[ Treavor didn't shove him away. He could have. Alice can feel the tension riddling his form, the rise and fall of irritation like breathing that is and isn't owed to the hangover and is and isn't the addiction.
So he settles, still and calm, mostly unmoving and forcing himself to remain relaxed. (In case a shoulder is needed. In case his own tension feeds Treavor's. In case a knotted chest or a sharp angle somewhere in his own body might cause further discomfort.
In case something about the way he sits near and anxious speaks of something he doesn't want to discuss now. Or think about.
Because this isn't that. This is absolutely not that.)
He shifts the cloth now and then to soothe away sweat, to cool Treavor's throat and cheeks before turning it over - to the air-exposed side, of course, the cooler side - and returning it to mercifully cover his eyes and forehead.
His own eyes are worried. (How much aspirin does Treavor throw back in a day, a week, a year, and does it work anymore?) (Or is the pain, the nausea - more agony of the mind, more inflictions of his own desire to reach for another drink, and soon?)
The question garners a stillness more than stillness from Alice, and a staring off at some point beyond the other man. There are many reasons.
Your smile in the sick yellow lights at the harbor, when you laid your head on my shoulder and asked me for your song, and I held you like you were mine.
You said my cat was perfect.
You slept in my arms last night and I slept like shit but it's the best I've felt in a long time.
The sunlight hit you from the windows like a halo and I think you might be holy.
And.
No one like you should end up calling someone like me because you're drunk and stranded at the harbor.
And.
There was someone like you, a long time ago. A lot of someones like you, in a lot of ways, like my life was teaching me to be what you need.
He doesn't say any of this.
What he says, first, a means of buying himself time: ]
You know. It takes fifty hours of interaction with a person before you begin to consider them a casual friend. Ninety for a 'real' one, and two hundred hours before they're your best mate. I've spent -
[ A pause. ]
Three hundred hours in that basement, and at least half of them with you. I told you last night, I don't have friends; I have my cat, and I have you in that fucking basement.
That should probably count for something, yeah?
[ He's joking. Mostly. Maybe. He doesn't know if he's joking. Maybe it does count for something. (Treavor feels warm at his side.) (Treavor's safety is important to him.)
Clearly his throat awkwardly, he tries again. And still, his voice is low, an even and honeyed tone. ]
Sorry. I. Candor is a fickle thing, when it comes to what drives us.
[ A breath. ]
Everyone needs a safe place, Treavor. I don't know if you have that somewhere, but it can't hurt to have it here, too. And I can't...
[ He pauses, trying to parse his thoughts, his head back slightly and eyes on the ceiling. His lips purse before he manages to carry on. ]
If something happened to you because you thought you had nowhere to go - because you thought every door was closed to you. I couldn't live with that.
[ Treavor's eyes may be covered, but Alice's sniff betrays him; another awkward clearing of his throat follows. ]
I couldn't live with it if I hated you. So. You know. The old adage. 'You can always come home.'
Or - here. They don't make adages about crashing at your weird mate's apartment.
no subject
So he settles, still and calm, mostly unmoving and forcing himself to remain relaxed. (In case a shoulder is needed. In case his own tension feeds Treavor's. In case a knotted chest or a sharp angle somewhere in his own body might cause further discomfort.
In case something about the way he sits near and anxious speaks of something he doesn't want to discuss now. Or think about.
Because this isn't that. This is absolutely not that.)
He shifts the cloth now and then to soothe away sweat, to cool Treavor's throat and cheeks before turning it over - to the air-exposed side, of course, the cooler side - and returning it to mercifully cover his eyes and forehead.
His own eyes are worried. (How much aspirin does Treavor throw back in a day, a week, a year, and does it work anymore?) (Or is the pain, the nausea - more agony of the mind, more inflictions of his own desire to reach for another drink, and soon?)
The question garners a stillness more than stillness from Alice, and a staring off at some point beyond the other man. There are many reasons.
Your smile in the sick yellow lights at the harbor, when you laid your head on my shoulder and asked me for your song, and I held you like you were mine.
You said my cat was perfect.
You slept in my arms last night and I slept like shit but it's the best I've felt in a long time.
The sunlight hit you from the windows like a halo and I think you might be holy.
And.
No one like you should end up calling someone like me because you're drunk and stranded at the harbor.
And.
There was someone like you, a long time ago. A lot of someones like you, in a lot of ways, like my life was teaching me to be what you need.
He doesn't say any of this.
What he says, first, a means of buying himself time: ]
You know. It takes fifty hours of interaction with a person before you begin to consider them a casual friend. Ninety for a 'real' one, and two hundred hours before they're your best mate. I've spent -
[ A pause. ]
Three hundred hours in that basement, and at least half of them with you. I told you last night, I don't have friends; I have my cat, and I have you in that fucking basement.
That should probably count for something, yeah?
[ He's joking. Mostly. Maybe. He doesn't know if he's joking. Maybe it does count for something. (Treavor feels warm at his side.) (Treavor's safety is important to him.)
Clearly his throat awkwardly, he tries again. And still, his voice is low, an even and honeyed tone. ]
Sorry. I. Candor is a fickle thing, when it comes to what drives us.
[ A breath. ]
Everyone needs a safe place, Treavor. I don't know if you have that somewhere, but it can't hurt to have it here, too. And I can't...
[ He pauses, trying to parse his thoughts, his head back slightly and eyes on the ceiling. His lips purse before he manages to carry on. ]
If something happened to you because you thought you had nowhere to go - because you thought every door was closed to you. I couldn't live with that.
[ Treavor's eyes may be covered, but Alice's sniff betrays him; another awkward clearing of his throat follows. ]
I couldn't live with it if I hated you. So. You know. The old adage. 'You can always come home.'
Or - here. They don't make adages about crashing at your weird mate's apartment.