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.
no subject
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.