[ By the time Treavor's able to take a second drink, Alice thinks he has a hold of himself. Or something resembling it, at any rate. (His cheeks feel very hot, but that can be explained away by just about anything from the position of the stars to the quality of light in the room. Redheads. Ha.
Ha.)
He has moved to the sofa, taking a careful place beside the other man, his hand resting delicately against Treavor's shoulderblade and his eyes expressing fretfulness now.
(He never did really inquire what inspired last night's binge, did he? But he stopped inquiring a while ago, when he realized Treavor's drinking was less social and more problem.) (Should he have asked? And would it be right to ask now? Is it even his business? Would it be welcome?) Maybe it's better if he just leaves it alone, and helps this man find sobriety for the day. Ease, and sobriety.
It's not his place to ask.
(Whose place is it?) (Anyone's?)
He doesn't like the thought of Treavor, alone. It's never really crossed his mind before as a fully formed thought, independent of last night's awareness of their mutual loneliness. Aside from the distant stewardship of his brothers, does he have anyone?
(Is Alice projecting.)
(Seeing a need, a role he wants to fill.) ]
It's nothing.
[ It's everything. It feels like everything. And last night, he thought - it doesn't have to mean anything, be anything. It doesn't have to be complicated. (Just take care of Treavor, and everything feels so fucking good, doesn't it?) It can just be this.
(This, and how utterly fucked he is. A problem for later.)
He's been watching Treavor a little too intently, and he's starting to fuss. It's a bad habit learned in youth - reaching up thoughtlessly to smooth hair, or hold an elbow to steady an arm, his brow furrowed and mouth set in a frown.
He needs to.
Stop. Touching.
Treavor.
(It's weird.
Treavor will. Think it's weird?) (Is it weird?) (He looks so miserable, though. What if it soothes him? What if there's something Alice neglects to do, and it might have been the one thing that was needed?) (What if it makes him smile?) ]
You'd do the same for me.
[ Like hell. He doubts anyone he knows would drive to the harbor for him (hold him) (sing to him), take him home, change his clothes, let him sleep (nestled in their arms), make him breakfast the next day. Put a cool cloth to his neck. Give him aspirin.
Least of all, the man right here, on the receiving end of that treatment.
(But doesn't it sound.
Nice.
Desirable.
From Treavor, oh, from him, wouldn't that feel so fucking good if he would -
Fuck.) ]
Or your version of it?
[ There's an almost hopeful uptick in his tone, accompanied by a lopsided smile. Neither of these requests Treavor say he would do anything other than piss on fire to put him out, but only this: that his awkward teasing be received with magnanimity. ]
no subject
Ha.)
He has moved to the sofa, taking a careful place beside the other man, his hand resting delicately against Treavor's shoulderblade and his eyes expressing fretfulness now.
(He never did really inquire what inspired last night's binge, did he? But he stopped inquiring a while ago, when he realized Treavor's drinking was less social and more problem.) (Should he have asked? And would it be right to ask now? Is it even his business? Would it be welcome?) Maybe it's better if he just leaves it alone, and helps this man find sobriety for the day. Ease, and sobriety.
It's not his place to ask.
(Whose place is it?) (Anyone's?)
He doesn't like the thought of Treavor, alone. It's never really crossed his mind before as a fully formed thought, independent of last night's awareness of their mutual loneliness. Aside from the distant stewardship of his brothers, does he have anyone?
(Is Alice projecting.)
(Seeing a need, a role he wants to fill.) ]
It's nothing.
[ It's everything. It feels like everything. And last night, he thought - it doesn't have to mean anything, be anything. It doesn't have to be complicated. (Just take care of Treavor, and everything feels so fucking good, doesn't it?) It can just be this.
(This, and how utterly fucked he is. A problem for later.)
He's been watching Treavor a little too intently, and he's starting to fuss. It's a bad habit learned in youth - reaching up thoughtlessly to smooth hair, or hold an elbow to steady an arm, his brow furrowed and mouth set in a frown.
He needs to.
Stop. Touching.
Treavor.
(It's weird.
Treavor will. Think it's weird?) (Is it weird?) (He looks so miserable, though. What if it soothes him? What if there's something Alice neglects to do, and it might have been the one thing that was needed?) (What if it makes him smile?) ]
You'd do the same for me.
[ Like hell. He doubts anyone he knows would drive to the harbor for him (hold him) (sing to him), take him home, change his clothes, let him sleep (nestled in their arms), make him breakfast the next day. Put a cool cloth to his neck. Give him aspirin.
Least of all, the man right here, on the receiving end of that treatment.
(But doesn't it sound.
Nice.
Desirable.
From Treavor, oh, from him, wouldn't that feel so fucking good if he would -
Fuck.) ]
Or your version of it?
[ There's an almost hopeful uptick in his tone, accompanied by a lopsided smile. Neither of these requests Treavor say he would do anything other than piss on fire to put him out, but only this: that his awkward teasing be received with magnanimity. ]