Alice has an ache within himself for the same care he's giving. Just to experience it in someone's hands, gentle and considerate, conscientious to a fault; it's a foreign awareness he can only craft in his imagination.
(Porn does and doesn't grant a glimpse of the potential for that need's satisfaction. The surreal quality, theatrics and emphasis, the exaggeration of something that isn't a fetish. The stilted and hamfisted approaches. It discomfits him; yes, yes, he can admit there's an appeal to certain acts before and after sex. And during. Attached to.
(Not that his experience with sex-capital-S amounts to much.)
But it's not about sex. (Much.))
(It's just. It's just.)
(Being close. Giving care.) (The way it feels to be of use to, in service of, caring for, loving someone with every thought and action. Surely, receipt of the same must be euphoric.)
(Maybe. It just. Doesn't exist between men. Maybe what he's looking for so desperately in the thing he refuses himself anyway is a heteronormative behavior? He doesn't. Know.)
He's never in straits so dire that he needs this sort of attention, is the truth of the matter. It's a self-perpetuating cycle: in knowing there's no one to call, he does nothing and goes nowhere that would place him in a situation wherein he might need to call someone. And because he goes nowhere and does nothing, he meets no one to call. (Likely, if there was some kind of emergency, he'd call the only name that appears in his phone lately. There's a sad fact he won't dwell on.)
It also isn't disappointing, because Treavor is solemn, and speaking with care. In spite of his hangover, his certain discomfort, the sure-to-be-thorniness of the subject, he's being serious, and careful. And that means something.
Not just because Alice hopes it could, or wishes it would, or wants it to mean something. He knows Treavor well enough for the 'jag' he's been to know he's rarely serious. So Alice gives him the full of his attention, with equal weight in his own manner: I'm listening, and yes, your words are important to me.
A moment of silence passes while he digests this hypothetical (all those maybes built on maybes, and how they sound less like a confluence of good fortune and more like someone uncomfortable with speaking kindness in a more forthright manner.)
He thinks. Treavor will continue to have dickweed moods. But the 'prime' may be lost now, and may not come again.
He thinks. Make my way to you is a strange way of putting it.
He thinks. Treavor's rarely on time for anything. But there's no 'on time' to help someone stranded, or lost, or in need of care. There's only there, or not. And he -
He's veering into joking again, but. Not exactly. Alice inclines his head slightly, scrutinizing the other man.
He thinks. There it is. Treavor's version of care. ]
You'd tell me a story.
[ It's not a question. You'd tell me a story to make me feel better. (Like the night before, the way Treavor kept prompting, asking questions about fish and stars, oh-
Oh.)
He's charmed.
He's charmed, and he can't find any kind of fault with it. It's too innocent, too lovely.
It puts him in an oddly settled mood, bemused and just a little amused, and he leans back, getting comfortable. (The appearance of comfort. Treavor's nearness is not comfort. Treavor's nearness is frisson.) He stretches one leg and crosses the other, ankle to knee. (Foot not yet bouncing, but it'll happen.)
His hand lights on his thigh, fingers fidgeting, and his head rests against the sofa back.
(Of course. Of course. The other hand remains like a steadying presence at Treavor's shoulder. (He hasn't been shrugged off. He hasn't been dismissed, or told to fucking quit. There's something like acceptance, almost like welcome in how he's been permitted to leave his hand there.))
And he watches the other man. ]
What if there's no pigeon-person on your meandering path towards wherever I'm sure to be waiting, hungry and dusty, but with the utmost patience? Or were you planning to spin a story on the spot just to cheer me up? Or maybe as an apology for bringing me a Snickers instead of some Swedish Fish?
[ A light, teasing prod of his finger, and his eyes close, though his whole awareness is on the warmth beside him. His smile curves a little into existence again. ]
Eh. Maybe I'll forgive you.
[ For the hypothetical Snickers.
For being a jag.
As though it was ever a question. As though it mattered for even a moment more after that beatific smile last night. ]
no subject
It is and isn't disappointing.
Alice has an ache within himself for the same care he's giving. Just to experience it in someone's hands, gentle and considerate, conscientious to a fault; it's a foreign awareness he can only craft in his imagination.
(Porn does and doesn't grant a glimpse of the potential for that need's satisfaction. The surreal quality, theatrics and emphasis, the exaggeration of something that isn't a fetish. The stilted and hamfisted approaches. It discomfits him; yes, yes, he can admit there's an appeal to certain acts before and after sex. And during. Attached to.
(Not that his experience with sex-capital-S amounts to much.)
But it's not about sex. (Much.))
(It's just. It's just.)
(Being close. Giving care.) (The way it feels to be of use to, in service of, caring for, loving someone with every thought and action. Surely, receipt of the same must be euphoric.)
(Maybe. It just. Doesn't exist between men. Maybe what he's looking for so desperately in the thing he refuses himself anyway is a heteronormative behavior? He doesn't. Know.)
He's never in straits so dire that he needs this sort of attention, is the truth of the matter. It's a self-perpetuating cycle: in knowing there's no one to call, he does nothing and goes nowhere that would place him in a situation wherein he might need to call someone. And because he goes nowhere and does nothing, he meets no one to call. (Likely, if there was some kind of emergency, he'd call the only name that appears in his phone lately. There's a sad fact he won't dwell on.)
It also isn't disappointing, because Treavor is solemn, and speaking with care. In spite of his hangover, his certain discomfort, the sure-to-be-thorniness of the subject, he's being serious, and careful. And that means something.
Not just because Alice hopes it could, or wishes it would, or wants it to mean something. He knows Treavor well enough for the 'jag' he's been to know he's rarely serious. So Alice gives him the full of his attention, with equal weight in his own manner: I'm listening, and yes, your words are important to me.
A moment of silence passes while he digests this hypothetical (all those maybes built on maybes, and how they sound less like a confluence of good fortune and more like someone uncomfortable with speaking kindness in a more forthright manner.)
He thinks. Treavor will continue to have dickweed moods. But the 'prime' may be lost now, and may not come again.
He thinks. Make my way to you is a strange way of putting it.
He thinks. Treavor's rarely on time for anything. But there's no 'on time' to help someone stranded, or lost, or in need of care. There's only there, or not. And he -
He's veering into joking again, but. Not exactly. Alice inclines his head slightly, scrutinizing the other man.
He thinks. There it is. Treavor's version of care. ]
You'd tell me a story.
[ It's not a question. You'd tell me a story to make me feel better. (Like the night before, the way Treavor kept prompting, asking questions about fish and stars, oh-
Oh.)
He's charmed.
He's charmed, and he can't find any kind of fault with it. It's too innocent, too lovely.
It puts him in an oddly settled mood, bemused and just a little amused, and he leans back, getting comfortable. (The appearance of comfort. Treavor's nearness is not comfort. Treavor's nearness is frisson.) He stretches one leg and crosses the other, ankle to knee. (Foot not yet bouncing, but it'll happen.)
His hand lights on his thigh, fingers fidgeting, and his head rests against the sofa back.
(Of course. Of course. The other hand remains like a steadying presence at Treavor's shoulder. (He hasn't been shrugged off. He hasn't been dismissed, or told to fucking quit. There's something like acceptance, almost like welcome in how he's been permitted to leave his hand there.))
And he watches the other man. ]
What if there's no pigeon-person on your meandering path towards wherever I'm sure to be waiting, hungry and dusty, but with the utmost patience? Or were you planning to spin a story on the spot just to cheer me up? Or maybe as an apology for bringing me a Snickers instead of some Swedish Fish?
[ A light, teasing prod of his finger, and his eyes close, though his whole awareness is on the warmth beside him. His smile curves a little into existence again. ]
Eh. Maybe I'll forgive you.
[ For the hypothetical Snickers.
For being a jag.
As though it was ever a question. As though it mattered for even a moment more after that beatific smile last night. ]