[ Alice doesn't go far, or for long. He's up under the pretense of getting his coffee from the kitchen, maybe putting just a little distance between himself and Treavor's certain fury, himself and Treavor's sure-to-come rage. ((Himself and certain heartbreak.))
And while he's there. He rewets the towel. Refills the water glass. Watches Treavor from the corner of his eye, noting the nothing and everything that seems to be moving through the expression of the Addict in Chaos. (That is what's happening, he thinks: Treavor is processing what he was told.)
(That's something.)
(An unlikely something. To process, rather than snap defensive. To process, rather than storm out. He has nothing keeping him here, has he? No real reason he has to stay.)
Alice is setting the water carefully on the coffee table in front of the other man when the words come, and he pauses, a momentary hesitation, his eyes raising and brows raising further. Yes, it's where he stands. More processing?
And he straightens, the cloth balled in one hand and arms folded as he drinks his coffee, letting Treavor finish sorting this one through without hurry or imposition.
(Look at him, miserable. He wants to. (Pull him near?) (Stroke his hair.) (Hum some soft melody to him until his shoulders ease his spine eases his whole self against Alice's whole self.)
(He wants to. Comfort him.)
He wants to - and this, importantly. This, substantively more important, than any nestling desire occurring in his ribs. He wants to help Treavor.
Not care, for the sake of that melting, good feeling, that connectedness. He wants to help, because Treavor seems very alone, and not once has Alice ever picked him up from the same place twice.
So he lowers his coffee and considers. And then sets the coffee down entirely, and moves to resume his place on the sofa at Treavor's side where, if it won't be thrown off, he'll offer his hands again.
A cool cloth pressed to an aching forehead and eyes.
An arm around tense shoulders, or whatever comforting touch will be allowed.
His words come soft and with a jesting casualness that veers too close to earnestness to really be casual at all. ]
My house, my rules. Sure.
Rule One is the most important, though: you can come here whenever you want. Any time you need a place to go and feel okay. No strings attached, no matter what you've been doing before you turn up. You're always welcome here.
no subject
And while he's there. He rewets the towel. Refills the water glass. Watches Treavor from the corner of his eye, noting the nothing and everything that seems to be moving through the expression of the Addict in Chaos. (That is what's happening, he thinks: Treavor is processing what he was told.)
(That's something.)
(An unlikely something. To process, rather than snap defensive. To process, rather than storm out. He has nothing keeping him here, has he? No real reason he has to stay.)
Alice is setting the water carefully on the coffee table in front of the other man when the words come, and he pauses, a momentary hesitation, his eyes raising and brows raising further. Yes, it's where he stands. More processing?
And he straightens, the cloth balled in one hand and arms folded as he drinks his coffee, letting Treavor finish sorting this one through without hurry or imposition.
(Look at him, miserable. He wants to. (Pull him near?) (Stroke his hair.) (Hum some soft melody to him until his shoulders ease his spine eases his whole self against Alice's whole self.)
(He wants to. Comfort him.)
He wants to - and this, importantly. This, substantively more important, than any nestling desire occurring in his ribs. He wants to help Treavor.
Not care, for the sake of that melting, good feeling, that connectedness. He wants to help, because Treavor seems very alone, and not once has Alice ever picked him up from the same place twice.
So he lowers his coffee and considers. And then sets the coffee down entirely, and moves to resume his place on the sofa at Treavor's side where, if it won't be thrown off, he'll offer his hands again.
A cool cloth pressed to an aching forehead and eyes.
An arm around tense shoulders, or whatever comforting touch will be allowed.
His words come soft and with a jesting casualness that veers too close to earnestness to really be casual at all. ]
My house, my rules. Sure.
Rule One is the most important, though: you can come here whenever you want. Any time you need a place to go and feel okay. No strings attached, no matter what you've been doing before you turn up. You're always welcome here.