lord treavor pendleton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
loyalless) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
loyalless) wrote in kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
OPEN RP POST
send a prompt, a starter, images, words, music, whatever you like.
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
You may also know that I’ve married.
You weren’t so far off.
You would, I think, like her.
If you
Treavor
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
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
((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.
[ 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.
Edited 2020-11-04 19:08 (UTC)
[ 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.
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.
Edited 2020-11-04 22:21 (UTC)
[ 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?
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?
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. ]
[ 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. ]
Edited 2020-11-05 01:21 (UTC)
[ That’s gotta be a lie.
Who the fuck doesn’t keep some kind of alcohol at home? (And Treavor should have had some. Treavor must have had some? Or did he drain it all.)
Treavor’s gonna protest. Treavor wants to protest, but the guy’s moving toward him (he’s got food? is that? for Treavor, food?) (Treavor only wants booze, thank you very much!) ((it’s a little bit nice though, isn’t it? even if he doesn’t want to think a fuckin thought about food)) and the guy said something else and then the guy’s getting closer and Treavor doesn’t push back into the safety of his blankets, Treavor watches, really only watches, wondering, and—
The guy says some things.
(He works with this guy, right? This guy who’s saying some things? (He knows he works with this intern this Alice, but it doesn’t connect that anyone he works with - anyone at all - would be using this sort of solid, gentle (affirming) (bolstering) (easing) voice with him. No one real ever says things like—
He said…
The guy said…
…
No one is ever ‘here.’ Not in a lasting sense, not in anything beyond a ‘taking you from point a to point b because we have to’ sense.
It’s a ploy. A ruse. The guy is… What does the guy want from him? Or.
…It doesn’t feel right. That the guy wants something. And the guy (Alice) is really close, never mind how unpleasant Treavor is, never mind that no one gets close to Treavor in the morning or anytime outside of drinking hours.
(This guy doesn’t look bad with glasses.)
(Like, yeah, nerd, but doesn’t he pull them off? (And who’s to say Treavor’s got anything against nerds?))
Treavor’s mouth’s dry. Well fucking. of course his mouth’s dry, the way of course his head’s pounding and his thoughts swim, his guts churn when he moves, if he moves.
And there’s a cool cloth at his head and it didn’t surprise him and it feels okay, the guy was slow with it and it feels okay, is Treavor imagining all of this? He. Feels awake, but all of this is. Unlikely? People don’t take care with him. (Or tell him they’ll be ‘here.’)
(This guy. Might not be so bad. In general.)
((Maybe. Maybe he’s just good at hiding it. Maybe the twins’ve been extra careful in choosing someone to mess with Treavor, corral Treavor, trick Treavor into behaving like a good brother an employee.))
((That’s not. This guy’s fault. Maybe?))
(…Treavor’s been a dick to this guy, huh?)
He should say…
He wanted something. Right? (A drink.) (he doesn’t quite recall.)
Half-itches to ask ’Hey did you. Sing to me?’ He’s not going to ask that. Fuck, he’s not gonna ask that. (But he wonders.) (But he’s pretty sure he knows.)
Has he been watching this guy for a while. Letting the cool sink in and slowly thinking over just how blue and close those eyes are.
Maybe he’s been watching, yeah. And not drawing back into the blankets at all. And not fidgeting, or turning away, or closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see.
(And feeling that pressure at his head.
Hand at his head, unwounding.)
And maybe finally he manages to speak.
(’What’s happening?’ ’What’s this about?’ No, that sounds… (half-damning?) not right.) ]
Do you have a cat?
Who the fuck doesn’t keep some kind of alcohol at home? (And Treavor should have had some. Treavor must have had some? Or did he drain it all.)
Treavor’s gonna protest. Treavor wants to protest, but the guy’s moving toward him (he’s got food? is that? for Treavor, food?) (Treavor only wants booze, thank you very much!) ((it’s a little bit nice though, isn’t it? even if he doesn’t want to think a fuckin thought about food)) and the guy said something else and then the guy’s getting closer and Treavor doesn’t push back into the safety of his blankets, Treavor watches, really only watches, wondering, and—
The guy says some things.
(He works with this guy, right? This guy who’s saying some things? (He knows he works with this intern this Alice, but it doesn’t connect that anyone he works with - anyone at all - would be using this sort of solid, gentle (affirming) (bolstering) (easing) voice with him. No one real ever says things like—
He said…
The guy said…
…
No one is ever ‘here.’ Not in a lasting sense, not in anything beyond a ‘taking you from point a to point b because we have to’ sense.
It’s a ploy. A ruse. The guy is… What does the guy want from him? Or.
…It doesn’t feel right. That the guy wants something. And the guy (Alice) is really close, never mind how unpleasant Treavor is, never mind that no one gets close to Treavor in the morning or anytime outside of drinking hours.
(This guy doesn’t look bad with glasses.)
(Like, yeah, nerd, but doesn’t he pull them off? (And who’s to say Treavor’s got anything against nerds?))
Treavor’s mouth’s dry. Well fucking. of course his mouth’s dry, the way of course his head’s pounding and his thoughts swim, his guts churn when he moves, if he moves.
And there’s a cool cloth at his head and it didn’t surprise him and it feels okay, the guy was slow with it and it feels okay, is Treavor imagining all of this? He. Feels awake, but all of this is. Unlikely? People don’t take care with him. (Or tell him they’ll be ‘here.’)
(This guy. Might not be so bad. In general.)
((Maybe. Maybe he’s just good at hiding it. Maybe the twins’ve been extra careful in choosing someone to mess with Treavor, corral Treavor, trick Treavor into behaving like a good brother an employee.))
((That’s not. This guy’s fault. Maybe?))
(…Treavor’s been a dick to this guy, huh?)
He should say…
He wanted something. Right? (A drink.) (he doesn’t quite recall.)
Half-itches to ask ’Hey did you. Sing to me?’ He’s not going to ask that. Fuck, he’s not gonna ask that. (But he wonders.) (But he’s pretty sure he knows.)
Has he been watching this guy for a while. Letting the cool sink in and slowly thinking over just how blue and close those eyes are.
Maybe he’s been watching, yeah. And not drawing back into the blankets at all. And not fidgeting, or turning away, or closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see.
(And feeling that pressure at his head.
Hand at his head, unwounding.)
And maybe finally he manages to speak.
(’What’s happening?’ ’What’s this about?’ No, that sounds… (half-damning?) not right.) ]
Do you have a cat?
[ Is it to his credit, that he tries not to meet Treavor's eyes, or is that his own cowardice? In the end, how weak is he, that his focus returns, and returns, and lingers on the eyes holding his so fixedly, until he's caught and drowning?
(He's never this aware of the world. Of the feel of the rug cushioning his knee. Of dust motes caught in shafts of sunlight filtering in through the windows. Of the varied smells of earth and terra cotta and foliage, laundered clothes, whiskey, lingering harbor water, cigarettes, morning breath, cologne, beard oil, breakfast, coffee. Of his own rising and falling breath and beating heart throughout his body, steady, steady, metronomic. Of the feel of warmth from someone else's skin against his skin as his thumb sweeps a soothing arc, of every strand of hair as his palm smooths over a growing-familiar-head. The cool of the towel raised, pressed again in a new locale. And the quiet. The utter, serene quiet of this space.
It's all held in those eyes.)
The quiet moment breaks - not abruptly, not shattering, but of some kind of necessity. As it should, as quiet moments always do (?), leaving Alice to blink twice, three times as he turns his head under the guise of looking for the cat in question. (Not looking away. Just doing something different now.
Not. Looking away.)
(God, he wants -)
And he raises his chin in a careful indication of the end of the sofa, where Hope has been curled near Treavor's feet like a guardian since Alice left the warmth of embracing to shower, her one-eyed watchfulness equally unimposing. ]
You met last night.
[ With that pronouncement, gives Treavor a little of his regard once more.
Perhaps a little wariness. Treavor was kind, when drunk. But he has known this man on other mornings, and has seen how unpleasant hangovers can be - and how nastily people react to shelter cats with missing body parts.
He doesn't. Think. Treavor will be cruel to his cat.
After seeing them together last night (after seeing that smile, after knowing the feel of him, the rightness of him held near, fuck he has to stop thinking about this, he can't keep spinning all his thoughts from a drunken action and a sober mistake, but -
He was so sweet to her. He talked so reverently to her.) ]
Hope. The shelter was - calling her 'Our Lady of Lost Hope'.
[ He's not looking at either Treavor or the cat now. He's off elsewhere, staring at a spot on the sofa, remembering how he'd gone with some ex-would-be-girlfriend. She had looked for five minutes, stating she wanted a good one, a kitten, a long-haired one, like it was an ice cream shop or a car dealership.
And he had stood in front of the small cages, reading the pamphlets and feeling oppressively despairing. (2 y/o, surrendered. 5 y/o, drop-off, history unknown. Senior, surrendered.) He had wanted to leave. He had wanted to stay. He had wanted to not feel helpless.
Or alone.
God, that one's never getting adopted. Poor thing. She had said 'poor thing' in the way people say 'poor thing' when what they mean is 'it shouldn't be alive'. Or 'how disgusting'. (Or, in distant past, 'god will fix you'.)
Alice had left the girl and taken the cat. Skinny thing, with patchy fur and a healing eyeless socket, no tail and ribs he could count. Now -
Now. Healthy. Plump and purring contentedly, the injury to her eye sutured closed by the best veterinarian he could afford, and long-forgotten. Years ago forgotten. Her fur soft and warm, and brushed whenever she'll endure the attention.
He's looking at her again, smiling a warm smile, loving smile, and a little of that lingers still when he returns his attention to Treavor. ]
Be kind to her?
[ Rather than a demand, an admonition, a warning - he puts it like a request - asking for a favor, as though he's going to step out of the room for a moment, and could Treavor handle this for a moment? ]
(He's never this aware of the world. Of the feel of the rug cushioning his knee. Of dust motes caught in shafts of sunlight filtering in through the windows. Of the varied smells of earth and terra cotta and foliage, laundered clothes, whiskey, lingering harbor water, cigarettes, morning breath, cologne, beard oil, breakfast, coffee. Of his own rising and falling breath and beating heart throughout his body, steady, steady, metronomic. Of the feel of warmth from someone else's skin against his skin as his thumb sweeps a soothing arc, of every strand of hair as his palm smooths over a growing-familiar-head. The cool of the towel raised, pressed again in a new locale. And the quiet. The utter, serene quiet of this space.
It's all held in those eyes.)
The quiet moment breaks - not abruptly, not shattering, but of some kind of necessity. As it should, as quiet moments always do (?), leaving Alice to blink twice, three times as he turns his head under the guise of looking for the cat in question. (Not looking away. Just doing something different now.
Not. Looking away.)
(God, he wants -)
And he raises his chin in a careful indication of the end of the sofa, where Hope has been curled near Treavor's feet like a guardian since Alice left the warmth of embracing to shower, her one-eyed watchfulness equally unimposing. ]
You met last night.
[ With that pronouncement, gives Treavor a little of his regard once more.
Perhaps a little wariness. Treavor was kind, when drunk. But he has known this man on other mornings, and has seen how unpleasant hangovers can be - and how nastily people react to shelter cats with missing body parts.
He doesn't. Think. Treavor will be cruel to his cat.
After seeing them together last night (after seeing that smile, after knowing the feel of him, the rightness of him held near, fuck he has to stop thinking about this, he can't keep spinning all his thoughts from a drunken action and a sober mistake, but -
He was so sweet to her. He talked so reverently to her.) ]
Hope. The shelter was - calling her 'Our Lady of Lost Hope'.
[ He's not looking at either Treavor or the cat now. He's off elsewhere, staring at a spot on the sofa, remembering how he'd gone with some ex-would-be-girlfriend. She had looked for five minutes, stating she wanted a good one, a kitten, a long-haired one, like it was an ice cream shop or a car dealership.
And he had stood in front of the small cages, reading the pamphlets and feeling oppressively despairing. (2 y/o, surrendered. 5 y/o, drop-off, history unknown. Senior, surrendered.) He had wanted to leave. He had wanted to stay. He had wanted to not feel helpless.
Or alone.
God, that one's never getting adopted. Poor thing. She had said 'poor thing' in the way people say 'poor thing' when what they mean is 'it shouldn't be alive'. Or 'how disgusting'. (Or, in distant past, 'god will fix you'.)
Alice had left the girl and taken the cat. Skinny thing, with patchy fur and a healing eyeless socket, no tail and ribs he could count. Now -
Now. Healthy. Plump and purring contentedly, the injury to her eye sutured closed by the best veterinarian he could afford, and long-forgotten. Years ago forgotten. Her fur soft and warm, and brushed whenever she'll endure the attention.
He's looking at her again, smiling a warm smile, loving smile, and a little of that lingers still when he returns his attention to Treavor. ]
Be kind to her?
[ Rather than a demand, an admonition, a warning - he puts it like a request - asking for a favor, as though he's going to step out of the room for a moment, and could Treavor handle this for a moment? ]
Page 1 of 7