[ 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.
no subject
[ 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. ]