(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. ]
for Alice
[ 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.