word association meme

[sweatycoward]

treavor pendleton | modern au

[sweatycoward]

Poker.

treavor pendleton | canon / classic / remix

[loyalless]

Vexatious.

morgan pendleton

[halfdozenoftheother]

Puncture.

[harpsibored]

Icepick.

[halfdozenoftheother]

Precision.

[harpsibored]

Scalpel.

for Alice

[sweatycoward]

((the morning after this thread.))


[ He remembers…

The harbor.

Looking for stars.

(The stars… gone. The stars were somewhere?)

(A sensation at his head, the wind (or… fingers?) through his hair. Assuring, easing, light.)

(Stars like a… (river).)

(Feeling welcomed in. Being pulled toward. And no jarring to follow.)

(The stars brought back, laid bare before him, stars that stole his breath.)

He remembers drifting off to the bass of a song. Covered in warmth and feeling like he’d been wrapped in safety, a weight around his shoulders like an entire convocation of blankets or like, maybe like, somebody against him, and feeling, only feeling…

Oh, at peace.

(He remembers laughter, he thinks.)

The memory of it. The aftermath of what did or didn’t happen. It’s like soft sunlight filtered through sheer curtains to settle on his skin. Spreads comfort through him, and Treavor’s inclined to drift in this space, feeling touched with gold and almost okay, feeling almost - for the moment, for the moment, even in spite of an aching head and rising nausea - right with the world.

(What happened after - if there was an after; there must have been an after - doesn’t come clear right away. A jostled ride home or a shambling, staggering walk. Heaviness in his head. A… cat? Maybe? And… And…)

There are sounds nearby. Not jagged; also not familiar. This… Place he’s sleeping. Doesn’t feel familiar. (It’s comfortable. A couch? That makes sense. But. Whose?) And he’s pretty sure these aren’t his clothes.

(Pretty sure there's a gagged and noxious feeling in his head, his chest. Needs a drink. He definitely needs a drink.)

It’s probably not worth asking how he got here, and he’s not sure he wants to know or look around and risk breaking the morning’s (afternoon’s?) warmth. Waking up means dealing with wherever he is and whatever he’s done. Means reality seeping cold over him, leaving him to stare down a biting hangover and a patchy memory.

Like it or not, his brain starts running dim and halting calculations. Not pressing, but active, a half-assed means of preparing himself for whatever might be waiting. So. He crept into someone else’s home again, curled up on their couch, only that doesn’t make sense, strangers don’t cover him in blankets or take his clothes away, replace his clothes with other clothes, and this isn’t Sheldon’s place (which means - a stinging thought - no Amaryllis) or the place of anyone he knows, and if he hooked up with someone why is he still here, why would they’ve let him stay, or…

Or he could. Crack open an eye, flinching against the world in color, world with whatever spots of light. Could catch sight of a perfectly arranged room, apartment, something, and a figure off across in some kind of kitchen, a figure that is… Does this person not notice him? Not know he’s here? Did Treavor blend into the couch (which is, he’s realizing more and more, a pretty comfortable couch) and avoid getting chased off? And why does that figure look not not familiar?

That figure. Is actually, recently, one that’s begun to become very familiar.

…Huh.

He doesn't...

Huh.

Was (the intern) (Alice) this guy there last night? Did (Alice) this guy come scrape him up out of some sense of obligation or pity? Did his brothers send the guy after him?

(No.

There’d been messages. This guy suddenly saying he was going to show up. This guy showing up and… Yeah, he had been there. Had sat with Treavor. And. And. There are pieces he can’t quite draw together, the ache in his head growing, the haze of morning still holding him.)

(Alice sat with him.)

(It’s? Confusing. He doesn’t want to think about it now.)

He’s watching the guy. Has been watching the guy for a little while now, reluctant to speak, part of him still clinging to the quiet of the morning, but if he lets silence sit too long he’s going to start trying to think, trying to wonder, and he could try sneaking out of the apartment but that doesn’t seem feasible, the maybe-exit being visible from where the guy is, and also Treavor doesn’t know where his clothes are and isn’t in a mood for running around in a blanket and whatever he’s got on now.

And also. He cold use a drink. There’s definitely, definitely that.

So. Trying to raise his head a little, letting his head fall back down when the effort turns him dizzy, opening his mouth once, twice without sound, he finally manages a ragged-sounding effort. ]

Hey, it’s you. Fly-guy.

[plantdaddy]

[ He remembers.

Everything.

That's how it goes with mistakes. They sear into the brain, creating their own vicious pathways like ruts in the road, and Alice has been trudging along those ruts all morning. Scrutinizing every detail, every stupid decision he made from the moment he chose to leave his apartment last night until he woke up in broad daylight with a wrench in his neck and his arms around.

(Him.)

Stupid. Stupid idea to bring him here. It was stupid to go out last night when he was feeling those feelings, because. (Because if he gets caught.) (Because he's weak.) (Because he let himself be weak.) (With his bosses' brother, fuck, fuck.)

(But.)

(But Treavor.) (He thinks the name and his insides turn to, mm, liquid starlight.)

(Where'd my song go?

Treavor moved and he moved and it was a rightness beyond words, how they moved toward one another. Treavor in his arms like he belonged. Smiling at him, for him, that smile was for him.)

He. He has to sort this out.

He didn't do anything wrong. Just comforted a drunk coworker. Maybe he'd been a little friendlier than normal. But he didn't take any kind of advantage, didn't try anything.

(Didn't try much at all, really. Treavor nuzzling his neck, and he hadn't. Tried very hard to stop it, had he? Just laughed helpless and low, just a hand shaking and tentative, held breathlessly near black hair (fingering black hair and his eyes closing with something like, something like bliss.) Hey, hey, come on, stop -

Perfunctory.)

(Weak.)

(But the thought of a perfect mouth maybe accidentally maybe not so accidentally brushing his throat, arced with care of course because Treavor was drunk and careless and careless nuzzling against the roughness of a beard could lead to scuffing. And 'hey, hey, stop's that dissolved into laughter did nothing to hey, hey, stop it.)

(Weak.)

(But he needed so much care.)

That. There's the thought that keeps Alice from going entirely off the rails. (It's the thought that flooded him like a drug last night, near-orgasmic, and he doesn't analyze it. He can't. He doesn't dare approach the why of it, what makes his hands shake and his heart pound at the notion of taking care of someone.)

(...No. Not someone.

Treavor. Just Treavor. Stupid, helpless, drunk Treavor. Who has done nothing but make his life miserable for weeks. Treavor, who.

Is a fucking cunt. (A minor twinge, guilty, and a glance cast from the kitchen to the sofa, as though Treavor can somehow hear his thoughts.))

Okay. Okay, so. So why, if Treavor is such a shit, is Alice making breakfast? He has asked himself this question several times in the endless loop of his thoughts. He could just wake the other man up and tell him it's time to trudge on back to the harbor or home or wherever he wants to go that isn't here.

The answer he rationalizes: Treavor is a guest. He's going to be a good host, and give his guest breakfast. (And aspirin, and water, and probably some clean clothes, and he'll probably need a shower, actually-)

The answer he doesn't admit: he doesn't. Want it to end yet. Some part of him that woke last night is lingering, drowsy still but curious (oh, and aching, hurting deeper than any wound he's ever felt inflicted before, as though Treavor lanced him through with a knife instead of a smile. Where'd my song go?)

The answer he compromises on: he's lonely. It's nice. It's nice to have someone here. It's nice to fuss over someone, and not just his plants and his cat. It makes it feel a little like a home.

He hears stirring and forces himself not to look. (He wants to look.) (He wants so badly to look.) (Fuck him, he can imagine it without looking: Treavor in borrowed, ill-fitting pajamas, his hair a mess, a magnet for any Alices in the room that might be tempted by someone in need of care.) Ignores it.

Until the temptation starts talking, of course.

Alice goes still over the eggs (he didn't ask, only assumed scrambled, because Treavor seems like a scrambled eggs sort of person, and the other kinds of egg varieties are apt to cause nausea for one with a hangover), then turns just enough to look over his shoulder and gauge Treavor's situation as though he wasn't already aware. As though he doesn't anticipate and prepare for every outcome.

(Except one.) ]

There's water and aspirin on the table beside you.

[ His voice is unimposing, low - conscientious, clearly, of the other man's state.

And he watches, not because there's anything to observe, but because looking away is too hard. (Because with his glasses on, he can see the perfect curve of a lower lip even from over here. And the upturn of a nose. The tilt of a jaw that he didn't touch, not once, but he can feel it against his palm.) Opens his hand. Flexes his fingers. Closes his hand to a loose fist. Relaxes, runs his thumb across his fingertips.

Finally, he looks away. ]

Take your time. There's no hurry.

[sweatycoward]

[ This is (Alice’s) the intern’s apartment.

This is the intern’s (Alice’s) couch.

And that’s (Alice) the man himself over in the kitchen.

(Looking like. He belongs here?) (Fucking of course he does, it’s his home. Probably.) (Is this his blanket? (It smells nice.))

That’s the man himself telling Treavor there’s no. Hurry? Telling him take his time. (And wouldn’t Treavor like to sink back into halfway-sleeping, letting the cushion of this couch and the soft scent of this blanket and the not-too-noxious sound and smell of eggs (is someone cooking? the guy is cooking, but people don’t cook around Treavor) simmer around him, keeping him safe from whatever the day may bring?) (What fuckin. Day is it even? He doesn’t know. Whatever, who gives a shit about days.) Watching and then not watching and it isn’t an invasive look the guy’s giving, and Treavor doesn’t really hate it, or even offer the challenge of a pointed staring back. Treavor watches, bleary and curious, but maybe the guy can look if he wants.

It’s the intern’s home, right? He can do what he wants.

(Okay but why bring Treavor here? Nowhere else to go? Didn’t know where Treavor’s meant to go. That. Could make sense, sure. And he found Treavor and thought he had to take Treavor somewhere? Maybe had to take Treavor somewhere.

Hey, shit. Is that what the internship is? Being paid to take care of Treavor? Fuck, it isn’t unlikely.

Only. If this guy’s being paid for it, he’s… doing an okay job. Actually, too good of a job, because in what world would Custis and Morgan pay anybody to do more than hustle Treavor from one place to another? No way they’d pay someone to… Linger on the docks with him. Take him to an apartment that isn’t Treavor’s own?

(Wrap him soft in blankets. Sing to him?) (Leave him feeling pretty okay, like the night before was gentle, like he’s got no real reason to fear.)

Jesus, he can’t keep. Trying to work this out.)

He can’t think his way into understanding the situation and okay, okay in fairness, he couldn’t think his way out of a wet paper bag right now, and maybe it’s better not to know what’s happened (isn’t it always?) (but he… works with this guy) (is gonna see this guy again and again and again). Maybe the answer’ll present itself, or it won’t. Just. Let it be for now. Take the fallout when it comes, if it comes.

He thinks about getting up. (The guy said there’s aspirin. He could use aspirin.) (Could also use a drink, and that’s a lot more appealing than any little tablet of half-hearted healing.) Ends up drawing the blanket tighter around him (a flickered memory: softness draped around his shoulder, night air muffled suddenly; a blanket from out of nowhere, and a steady, unhostile hand). Looking around the room, clamping his eyes shut (he needs a breath; he needs that aspirin, he needs some scotch, then watching the guy again, the guy who’s busy with eggs or something, the guy who’s got his hair up and right, this guys got lots of hair, and he doesn’t look like a total jag with that bun, huh. ]

You’ve got glasses.

[ He winces against his own voice, tries to focus on those glasses, thinks to himself, ha ha, nerd.

…Ha ha, the guy doesn’t. Look like a nerd. Even if he is one. Who aside from nerds and sharks and shitty younger brothers would hang out in lawyer-land?

Anyway. And okay but, the real question… ]

Got anything to drink?

[plantdaddy]

No.

[ The answer is automatic, but without either accusation or apology. He doesn't keep hard liquor in the apartment; why would he, when he doesn't drink it, himself, but on the rare occasion? Why, when he doesn't entertain anyone? It would only go to waste, or sit like a condemnation on some shelf - a reminder of all the things he isn't doing, the people he doesn't see. The hours he spends alone.

(Eighty hours or more a week in that basement for the past, oh, month?) (His human contact has been Treavor. The majority of his human contact. Is it any wonder -)

(Is what. Any wonder.)

By now, he's arranging food onto a plate from a set he was given by his stepmother (a housewarming gift, for entertaining, some slate gray stoneware made in Portugal and sold at markup in the mall or something, and it's nice, to her credit, but when is he ever going to have eight fucking people in his apartment? When does he ever have more than one?) and turning back to see that Treavor really hasn't moved.

If anything, he seems to have burrowed down deeper into the blanket. (Alice feels an unfurling, feels the corner of his mouth defy gravity, this mess, this utter mess, look at him.) ]

Yes to the glasses, though.

[ Inane comment, just to show he hasn't ignored Treavor, hasn't let the conversation fall fallow after answering about the alcohol.

He likes his glasses. He spends so much time being someone else in his contacts, with his long sleeves, with his hair in a neat ponytail, with his performative accent. It's nice to be here, and himself, with his admittedly unfashionable glasses, and his soft sweaters with the sleeves rolled up to bare his arms (he spent all that money on the ink and now only ever hides it), and yes, with his man bun.

The last thing he does before crossing the open space between them is dampen a towel with cool water. On reaching the sofa, he sets the food well enough aside that the food's smell won't assault his (Treavor) guest, and crouches near the other man's head.

(And he tries not to think.

Of a smile.

Of eyes he drowned in.

Of the warmth of a body.

Of arms. Of an empty hand under an empty hand. Of Otis Redding. Of water or fish or starlight or a nuzzling against his throat or (perfection of non-celestial bodies) how easily Treavor fit against him.)

He thinks of what he's doing. Of being careful. Of showing the towel and making no sudden movements before pressing it, cool and comforting - if allowed - to the forehead he stroked last night, and then to the neck he wished he could have.

And his voice is earnest, and sure, and full of comfort, the same as the empty hand he rests on Treavor's head. ]

You'll be okay. I'll help. We'll sit you up slowly so you can take these, have a little water, and then see how you feel about eating.

Small steps. But there's no hurry. And - I'm here.

[ That feels like it should mean something.

It does. Mean something. ]

for alice

[sweatycoward]

[ The decision comes upon him suddenly, as he’s wandering back from Sheldon’s place, still feeling the bright of seeing Amaryllis (trying to keep out the misery of leaving Amaryllis, of knowing he can’t keep her with him, knowing he has to visit her and leave her every time), feeling like the world’s not the worst place and maybe Treavor isn’t ready to go back home or let the day turn chaotic and jagged with drinking. Maybe the bright feeling doesn’t have to end, because the sun’s glowing warm and he doesn’t hate it, got shades to protect his eyes, because he’s smiling a little and no one in the crowd around’s telling him to back the fuck off, no one’s telling him he looks like an asshole, and wouldn’t it be nice to maybe share this feeling with Alice?

Yeah. Yeah. And that’s exactly what he’s going to do!

It takes some time, some walking, some stopping by a shop to pick up a ‘hey just thought I’d swing by’ gift, but finally he winds up in front of Alice’s door, a bottle of Perrier in hand (which he felt kind of stupid carrying over; which in Treavor’s opinion is kind of the jester’s ghost of a drink, but if Alice is into sparkling water, then fuck it, Treavor can set aside some pride and buy the shit and even be seen with the shit), his grin returning. Yeah, this was a good idea. Yeah, maybe Alice’ll even like it, having a little company.

Maybe Alice’ll like having Treavor’s company. It’s been a… pretty nice couple of weeks, hasn’t it? The guy still hasn’t gotten sick of Treavor and Treavor’s starting to not hate going in to work, because work means hanging out with Alice, watching Alice, fixing focus on the guy and almost forgetting where they are.

Treavor would definitely, definitely like Alice’s company right now. (It feels good, being around the guy. Treavor feels almost good, being around him! It’s a feat, and Treavor tries not to question it, only really wants to curl himself into the reality of this (more-than-?-)friendliness.

He shifts his fingers against the bottle’s neck, hopes it’s an okay kind for Alice. Treavor finished his own drink on the way over, tossed the empty bottle aside (nearly pitched it into an alley because why the fuck not, then - on an impulse he does and doesn’t connect to a certain someone with a certain penchant for cleanliness - dropped it in a garbage can, instead), and didn’t even bring his flask. (He’s a little unsettled knowing he’ll have no recourse if he wants a (needs a) drink. It feels like asking for trouble, like the worst kind of unpreparedness.) (He’s a little - dimly, vaguely, almost - proud of himself for managing it, the way he’s managed not really drinking in the office, mostly managing to step out out if he needs something.)

Anyway, it’s worth flying precarious if it means seeing Alice. Who is… Probably home? Treavor hadn’t texted to ask. Treavor had decided to surprise Alice, and has been running on the blind faith that probably Alice is home right now, Treavor feels like Alice should be home, which okay isn’t stellar evidence, but it’s something! Maybe.

He could open the door and step on in. (He could open the door because Alice gave him a key, just like that. The gift of a safe space, sanctuary if he needs it. Sanctuary, because Alice is a good goddamn guy, and now Treavor keeps Alice’s key right next to Sheldon’s key, and looks at it sometimes, thinks, shit, shit, he can be safe any time now. And isn’t he a little more secure always, these days, knowing Alice is around?) He’s got a key, but it’s polite to give warning, right? Alice seems like he’s into those kinds of signals. Also, judging by Treavor’s experience, people don’t especially, especially like when anyone stumbles into their home unannounced. So Treavor knocks, adding— ]

Special delivery!

[ For a pretty, pretty special guy.

…Who doesn’t answer.

Who doesn’t come to the door, even after Treavor knocks a few more times, waits what must be the span of a whole minute.

So maybe Alice isn’t around. (A thought that starts to sink Treavor. A thought that showers chill upon his warmth.) Maybe Treavor fucked this up, showed up to no one, hoped too high—

Or, no. Because you know what? Never mind with the sad sack story. If Alice isn’t around now, Treavor’ll chill with Hope for a while and leave a note with the Perrier, or he’ll just hang around until Alice shows up. Not so bad, right? If nothing else, he’ll get to take in a little bit of Alice’s space, feels the traces of the guy in every dustless corner.

Opening the door, Treavor takes another try at alerting Alice, just in case the guy was asleep or listening to probably some news podcast or something, not bothering to muffle the noise of his voice. ]

Alice? Hope?

Hey, anyone home?

[plantdaddy]

[ It's a beautiful day.

It's been a beautiful month. Alice has lived in private states of happiness heretofore unknown to him, an almost-perfection he thought unobtainable. (It's not perfect. He's not deluded enough to believe that this is the best he can give, or expect; he knows there are complications lying in wait, and there are skeletons in closets, and there are conversations that will one day be had.

But not today. Not this week. Maybe not for a while.)

It has also been a stressful month. The additional (pleasurable, mm, exciting, Christ) 'burden' of caring for Treavor is still work, in addition to the eighty-hour work week he was already clocking. In addition to the necessities of his own routine. ('Necessities.' Cleaning. His own meticulous fastidiousness.) Thankfully, he has some expertise at multitasking. Thankfully, some of the eighty hours was already earmarked for Treavor's indulgences.

Thankfully, it feels so good to indulge. (Washing that godawful shirt, important memory shirt, by hand, with the good detergent, and pressing it on low heat.) (Sliding a lunch in front of the other man every other day or so.) (Fussing over his appearance - combing his hair, no, you have to button that button right now, you can unbutton it after this meeting, I'll even unbutton it for you, making sure he never wears the same clothes twice or goes unwashed.)

It feels. So fucking good.

(Lately, he's been thinking, and thinking, and thinking, about the slow and gentle scrape of a straight razor along Treavor's jaw, and feeling like the stars might explode behind his eyes.) (Poff.)

Still. It's nice to have some time without responsibility, without work or worry or even the pleasant indulgence of caring for Treavor.

Just Alice, and Hope, and some plants on the balcony.

She has her own stash growing in a planter with the rest of the greenery he cultivates. Alice buys what he needs from a Reputable Source of Good Shit, of course. Just enough for an afternoon spent lazily in a hammock, enjoying the first truly warm day of spring, some blues playing tinny and light from his phone. Hope now loafed and purring in her own cat bed nearby - a hammock-like sling he thought was funny and still finds funny.

He doesn't do this often anymore. But he does know what he needs to get where he's going. How much will get him to that place of boneless contentment rather than giggling stupidity, or philosophical babbling, or worse, cravings.

He's almost there, thinking about blue sky and Treavor's perfect curving mouth when he hears someone talking.

Lifting his head, he looks around and then down at the cat as if to say, did you hear...? And then looks over his shoulder toward the balcony doors.

There's movement, lanky and wandering, and oh, he knows that body. (He'd like to know that body.) (Should he have that thought?) (Can Treavor he..ar that thought?) (Probably not on that side of the glass. It's okay.)

Alice reaches back with his empty hand and gently raps his knuckles on the doors. And smiles faintly.

Out here, you beautiful creature. Magnificent being. Starlight and chaos and harbor water and fish. ]

[sweatycoward]

[ He’s here!

Yeah, Treavor jumped a little at the sound - oh shit, is somebody here? is someone breaking in? - but the startle turns into a smile, because look at that, everything’s all right all over again! Treavor doesn’t have to wait around wondering, because Alice is here already.

Alice is taking in the sun, maybe, maybe actually taking a moment to chill out? There’s a half-moment’s hesitation: what if he just walked in on Alice’s got-to-be-important alone time? What if Alice is having some peace and quiet, and Treavor’s just busted in and broken the whole thing?

Alice doesn’t look annoyed. Or he didn’t when he turned, gave that little sorta-smile through the glass. (Sent Treavor melting, dizzied by even this trace of pleasure. Alice is a guy who should smile more. Alice is a guy who needs reason to smile more, and at some point in the past few weeks, Treavor’d parenthetically decided to dig up reasons for those smiles and give this guy whatever bit of bright he can.

Weird, to think Treavor can give anyone a bit of good feeling or a reason to smile, actually honestly smile.)

He slides open the door carefully, not too wide. Enough to stick his head and a shoulder out. Enough to note the strains of easy blues, good fuckin blues drifting on the air. Enough to register Hope loafed up in a mini-hammock, holy shit she’s got her own fucking hammock. Enough to catch the scent of lingered weed, and heyyy, hold the fuckin phone, did he know Alice was into the stuff? Well shit, good for the guy!

This vantage is also enough to afford a better view on Alice stretched on in a hammock, looking for all the world like he’s slipped the stranglehold of work and worry, like he’s on the cusp of melting into the light. Like he’s kept soft and safe in that t-shirt (look at the guy! so casual, hey whoa, it’s almost a shock he owns a t-shirt) (the pant cuffs come as less of a shock, that’s just Alice all over), like everything right where he is, in that hammock, is absolutely fucking perfect.

When Treavor opened the door, he’d had a mind to apologize, to ask whether he was disturbing anything, maybe mention he’d just come by to drop the bottle off and could be out and away again without - hopefully without - collapsing the ease Alice seems to’ve found. Now that Treavor’s out here, though (half-way out here; sort of out here; still lingering half-in the apartment just in case it’s better for Alice), those words escape him. He’s left with the soft radiance before him and the way it feels so good - so fucking good - to see Alice relaxed. To see that the guy can relax, and that he’s given himself some time away from worry.

Treavor would like to step out on the balcony. To stand beside Alice, hey, maybe crouch or even kneel beside Alice, just watch the way the sun settles over the man, wraps him in a glow. Would like maybe to take Alice’s sun-wrapped hand, to press that hand against his own cheek. (Wouldn't mind kissing the guy's own cheek, nuzzling that cheek, and he wouldn't mind the beard's itch at all.) To stay like that for, oh, a while. Hours, maybe. All day, if he could, and if Alice wouldn’t mind.

Treavor’d also settle for standing right where he is and recording every detail of Alice’s ease, what the guy looks like when he’s not caught up in ceaseless activity. Treavor will take this image and hold it in his mind, at his chest. Will turn it over and over for weeks on end, thinking how right it looked to see Alice relaxed, thinking how this - along with smiling - is something Alice could use more of.

Guy needs a goddamn break, huh?

Guy’s getting a break, and Treavor’s smiling at him, pleased and surprised and admiring, then speaking hushed and a little daft— ]

Nice day?

[plantdaddy]

[ Alice carefully blunts out what he'd been smoking against a ceramic ashtray before the balcony door opens (can't let the smoke waft into the apartment) (can't waste it) and settles back, one arm bent behind his head. The other hand comes to rest on his stomach, comfortable (it's a good shirt, this shirt. Soft cotton, the thin vintage kind of soft cotton, washed so many times it's just right but not so many times that it's begun to fade, and if Treavor hadn't opened the door and poked his head out, Alice might have moved it over his stomach, back and forth with an open hand and a faintly daft smile.

Good shirt. The best shirt.)

There's his Treavor. His. (His?)

Yeah. His. He's smiling, drowsy-eyed, head turned and comfortable on his arm, and that's his Treavor (the head and shoulder parts, there's more of him on the other side of the glass) (how to get the rest of him, huh), looking great. Looking like Alice did something pretty great, himself, and that sends a flood of warm affection through him.

(Alice has decided, if not previously, then as of this moment, that Treavor has the best smile in the world. He would like to take a picture of that smile, but taking a picture of it means it can go to the cloud, and if it goes there, someone else will see it. And then it won't be just for him anymore, will it? Treavor will be smiling at someone else.

No, he likes this. Him, and Hope, and Treavor on his balcony, and that smile just for Alice. His heartbeat slow, but unsteady. His nerves calm but his stomach filled with fluttering pleasure.

Maybe. Maybe Treavor will come over and let him trace that perfect smile with his fingertips. (He was just thinking about his mouth, wasn't he? His pout over a single button, and what it would be like to run a thumb along his lip, to kiss him, to make him forget all about pouting or make him pout more?) (He's been staring a little too long at Treavor's mouth.)

(It doesn't occur to him to ask why Treavor's here. Of course he's here. He should be here, because the world is right today, and it's only right when Alice moves and Treavor moves and they come together with perfect synchronicity.)

(Beautiful. Beautiful. Fuck, he's so- )

Beautiful.

And talking?

Alice blinks slowly, and then makes a sound that's almost a laugh, and mostly a purr deep in his throat: content. Desiring. Pleased. ]

Now it is. Nice view, too.

[ And then, as though the idea only just occurred to him - and truthfully, it did only just fully form in the sluggish higher functioning of his mind - he adds coaxingly: ]

Hey.

[ Alice lifts his hand from his stomach and extends it rather gracefully to the other man. ]

Come here, Beautiful.

[ A lazy, charming smile - there's no doubt he's flirting, no doubt he's giving his most innocently enticing effort. You can trust me. I'm harmless. ]

Stay a while.

[halfdozenoftheother]

From the airport to the cab; from the cab to Darius fucking can’t keep his glomming hands to his putrid fucking self fucking Scarlett’s fucking door.

Morgan seething. Morgan blank beyond livid eyes. Morgan subtly disheveled, after the plane and after the furious ride to the hotel. Morgan held like a searing knife, ready to ruin.

He hadn’t wanted to come to this asinine excuse for a wedding in this first fucking place. Waverly doesn’t merit the support. The miserable shitstains gathering don’t mean a thing. Better to have remained in the wilderness with Lydia. Better to have extended their trip, and avoided this work of overdressed nonsense.

—Or not.

Or not, because there’s been a complication.

A mistake.

Because someone’s got to burn this mistake and all its fucking traces to the ground.

What the fuck, what the fuck was Custis thinking, was Alice thinking, or was it their wastrel of a fucking brother that brought this into being, a supposition that fucking fits, because Treavor’s got a history of just this kind of fuck-ups and Treavor was supposed to watch the boy, and of course it’d be the waste of fucking space’s doing, and of all the fucking people for Enri to take up with—

Morgan is furious.

Of course he’s fucking furious, hearing where the boy (Enri) (their son) has gone. (Been taken? Been lured? Morgan will rip the bastard’s throat out.) Morgan scarcely notices anyone as he passes through the hotel. Doesn’t spare a look to half-familiar faces or attendants or worried-looking strangers. He has his goal; nothing beyond matters.

The boy can’t stay there.

And Morgan will rend Scarlett readily if the shitweasel shows a single fucking hair of himself.

He pounds on the door upon arriving, three heavy knocks, sharp, his voice a bellowed command: “Enri!”

If there’s no response he’ll break the fucking thing down, and never mind who’s watching.

[honeystuff]

With tented fingers to his chest and an increasingly familiar, approving smile, Darius told him to stay. Enri lay sprawled and stretching contentedly in bed, satiated and thinking happily of nothing at all, because Daddy has everything under control. Daddy's stepping out onto the luxurious patio to make a phone call; dimly, now, Enri can hear him swearing at someone for interrupting their time together, and all is right with the world.

This new, unimagined world, where his mind is pleasantly, perpetually hazed. Where he, body and heart and soul, exists at the whim of his god outside of time, outside of any obligation but the demands Daddy sets for him.

There are aches. There's subtle strain and the sting of bites across his skin, and Daddy is with him, written in bruises, speaking in dim flickering pain. (Enri has never minded pain.) (He loves it now.) There are aches, but they don't matter at all. Nothing matters except Daddy, and what Daddy does to Puppy.

(The bruises on Daddy's throat. What Puppy does to Daddy matters, too.)

A curl of pleasure in his abdomen draws a bowed-back stretch and a warm bass hum from him. He wants more. (Darius.) (His Darius.) ((The things they did, how they made the night pass through shadows of forest and bright lit inferno. How they pressed body to body.

How the balmy night air felt on the bare skin of his shoulders, when they dressed and left the chapel and strolled, lingered on dunes by the water. The world was empty of anyone else, an expanse of water and star-shot sky, and they were gods together. And here, in this room (their room), Darius claimed him over and over. Bit and whispered and did - things. Nameless things. Incredible things, turning Enri inside out, playing Enri like an orchestra until he sang.

Howled.

And begged for more.

And called him my adoration. Traded (for now, for this time, for a week) heart for heart.

He has never been as happy as he is here, with Darius. And nothing else matters.))

He's reaching for his phone, thinking maybe he'll interrupt whatever Daddy's got going out there, when the room shudders with the heavy vibration of a fist at the door.

And Enri shudders to stillness with the heavy vibration of a fist in the form of his name.

(He knows the difference between the twins.) (He knows what Morgan sounds like.) (He has only heard him rage once, in twenty-two years.)

The mental haze recedes slightly, enough for panic to set in. Enough for him to mouth fuck and look at the door leading outside - not to see if Daddy (no no no no DARIUS it has to be Darius can't say Daddy can't even think it) Darius is coming to his rescue, but to make sure he stays there, out of sight, out of range. And then he scrambles out of bed in a wild flurry of bare limbs, hunting for clothes. (An immediate wash of guilt, sudden and swift and sure: he shouldn't have moved. Daddy said stay.) Finding his jeans under the bed and kicking into them, thinking I need to move, need to be fast alongside I need to stay, I'm supposed to stay -

(He needs a shirt.)

(No, he needs to get back in bed.)

Because if he's not fast.

(He can't let them see the bites.) (The bruises.) (They'll know.)

(Daddy said stay, he need to go back to bed before Daddy catches him disobeying.)

If he doesn't get to the door.

(Where the fuck is his shirt?!)

(He can't do this, this is wrong, Daddy said stay-)

Morgan is going to bust it the fuck down.

[halfdozenoftheother]

Five, six, seven seconds, his breath a burning seethe.

Ten seconds, eleven, head clearing to coruscating blankness. Weight shifting to his back heel, shoulders gathered, hands stilling.

Fifteen seconds strikes sudden: Morgan’s heel connecting below the lock with a sound of splinters giving way. One more kick cracks gunshot-raucous through the hallway, and Morgan’s hand shoots through the shattered frame to draw the handle - catching at a clutch of jagged wood, skin tearing with a scent of fresh iron - and rip the door open.

Nothing now stands between Morgan and the room. Three steps in, and he catches sight of (their son) (Enri) the boy ((half-clothed)) ((panicked)) ((bruised and bitten)) ((exposed)). Fixes his eyes on Enri and listens, senses, finds no sign of Scarlett. (Fucking coward. Fucking self-satisfied rot. Expecting to return and continue what he’s wrought.)

Morgan’s fist curls.

Morgan breathes.

And Morgan speaks, voice resonant, growled at the edges and crashing loud.

“Enri. Now.”

Meaning, 'We're leaving.'

Meaning, 'This ends right now.'

[honeystuff]

The silence after the shatter. Enri standing, staring not quite like a deer in headlights (if the deer can shift, can make itself a wolf and flicker back again, dual forms of terror and anger.)

A single, outraged thought: He has no right. (Swiftly following: He has every right.) (Does he?) (No one has a right to come between him and his Da-(Darius!)) (His god. His world.) He blinks away the deluge of thoughts, his brows knitting.

The command hits like a blow and he visibly recoils from his confusion (from Morgan), lips drawn back from his teeth and fists clenching (he knows not to attack this man his father Morgan who is stronger who can be cruel who has never been cruel to him but he possesses capacity he is dangerous) (he has no right, he has no fucking right to give orders like Enri is a wayward child (a puppy.))

There were times during their visits to Iowa when Morgan would issue a command, and of course. Of course Enri obeyed. Even when Felix turned sour-faced, and argumentative, Enri (desperate to please Morgan) (hoping this time it would mean they'd stay, or take the boys with them) obeyed. (It was always after, as they were leaving, that he threw his worst tantrums. That he broke furniture, threw stones, once ran himself at the car taking his parents from him. He had believed that the Best Behavior would somehow change their minds.

He was always disappointed.)

He always obeyed.

He doesn't obey now.

His expression bears kin-familiar malevolence, accusation, defiance. ((They abandoned him)) ((Daddy didn't abandon him.)) ((Only Daddy can tell him what to do.) (Daddy told him to stay and he didn't stay and he's going to be so disapproving, so unhappy with his Puppy.)) (Darius, he needs Darius, he needs Darius, he needs-) (-to do what he's told-) (-by Daddy-) (-by his father.)

He thinks -

You fucking prick.

His face reddens with rage both impotent and not (he is an adult) (he's in the goddamned Army, he's been to war zones) ((everyone's a deserter) (maybe not Darius, who will drag him through hell and agony, who will leave his signature across Enri's skin in blood and purple bruises, but who will (for a week) keep him. Loyal to his Puppy.)) The veins of his arm cord with a violently clenched fist, his mouth setting a hard line.

(This is his father.)

(He loves his father.) (Or the idea of his father.)

(He loves Darius.) (Or the idea of Darius.)

What does it come down to. He obeys them both.

(Who hasn't left him (yet) (because everyone's a deserter in the end)?)

Where does he want to be?

Morgan (is his father, he needs to think this through, he needs to be calm-) (Darius said stay and he didn't stay, he'll think Enri abandoned him, fuck fuck fuck-) -

Morgan has no fucking right.

He can't make the word come. He can't form it with his tongue, but slowly, he shakes his head. No.

dialogue prompts!

[onefellswoop]

1) “I should have warned him, yes, but I wanted to see how it would play out.”

2) “Where on earth did you learn to do that?”

3) “We’re about to turn this room very uncomfortable.”

4) “Oh, that’ll cost extra.”

5) "Did that shithead just give us a look?"

6) "Tell me your sins. See if I absolve you."

Re: dialogue prompts!

[honeystuff]

[ Enri has sprawled on one of Null Set's plush couches, an arm draped along the back, and tilts his head inquisitively now at Darius.

The smile playing at the corners of his mouth suggests he isn't that inquisitive; he knows what Darius meant. However, it's more fun to play dumb and innocent (with this man, and not with anyone who thinks he might actually be dumb and innocent.)

They almost weren't welcomed in through the door; the doorman remembered Enri from 'last time', where last time was the incident with Mark. The doorman did not remember Darius, because - as Enri has gleaned - he is an unreliable and often scarce employee. He had waited for Darius to handle it (which is to say, he had stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets, and then bounced up and down on the balls of his feet wearing a shit-eating smirk while Darius took care of it.)

And now here he sits with his drink and his playful smile, the pair of them waiting for Rin and Sen. ]

Are you uncomfortable? I'm not uncomfortable.

[onefellswoop]

[ This little shit.

He's smirking at Enri - very nearly beaming, though he doesn't know it - looking over the man's sprawled form, seeing how easily he makes himself at home here. (Thinking, the boy could belong here. They both could belong here, and Darius doesn't give much of a shit about belonging, not usually, but— There's an appeal to this place.

And, yes, to the shitheads who run it.)

He could text Sen, remind the shithead that he and Rin are meant to be down here. Tell the shithead to remind the various doormen that Enri is in fact not a liability to be shunned to the street. Let the shithead know that he'd given the intermittent doorman known as Doyle a vehement dressing-down, because doesn't he know Enri's got fucking amnesty coming in here, doesn't he know this man is with Darius, who fuck you very much actually knows the owner and won't stand for your mistreatment, Grady fucking Missed the Last Two Shifts fucking Doyle.

It'll wait.

Just now, Enri looks so inviting, Enri's smile is playful, looking for and inviting trouble, and Darius sinks onto the sofa beside him, very nearly on top of him, setting a hand at Enri's shoulder, moving in for Enri's lip. To draw that lip between his teeth and lightly bite, tug. Then to offer a pressured, precise kiss.

And draw back just a little, eyebrow raised. Manhattan in his free hand, other hand caressing Enri's shoulder. ]

Do I look uncomfortable?

[ Smile softening briefly, he brushes his thumb along Enri's cheek, eyes tracing the lines of Enri's face, the tantalizing warmth of Enri's eyes.

(Thinking, this morning he awoke beside this man. This morning they awoke, embracing, in a motel room they'd taken as their own. And Darius had watched Enri ready for his day's work. And Darius had accompanied Enri's preparations with talk, with kisses and caresses (with a flurry of kisses as they'd left through the lobby, waving a parting adieu to the pissy-looking clerk), with a final embrace before Enri left the car and reported for the day.

Thinking, he's lucky, he's unspeakably lucky to have this man.) ]

Oh, but we aren't precisely people, are we Puppy?

We inhabit a sphere unto our own. Gods. Idols. Lovers wrapped with fires divine and infernal. I should think that we're immune to discomfort.

Are you comfortable, Enri?

[honeystuff]

[ People had stared. People are staring now, discretely and not. Enri suspects some of them are past failed puppies, and others remember the altercation the last time he and Darius were here. And some, sure, are probably a little weirded out.

What with Darius half in his lap. ]

You look like you belong right here.

[ He'd said the same thing this morning, when he'd woken to find Darius in his arms, both of them groggy, both of them happy. (He had carried that image with him all day, had been unable to concentrate on anything but the dwindling hours between himself and the moment he would see Darius again.)

Enri's hand drifts lazily down the back of Darius's neck. In the other, he holds a cocktail picked out for him, because it was either order his old fallback or trust Darius to know what's best for him. (Daddy always knows what's best for him. He'd hummed that in Daddy's ear at the bar.) He lifts to drink as he listens, getting his first taste of what Darius knows is best -

And pauses over it, surprised, his eyes flickering to the man beside him.

Are you comfortable, Enri?

His lips part, flashing faint white, and his heart staggers its beat. His insides flutter. His cheeks burn with an almost-immediate buzz and an almost-immediate excitement.

His drink is laced with honey. (Daddy's fingers were laced with honey -)

He shakes his head slowly, then angles for another kiss; he waits there, taking nothing. Inviting. (Pleading.) ]

Not even a little. You're instigating.

[ And, a slight lowering of his chin, his eyes bright and soulfully pleading - though his smile hasn't wavered. ]

I love it. I love you. And my point was, whether we're precisely people or not, we're the only ones who matter. If you're comfortable, I'm happy, even when you're slipping me honey like a goddamned roofie.

[ And, innocently enough - ]

Daddy.