Not the grin. The expression that preceded it. It's going to linger with him (another knife to heal around, another reminder), something seared into the channels of his memory. Treavor leaning away, and Treavor perplexed.
Because Alice misconstrued something that was said, and tried to rise to the occasion. Because Alice (flirted) (why did he fucking) (with a man) (he knows better, fuck, he fucking knows, he knows) bantered, and said something weird, and his throat, chest, stomach -
It's all gone tense under the damnation of that confusion. Nauseated. (The feeling of going quickly, moving fast and free and eagerly, and the abrupt crash with calamity. Breath-robbing and sick and shameful.) (Distantly: a feeling like deflation. The emotion that comes after 'no', and before 'oh, okay'. Puncture.) (More distantly: a hollowness, like his head is a drumskin and his throat is the reverb, and he's been struck. (He wanted. He wants.)) He wishes Treavor wouldn't look at him that way, a wild animal in the road and Alice an oncoming car.
He can't quite (doesn't at all) suppress the expression that moves over his face: a rapid blinking as he looks away again. Embarrassment, lips pursing as he bows his head.
Treavor's talking, trying to force the conversation away from the mess that was made by his own bastardized effort to approach something that wasn't his to approach, and that's good of him. Alice is grateful, or will be grateful in time.
And he should. Try and say something back. (He should try not to run away, to press the cloth into Treavor's hands under some pretense of cleaning the kitchen or watering the plants.)
A breath. ]
Caught me. Performance art in a legal firm. Always been my dream.
[ It falls flat with that pall cast over it. (The pall he cast. The awkwardness he caused.
Fuck. Fuck, if it gets out. If Treavor's angry. If he tells someone Alice hit on him -) (He won't do that. That's not the situation, and he won't do that.)
(He could apologize?)
(He.)
(It's not. The worst idea. He is sorry.) ]
I. What I said.
Um.
[ Christ. There's the 'um', the indicator species of his discomfort.
He sighs, and gives the other man the force of his focus once more, lowering the cloth enough to see his face, to let him see his own. To show his effort to be earnest, and contrite.
His arm moves to the back of the sofa. ]
I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate, if for no other reason than because I didn't bring you here to - to.
[ A distressed cant of his head. Please don't make me say it.
He says it anyway, of course, in a small, wavered voice. ]
Hook up.
[ And barreling along: ]
I don't. I. That's not. A thing I do. I said I do, but it's not. Um. Hooking - up.
[ He's losing the thread here, his breathing beginning to pick up and his distress and shame distilling, pure. ]
It was just. A thing to say. F-felt all right to ff-fl-
[ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He can't get his "f"s out. ]
- I don't know. It was stupid, and I made you uncomfortable, and I'm sorry.
no subject
Not the grin. The expression that preceded it. It's going to linger with him (another knife to heal around, another reminder), something seared into the channels of his memory. Treavor leaning away, and Treavor perplexed.
Because Alice misconstrued something that was said, and tried to rise to the occasion. Because Alice (flirted) (why did he fucking) (with a man) (he knows better, fuck, he fucking knows, he knows) bantered, and said something weird, and his throat, chest, stomach -
It's all gone tense under the damnation of that confusion. Nauseated. (The feeling of going quickly, moving fast and free and eagerly, and the abrupt crash with calamity. Breath-robbing and sick and shameful.) (Distantly: a feeling like deflation. The emotion that comes after 'no', and before 'oh, okay'. Puncture.) (More distantly: a hollowness, like his head is a drumskin and his throat is the reverb, and he's been struck. (He wanted. He wants.)) He wishes Treavor wouldn't look at him that way, a wild animal in the road and Alice an oncoming car.
He can't quite (doesn't at all) suppress the expression that moves over his face: a rapid blinking as he looks away again. Embarrassment, lips pursing as he bows his head.
Treavor's talking, trying to force the conversation away from the mess that was made by his own bastardized effort to approach something that wasn't his to approach, and that's good of him. Alice is grateful, or will be grateful in time.
And he should. Try and say something back. (He should try not to run away, to press the cloth into Treavor's hands under some pretense of cleaning the kitchen or watering the plants.)
A breath. ]
Caught me. Performance art in a legal firm. Always been my dream.
[ It falls flat with that pall cast over it. (The pall he cast. The awkwardness he caused.
Fuck. Fuck, if it gets out. If Treavor's angry. If he tells someone Alice hit on him -) (He won't do that. That's not the situation, and he won't do that.)
(He could apologize?)
(He.)
(It's not. The worst idea. He is sorry.) ]
I. What I said.
Um.
[ Christ. There's the 'um', the indicator species of his discomfort.
He sighs, and gives the other man the force of his focus once more, lowering the cloth enough to see his face, to let him see his own. To show his effort to be earnest, and contrite.
His arm moves to the back of the sofa. ]
I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate, if for no other reason than because I didn't bring you here to - to.
[ A distressed cant of his head. Please don't make me say it.
He says it anyway, of course, in a small, wavered voice. ]
Hook up.
[ And barreling along: ]
I don't. I. That's not. A thing I do. I said I do, but it's not. Um. Hooking - up.
[ He's losing the thread here, his breathing beginning to pick up and his distress and shame distilling, pure. ]
It was just. A thing to say. F-felt all right to ff-fl-
[ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He can't get his "f"s out. ]
- I don't know. It was stupid, and I made you uncomfortable, and I'm sorry.