Alice came back and there’s a cloth at Treavor’s head and he presses against it, in need of the relief (in need of a drink) (he’s not going to get a drink; made a bad fuckin call there, dumbass) (he needs a new plan, think about, think about, once he’s out of here, his fucking head) ((did he just… agree not to ask Alice for any kind of drink, and did he really mean it?)) and letting his mind sit blank for a moment, letting the cool creep over him, not banishing the nausea but tempering its upset.
Well, hey, small victories: he’s upright, and even though his head’s been working overtime, he’s probably not going to vomit on the couch. That nausea was getting bad, but between the support at his back and the cloth at his head, he might just make it through.
If he can. Keep his head on straight. Not think about how real respite’s a whole journey away; no booze until he makes it home, or at least makes it out of this place, down to the nearest shop. (…He doesn’t like, particularly, having this thought.) (He can’t just not have that fucking thought, for shit’s sake.) ((And he can’t wave away the trickle of guilt through his spine.))
Just. Breathe. Focus on the cloth. How much he’d like to sink into a lake, buoyed in the cool suspension. Just him and the flux and flow of gentle waves. (Just him and the garbled sound of fish.) (((’Poff.’))) (A shower might help. That’d be an okay idea, maybe.)
And there’s another touch (a careful and an unobtrusive touch; not withheld, but waiting, as-if-testing, paying attention) that nearly sends Treavor cold, that he nearly shakes away. There’s a line of thought that no, fuck you, get off and get away, Treavor’s had enough of your intervention and enough of your caring and who do you think you are, telling Treavor what he needs, and Treavor’s got enough fucking problems right now and enough going on in his head without this added factor.
Only Treavor also doesn’t. Really. Want that touch gone.
The touch approaches and fuck, isn’t close contact always Treavor’s weakness (okay, all right, one of many weaknesses) and - maybe more important - doesn’t he want to let it wrap him now? He was glad, maybe (maybe?), that the guy returned; he’d be glad, maybe (probably), to feel that touch again.
So he. Lets himself ease into that touch, just slightly. Not wholly relaxing, but not bristling, not pushing away.
He could use this. (Would like this.) Never mind how prickly he feels or how much some part of him might like to flash teeth. (This is better than biting defensive, maybe?) (And hey, why did Alice come back? Why’s he here again? …Why’s he doing any of this?)
Treavor listens, and Treavor still isn’t sure he’s grasping what Alice means, because it sounds like something unlikely, something even friends don’t really offer, except maybe sometimes-Sheldon, and it sounds like Alice maybe means it? But that doesn’t make sense. But there’s no reason he should, unless. Unless the twins are behind this or unless Alice wants something or unless Alice is… just. Kind? A sort of. Kind guy?
What an impossible fucking idea.
(An idea Treavor would like so believe, and see realized.)
Treavor’s eyes are closed against the cloth and then staring off at nothing, closed and then staring at nothing. And he thinks about… Alice called it ‘Rule One.’ Like a joke and not a joke at all. Again, he doesn’t know he’s going to speak until he hears his own voice— ]
no subject
Alice came back and there’s a cloth at Treavor’s head and he presses against it, in need of the relief (in need of a drink) (he’s not going to get a drink; made a bad fuckin call there, dumbass) (he needs a new plan, think about, think about, once he’s out of here, his fucking head) ((did he just… agree not to ask Alice for any kind of drink, and did he really mean it?)) and letting his mind sit blank for a moment, letting the cool creep over him, not banishing the nausea but tempering its upset.
Well, hey, small victories: he’s upright, and even though his head’s been working overtime, he’s probably not going to vomit on the couch. That nausea was getting bad, but between the support at his back and the cloth at his head, he might just make it through.
If he can. Keep his head on straight. Not think about how real respite’s a whole journey away; no booze until he makes it home, or at least makes it out of this place, down to the nearest shop. (…He doesn’t like, particularly, having this thought.) (He can’t just not have that fucking thought, for shit’s sake.) ((And he can’t wave away the trickle of guilt through his spine.))
Just. Breathe. Focus on the cloth. How much he’d like to sink into a lake, buoyed in the cool suspension. Just him and the flux and flow of gentle waves. (Just him and the garbled sound of fish.) (((’Poff.’))) (A shower might help. That’d be an okay idea, maybe.)
And there’s another touch (a careful and an unobtrusive touch; not withheld, but waiting, as-if-testing, paying attention) that nearly sends Treavor cold, that he nearly shakes away. There’s a line of thought that no, fuck you, get off and get away, Treavor’s had enough of your intervention and enough of your caring and who do you think you are, telling Treavor what he needs, and Treavor’s got enough fucking problems right now and enough going on in his head without this added factor.
Only Treavor also doesn’t. Really. Want that touch gone.
The touch approaches and fuck, isn’t close contact always Treavor’s weakness (okay, all right, one of many weaknesses) and - maybe more important - doesn’t he want to let it wrap him now? He was glad, maybe (maybe?), that the guy returned; he’d be glad, maybe (probably), to feel that touch again.
So he. Lets himself ease into that touch, just slightly. Not wholly relaxing, but not bristling, not pushing away.
He could use this. (Would like this.) Never mind how prickly he feels or how much some part of him might like to flash teeth. (This is better than biting defensive, maybe?) (And hey, why did Alice come back? Why’s he here again? …Why’s he doing any of this?)
Treavor listens, and Treavor still isn’t sure he’s grasping what Alice means, because it sounds like something unlikely, something even friends don’t really offer, except maybe sometimes-Sheldon, and it sounds like Alice maybe means it? But that doesn’t make sense. But there’s no reason he should, unless. Unless the twins are behind this or unless Alice wants something or unless Alice is… just. Kind? A sort of. Kind guy?
What an impossible fucking idea.
(An idea Treavor would like so believe, and see realized.)
Treavor’s eyes are closed against the cloth and then staring off at nothing, closed and then staring at nothing. And he thinks about… Alice called it ‘Rule One.’ Like a joke and not a joke at all. Again, he doesn’t know he’s going to speak until he hears his own voice— ]
Why?