[ Golden Boy. The moniker feels, even if unintentionally, like an accusation, or a condemnation. (A failure Treavor can't possibly know: the expectations outlined by the sheer accident of having been born male, but with some crookedness, some depravity to his personality, and raised by a conservatively-minded family.) (All the high marks and awards in the world won't undo that moment his grandfather pulled him by the scruff of his neck, by his mop of hair, from the back of that car, leaving behind a shirtless teenaged boy with beestung lips.)
Golden Boy, and his half-gummy fish, now a world away from one avalanche of failure and starting in on another. Basement level. His smile has turned rueful and his eyes sad, having opened now to fix on the ceiling.
And he thinks about answering something about apology stories, or fish, or fish stories - maybe calling back to last night and how he managed to enthrall Treavor with little hand fish (poff) - but there's a new question.
A not-new question. A question that changes the atmosphere of the room, casual though it might be framed, because there's nothing casual about asking for the second time if there's alcohol when one is a frequent partaker of alcohol. His fingers at his knee fidget again, flexing in discomfort. (But the hand at Treavor's shoulder remains, and remains, and remains, an affirmation. No punishment for the question. No withdrawal while he considers his answer. No repulsed relinquishing of touch.)
The quiet stretches as Alice is faced with a choice.
He could go look. He could tell himself it's not his place to refuse a grown man whatever addictions he chooses to feed, and set a precedent: when Treavor wants a drink, and can't find one, he'll know exactly who he can call, won't he? Because Alice will do anything for him, and he'll learn that eventually.
Or he can. Decide not to be party to it.
And Treavor will surely be angry. (Dickweed. Jag. Cunt.) But the more he contemplates it.
Sometimes. Care isn't always giving in to every whim. It isn't being the enabler.
He clears his throat, sits up, both feet now on the floor. Forearms on his knees at first, head hanging, and then one hand reaching up to ease off his glasses and set them carefully on the coffee table. That same hand returns to his face, scrubs, and rests a moment at his mouth, and Alice stares at the blur of nothing across the room.
Finally, he turns his attention - and his head - back to Treavor, dropping his hand once more, and speaks softly, with more candor than he intended. ]
I'm not going to give you alcohol, Treavor.
[ There's no apology. Just a settled assurance; it's not happening today. It's not happening ever. ]
I'll come find you wherever you are, no matter the hour. I'll tell you stories about fish, or sing you songs, or wrap an arm around you, and I'll sit with you as long as you need. I'll bring you home or here, and I'll clean you up again. If it's here, I'll give you blankets, clothes, food - everything I can to make you feel better.
I'll take care of you, if you call me.
[ Slowly, direly, he shakes his head. ]
But I'm not going to cause you the circumstances that make you need that care.
That's. Probably going to piss you off, but I think I can live with it. Knowing I didn't put the bottle in your hand. Knowing you're not ending up alone and lost at the harbor again because I was scared of losing a friend.
Maybe friend.
Something.
I -
[ This is agony. He can't. Look directly at Treavor. (And in some place in the back of his mind, he's not wholly here. He's thirteen, and he's saying things he wished he had said, to someone else who taught him to make an Old Fashioned at ten.
He breathes heavily, and his words are less sure. His words are grieving for something that almost was. ]
I'm not going to help you with that. Please don't ask me again.
[ With that, he reaches for his glasses again, sniffs against the sting in his eyes (condemns himself for the sting in his eyes) and moves to stand. ]
no subject
Golden Boy, and his half-gummy fish, now a world away from one avalanche of failure and starting in on another. Basement level. His smile has turned rueful and his eyes sad, having opened now to fix on the ceiling.
And he thinks about answering something about apology stories, or fish, or fish stories - maybe calling back to last night and how he managed to enthrall Treavor with little hand fish (poff) - but there's a new question.
A not-new question. A question that changes the atmosphere of the room, casual though it might be framed, because there's nothing casual about asking for the second time if there's alcohol when one is a frequent partaker of alcohol. His fingers at his knee fidget again, flexing in discomfort. (But the hand at Treavor's shoulder remains, and remains, and remains, an affirmation. No punishment for the question. No withdrawal while he considers his answer. No repulsed relinquishing of touch.)
The quiet stretches as Alice is faced with a choice.
He could go look. He could tell himself it's not his place to refuse a grown man whatever addictions he chooses to feed, and set a precedent: when Treavor wants a drink, and can't find one, he'll know exactly who he can call, won't he? Because Alice will do anything for him, and he'll learn that eventually.
Or he can. Decide not to be party to it.
And Treavor will surely be angry. (Dickweed. Jag. Cunt.) But the more he contemplates it.
Sometimes. Care isn't always giving in to every whim. It isn't being the enabler.
He clears his throat, sits up, both feet now on the floor. Forearms on his knees at first, head hanging, and then one hand reaching up to ease off his glasses and set them carefully on the coffee table. That same hand returns to his face, scrubs, and rests a moment at his mouth, and Alice stares at the blur of nothing across the room.
Finally, he turns his attention - and his head - back to Treavor, dropping his hand once more, and speaks softly, with more candor than he intended. ]
I'm not going to give you alcohol, Treavor.
[ There's no apology. Just a settled assurance; it's not happening today. It's not happening ever. ]
I'll come find you wherever you are, no matter the hour. I'll tell you stories about fish, or sing you songs, or wrap an arm around you, and I'll sit with you as long as you need. I'll bring you home or here, and I'll clean you up again. If it's here, I'll give you blankets, clothes, food - everything I can to make you feel better.
I'll take care of you, if you call me.
[ Slowly, direly, he shakes his head. ]
But I'm not going to cause you the circumstances that make you need that care.
That's. Probably going to piss you off, but I think I can live with it. Knowing I didn't put the bottle in your hand. Knowing you're not ending up alone and lost at the harbor again because I was scared of losing a friend.
Maybe friend.
Something.
I -
[ This is agony. He can't. Look directly at Treavor. (And in some place in the back of his mind, he's not wholly here. He's thirteen, and he's saying things he wished he had said, to someone else who taught him to make an Old Fashioned at ten.
He breathes heavily, and his words are less sure. His words are grieving for something that almost was. ]
I'm not going to help you with that. Please don't ask me again.
[ With that, he reaches for his glasses again, sniffs against the sting in his eyes (condemns himself for the sting in his eyes) and moves to stand. ]