[ Treavor’s gone still. Aware of his shallow, scarce breath, a twitched muscle in his forefinger, what feels like his heartbeat gone irregular (or it’s his sense of time, of place, of rightness in the world; he was going along okay until this guy started talking; he was handling the morning until someone got it in his head to break the wall of safety, to pierce dim, half-willful unawareness with exacting light).
His head fucking hurts but he barely notices.
The pressure’s closing in, and he feels the world going black at the edges, feels his insides and awareness roiling. He could vomit. He couldn’t do a thing because everything’s tensed and the moment’s too razored for motion. Cuts at his throat with each attempted breath.
He’s fallen through the earth. Fallen past any semblance of solid ground, and its gravel all around, gravel and pressure and oncoming heat.
He wants to be angry.
He is angry; at the refusal, the suggestion that this guy’s got any idea what Treavor could use or any right to talk about, what, taking care of him, like sometimes a drink isn’t all Treavor needs for care, like a drink or two hasn’t gotten him through all the fucking shit in his life. This asshole doesn’t know him. This asshole’s going on some fucking soapbox spiel and fuck off, Treavor didn’t ask for care, he didn’t ask for someone to call, he asked for a fucking drink. And he even tried to ask nicely, and this guy’s talking about well you know it’s just fine if Treavor’s pissed off, what the fuck?
Like this guy’s got any fucking idea. Golden fucking intern, maybe his brothers hired this jag to get Treavor sober, or - better yet - to kick Treavor close to sobriety, just to shove him back under again. Just to teach some fucking lesson, another round of lectures about everything Treavor can’t handle everything he’s not cut out to be, all the ways he’s a goddamn disappointment.
(Hasn’t Treavor heard this shit before? From his his brothers, his former step-mother, his sort-of-sometimes-‘friends,’ from strangers on the street, from Sheldon’s dad and Shaw’s fiancée and from former instructors and the list goes on, a string a rush of condemnations and yeah, fuck all of you, Treavor knows he’s a shit and probably he’s killing himself definitely he’s not doing anyone any favors, but what the fuck ever, he didn’t ask to be born.)
(Okay. …But.
…There was no denouncement in what this guy - intern guy, Alice guy - said. Not in the words, not in the voice, and Treavor hadn’t realized it at first but now… It’s true, isn’t it, or it seems true. (He wants to believe it’s true?) (But why the fuck would he do that. Why would he entertain that kind of thought or hope, when he knows it’s Never A Thing?)
Treavor doesn’t know what to make of that.
Treavor can’t make anything of that, not now, but it gives him pause, suspends him further in this space between moments, space between speaking, this could-be-anger could-be-rejection could-be-marrow-deep-weariness.)
He’s numb. He feels numb or he feels broken open, and what’s he supposed to do with… It’s a lot. Alice said a lot of things and Treavor can hardly take hold of any one of them, can’t tell how they’re meant to piece together or reach to him.
And what did… ’Please don’t ask me again.’
He’s talking like Treavor has a choice in this. Like Alice is offering Treavor a choice.
(This guy. Alice. Called Treavor his. Friend.
And nothing in the word rang false, deadly or metallic.
(Because what does the guy want, calling him that? There’s nothing here the golden guy stands to gain at all. No reason to feign friendship, so. So… What. What is any of this supposed to mean.))
The guy’s moving away. Looks like he’s moving away. Treavor’s still sitting still and doesn’t know that he can speak, doesn’t know he’s going to speak until he hears his own voice, not loud but also not wavered. ]
That’s where you stand.
[ He wants to reach for the cat, Lady Hope. He wants to sink away, just disappear be somewhere else and not have to deal with this. (He wants, almost, to reach for Alice, tell the guy to hold the fuck on, don’t… don’t go anywhere.)
(The guy sang to him last night.) (The guy gave him a place to sleep.) (The guy knows something about the kind of shit Treavor is, and still he came for Treavor, brought him here; still he’s talking to Treavor like, what, he maybe believes Treavor maybe-deserves a little more than a flat refusal.)
(What a fucking. Thing.) ]
…Fuck.
[ He needs a drink. He needs a fucking drink, and it’s shitty for Alice to say no, to give him a goddamn lecture (not a lecture) like it’s just that easy (but that isn’t what the guy said, either).
But it’s also not. Shitty the way Alice said things.
It’s not shitty that Alice didn’t just cold-refuse him, didn’t throw condemnation his way.
(The guy’s telling him something. Wrapped up in all of this, the guy’s maybe telling him a lot of things.)
((Fuck this morning got. Real deep, real fast. Shit.))
He’s looking at Alice now. Starting to register the sight of the guy again. Not giving his full focus to the guy or the sight of the guy (Treavor doesn’t have his own full focus, side-swiped as he’s been), but watching him. Eyes holding him. ]
Guess it’s… Your house, your rules.
[ Slowly, slowly, he’s been pushing back against the couch, shoulders tense his whole goddamn body tense, him driving back as if to disappear into the cushions, eyes still on Alice.
It’s not his business. It’s not any of Alice’s fucking business.
But. ]
Fuck.
[ And Treavor finally manages to move a hand, press his hand against his head, eyes clenching shut again. ]
no subject
His head fucking hurts but he barely notices.
The pressure’s closing in, and he feels the world going black at the edges, feels his insides and awareness roiling. He could vomit. He couldn’t do a thing because everything’s tensed and the moment’s too razored for motion. Cuts at his throat with each attempted breath.
He’s fallen through the earth. Fallen past any semblance of solid ground, and its gravel all around, gravel and pressure and oncoming heat.
He wants to be angry.
He is angry; at the refusal, the suggestion that this guy’s got any idea what Treavor could use or any right to talk about, what, taking care of him, like sometimes a drink isn’t all Treavor needs for care, like a drink or two hasn’t gotten him through all the fucking shit in his life. This asshole doesn’t know him. This asshole’s going on some fucking soapbox spiel and fuck off, Treavor didn’t ask for care, he didn’t ask for someone to call, he asked for a fucking drink. And he even tried to ask nicely, and this guy’s talking about well you know it’s just fine if Treavor’s pissed off, what the fuck?
Like this guy’s got any fucking idea. Golden fucking intern, maybe his brothers hired this jag to get Treavor sober, or - better yet - to kick Treavor close to sobriety, just to shove him back under again. Just to teach some fucking lesson, another round of lectures about everything Treavor can’t handle everything he’s not cut out to be, all the ways he’s a goddamn disappointment.
(Hasn’t Treavor heard this shit before? From his his brothers, his former step-mother, his sort-of-sometimes-‘friends,’ from strangers on the street, from Sheldon’s dad and Shaw’s fiancée and from former instructors and the list goes on, a string a rush of condemnations and yeah, fuck all of you, Treavor knows he’s a shit and probably he’s killing himself definitely he’s not doing anyone any favors, but what the fuck ever, he didn’t ask to be born.)
(Okay. …But.
…There was no denouncement in what this guy - intern guy, Alice guy - said. Not in the words, not in the voice, and Treavor hadn’t realized it at first but now… It’s true, isn’t it, or it seems true. (He wants to believe it’s true?) (But why the fuck would he do that. Why would he entertain that kind of thought or hope, when he knows it’s Never A Thing?)
Treavor doesn’t know what to make of that.
Treavor can’t make anything of that, not now, but it gives him pause, suspends him further in this space between moments, space between speaking, this could-be-anger could-be-rejection could-be-marrow-deep-weariness.)
He’s numb. He feels numb or he feels broken open, and what’s he supposed to do with… It’s a lot. Alice said a lot of things and Treavor can hardly take hold of any one of them, can’t tell how they’re meant to piece together or reach to him.
And what did… ’Please don’t ask me again.’
He’s talking like Treavor has a choice in this. Like Alice is offering Treavor a choice.
(This guy. Alice. Called Treavor his. Friend.
And nothing in the word rang false, deadly or metallic.
(Because what does the guy want, calling him that? There’s nothing here the golden guy stands to gain at all. No reason to feign friendship, so. So… What. What is any of this supposed to mean.))
The guy’s moving away. Looks like he’s moving away. Treavor’s still sitting still and doesn’t know that he can speak, doesn’t know he’s going to speak until he hears his own voice, not loud but also not wavered. ]
That’s where you stand.
[ He wants to reach for the cat, Lady Hope. He wants to sink away, just disappear be somewhere else and not have to deal with this. (He wants, almost, to reach for Alice, tell the guy to hold the fuck on, don’t… don’t go anywhere.)
(The guy sang to him last night.) (The guy gave him a place to sleep.) (The guy knows something about the kind of shit Treavor is, and still he came for Treavor, brought him here; still he’s talking to Treavor like, what, he maybe believes Treavor maybe-deserves a little more than a flat refusal.)
(What a fucking. Thing.) ]
…Fuck.
[ He needs a drink. He needs a fucking drink, and it’s shitty for Alice to say no, to give him a goddamn lecture (not a lecture) like it’s just that easy (but that isn’t what the guy said, either).
But it’s also not. Shitty the way Alice said things.
It’s not shitty that Alice didn’t just cold-refuse him, didn’t throw condemnation his way.
(The guy’s telling him something. Wrapped up in all of this, the guy’s maybe telling him a lot of things.)
((Fuck this morning got. Real deep, real fast. Shit.))
He’s looking at Alice now. Starting to register the sight of the guy again. Not giving his full focus to the guy or the sight of the guy (Treavor doesn’t have his own full focus, side-swiped as he’s been), but watching him. Eyes holding him. ]
Guess it’s… Your house, your rules.
[ Slowly, slowly, he’s been pushing back against the couch, shoulders tense his whole goddamn body tense, him driving back as if to disappear into the cushions, eyes still on Alice.
It’s not his business. It’s not any of Alice’s fucking business.
But. ]
Fuck.
[ And Treavor finally manages to move a hand, press his hand against his head, eyes clenching shut again. ]
…All right.
[ …Fuck. ]