The way Treavor could feel the guy listening, like maybe he gave half a fuck (that’s wishful thinking, dangerous thinking, and he knows he should bury it in ash; pretending someone gives a fuck is a fast track to devastation). Like through the silence he could feel Alice urging him along, like he could feel the full force of the guy’s eyes, full focus fixed palpably on Treavor, never mind that Treavor was looking toward the ground, the carpet, not seeing much of anything.
…No one listens like that. (This guy can’t have been listening like this. He’s good at faking it? Probably a lot of people are.) (Who the fuck pays that much attention? To anyone; to Treavor, specifically. And why doesn’t it feel like this guy wants something?) (Too many questions for first thing in the morning. Jesus shit, Treavor’s gonna split his head with thinking.)
But something. Treavor felt something.
(Another question, another question he should side-step but it’s galloping toward him all the same: Why did Treavor give this guy an honest kind of answer? Why not tell the guy to fuck off?
(Because the guy’s got a nice cat.) (Because Treavor woke up on the guy’s couch in not-his-own-clothes and the guy isn’t hassling him at all.) (Because he feels not-awful here, not only-stranded.)
(Because he didn’t want to leave that question and that smile - wouldn’t Treavor do something if this guy needed? never mind that Treavor never does anything for anybody; never mind that this guy can’t possibly fuckin believe Treavor’s good for much salvation - with a cold dose of nothing.
(Because it’d be almost nice, one day, maybe, to give something worthwhile, or find he’s possessed of anything to give.))
Treavor’s not great with honesty. Or the truth of any given Treavor-related situation’s usually not something he wants to deal with. For now, he’s just not going to think into this anymore. Just… Never mind. He’ll let whatever he said (he knows what he said) stand for now, and probably it’ll fade away with the morning-afternoon-whatever, and all this wondering’ll have been a waste of time.)
It occurs to Treavor that there’s been a hand on his shoulder for a while now. Alice has been touching him for a while, just leaving a… it feels like a bracing hand there. A not-unwanted hand, there. (It helps to feel someone beside him. Even if Treavor doesn’t really know the other person, a hand extended and a shoulder nudged or a slap on the back can keep his world from breaking, remind him he’s not only always drifting, even if contact’s brief. It’s good to know he can be touched. Good to feel the warmth of another anyone. It’s something to cling to and use for holding on; if he makes it through another day, maybe someone else’ll touch him, and the world’ll light up just a little for a moment.
It doesn’t occur to Treavor to shake off Alice’s hand, or to question its presence. It’s a gift, and he’ll accept it (be glad of it) (register its weight in the background of his feeling) for as long as it remains.
Treavor’s reaching carefully for Hope again - careful not to jostle the hand at his shoulder; half-smiling when the perfectly contented cat scoots toward him in a liquid, lazy motion - and running two fingers over her head when Alice speaks, and he’s…
…Huh.
He’s. (Not wrong.) (Treavor likes to tell stories. Piece together words gleaned from a shitty world and turn them into something other. When he drinks, when he’s around strangers, he’ll tell stories to whoever’ll listen, until someone hushes him quiet or kicks him out or until he runs out of coherent thought.) (He tells Amaryllis stories. Nice stories to remind her of what a good bird she is, and also to keep her imagination sharp.) (He used to tell himself stories; there’s not a lot of cause to, these days. They don’t do him much good.)
Alice isn’t mistaken, and Treavor finds himself looking at the guy, aware of how the guy’s moved nearer and of how that conclusion - ’you’d tell me a story’ - felt like a breath of air in autumn, invigorating at crisp at the edges. How the speaking feels like a recognition, and how Treavor feels exposed (seen) (noticed) in that observation.
He doesn’t dislike it, nor does he dislike the way Alice shifts beside him, as if settling toward something more like comfort. It’s kind of good, being on this couch. ]
Fuck, you’re a… Those half-gummy fish guy?
[ A moment, a tilt of the head. ]
Hmmm. Says a lot about you, Golden Boy. An awful lot about you.
[ That spoken deliberately, as is Treavor knows and everyone should know exactly what he’s suggesting. Never mind that Treavor himself isn’t sure of his meaning’s scope. Never mind that Treavor's head's swimming. Never mind that he isn’t sure he’d ever met a Swedish Fish fan, and hey, there’re worse candies, and maybe Treavor doesn’t like the things, but he does like that they’ve got the fish look down. They’ve got that going for them. ]
Anyway, let’s get one thing straight: there’s always a pigeon-person where I go.
[ If he wants there to be. If he feels like whatever the fuck’s gonna come out of his mouth is gonna be a story about a pigeon-person. And isn’t it nice that Alice seems to be getting into it a little? It’s like he’s… A little or a lot like he’s maybe playing along.
…Weird. That’s weird. Because here Treavor’d been sure the intern was a stick in the mud. (Treavor, who hasn’t bothered to pay a whole lot of attention to the who and what of Alice beyond ‘stranger at the next desk’ and ‘stranger interrupting routine’ and ‘stranger who is maybe a spy sent by Treavor’s brothers and who’s probably a favorite of theirs.’) (Maybe he’s been wrong about some things.) (Treavor’s often wrong about a lot of things.) (And yeah he should be careful, but. But this is kind of fun. Kind of nice. And Alice is (huh, look at those tattoos, huh, hey those’re pretty great, hey, does Alice look actually a little less like he’s wound to some breaking point?) very close. ]
Do you take apology stories?
[ And, another question, tossed out as if casual, his tone barely managing a veneer of unconcern— ]
Hey also are you. Sure there’s nothing to drink around here? Like. My jacket’s a good place to look?
[ You see that helpful hint he’s given? He's also looking away from Alice, looking toward but not quite at Hope, just so he doesn't but excess pressure on anyone.
no subject
The way Treavor could feel the guy listening, like maybe he gave half a fuck (that’s wishful thinking, dangerous thinking, and he knows he should bury it in ash; pretending someone gives a fuck is a fast track to devastation). Like through the silence he could feel Alice urging him along, like he could feel the full force of the guy’s eyes, full focus fixed palpably on Treavor, never mind that Treavor was looking toward the ground, the carpet, not seeing much of anything.
…No one listens like that. (This guy can’t have been listening like this. He’s good at faking it? Probably a lot of people are.) (Who the fuck pays that much attention? To anyone; to Treavor, specifically. And why doesn’t it feel like this guy wants something?) (Too many questions for first thing in the morning. Jesus shit, Treavor’s gonna split his head with thinking.)
But something. Treavor felt something.
(Another question, another question he should side-step but it’s galloping toward him all the same: Why did Treavor give this guy an honest kind of answer? Why not tell the guy to fuck off?
(Because the guy’s got a nice cat.) (Because Treavor woke up on the guy’s couch in not-his-own-clothes and the guy isn’t hassling him at all.) (Because he feels not-awful here, not only-stranded.)
(Because he didn’t want to leave that question and that smile - wouldn’t Treavor do something if this guy needed? never mind that Treavor never does anything for anybody; never mind that this guy can’t possibly fuckin believe Treavor’s good for much salvation - with a cold dose of nothing.
(Because it’d be almost nice, one day, maybe, to give something worthwhile, or find he’s possessed of anything to give.))
Treavor’s not great with honesty. Or the truth of any given Treavor-related situation’s usually not something he wants to deal with. For now, he’s just not going to think into this anymore. Just… Never mind. He’ll let whatever he said (he knows what he said) stand for now, and probably it’ll fade away with the morning-afternoon-whatever, and all this wondering’ll have been a waste of time.)
It occurs to Treavor that there’s been a hand on his shoulder for a while now. Alice has been touching him for a while, just leaving a… it feels like a bracing hand there. A not-unwanted hand, there. (It helps to feel someone beside him. Even if Treavor doesn’t really know the other person, a hand extended and a shoulder nudged or a slap on the back can keep his world from breaking, remind him he’s not only always drifting, even if contact’s brief. It’s good to know he can be touched. Good to feel the warmth of another anyone. It’s something to cling to and use for holding on; if he makes it through another day, maybe someone else’ll touch him, and the world’ll light up just a little for a moment.
It doesn’t occur to Treavor to shake off Alice’s hand, or to question its presence. It’s a gift, and he’ll accept it (be glad of it) (register its weight in the background of his feeling) for as long as it remains.
Treavor’s reaching carefully for Hope again - careful not to jostle the hand at his shoulder; half-smiling when the perfectly contented cat scoots toward him in a liquid, lazy motion - and running two fingers over her head when Alice speaks, and he’s…
…Huh.
He’s. (Not wrong.) (Treavor likes to tell stories. Piece together words gleaned from a shitty world and turn them into something other. When he drinks, when he’s around strangers, he’ll tell stories to whoever’ll listen, until someone hushes him quiet or kicks him out or until he runs out of coherent thought.) (He tells Amaryllis stories. Nice stories to remind her of what a good bird she is, and also to keep her imagination sharp.) (He used to tell himself stories; there’s not a lot of cause to, these days. They don’t do him much good.)
Alice isn’t mistaken, and Treavor finds himself looking at the guy, aware of how the guy’s moved nearer and of how that conclusion - ’you’d tell me a story’ - felt like a breath of air in autumn, invigorating at crisp at the edges. How the speaking feels like a recognition, and how Treavor feels exposed (seen) (noticed) in that observation.
He doesn’t dislike it, nor does he dislike the way Alice shifts beside him, as if settling toward something more like comfort. It’s kind of good, being on this couch. ]
Fuck, you’re a… Those half-gummy fish guy?
[ A moment, a tilt of the head. ]
Hmmm. Says a lot about you, Golden Boy. An awful lot about you.
[ That spoken deliberately, as is Treavor knows and everyone should know exactly what he’s suggesting. Never mind that Treavor himself isn’t sure of his meaning’s scope. Never mind that Treavor's head's swimming. Never mind that he isn’t sure he’d ever met a Swedish Fish fan, and hey, there’re worse candies, and maybe Treavor doesn’t like the things, but he does like that they’ve got the fish look down. They’ve got that going for them. ]
Anyway, let’s get one thing straight: there’s always a pigeon-person where I go.
[ If he wants there to be. If he feels like whatever the fuck’s gonna come out of his mouth is gonna be a story about a pigeon-person. And isn’t it nice that Alice seems to be getting into it a little? It’s like he’s… A little or a lot like he’s maybe playing along.
…Weird. That’s weird. Because here Treavor’d been sure the intern was a stick in the mud. (Treavor, who hasn’t bothered to pay a whole lot of attention to the who and what of Alice beyond ‘stranger at the next desk’ and ‘stranger interrupting routine’ and ‘stranger who is maybe a spy sent by Treavor’s brothers and who’s probably a favorite of theirs.’) (Maybe he’s been wrong about some things.) (Treavor’s often wrong about a lot of things.) (And yeah he should be careful, but. But this is kind of fun. Kind of nice. And Alice is (huh, look at those tattoos, huh, hey those’re pretty great, hey, does Alice look actually a little less like he’s wound to some breaking point?) very close. ]
Do you take apology stories?
[ And, another question, tossed out as if casual, his tone barely managing a veneer of unconcern— ]
Hey also are you. Sure there’s nothing to drink around here? Like. My jacket’s a good place to look?
[ You see that helpful hint he’s given? He's also looking away from Alice, looking toward but not quite at Hope, just so he doesn't but excess pressure on anyone.
He could just. Really use a drink right now. ]