[ 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? ]
no subject
(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? ]