[ At some point he must have moved, pulling away entirely from Treavor's sphere (from the gravity of the other man, that he likened to binary stars, but maybe Treavor is a planet and Alice is a meteor, a satellite, something yanked from orbit and crash landing, and wouldn't that just.
Wouldn't that just make sense. (He hates it. He hates the kaleidoscopic shift of perspective from one moment to the next, how the world can change from two bodies moving in tandem to one body leashed to another, one body incapable of doing anything but obeying the call of another. One is romantic. It has some shine to it that could be hope, or possibility. Or even just a very pleasant daydream, a memory to be recalled when the space around one body is unutterably lonely.
The other is despairingly inevitable, and damning. Humiliating.
More loneliness.))
His forehead is resting on his wrist, his hand and the cloth dangling, because he is in fact forcing himself to breathe, to stop panicking, to be rational and not put this on a man with a hangover. This is selfish, this is stupid, this is unreasonable. (He crossed a line and made Treavor uncomfortable. He undid all the good he tried to do because of a reckless moment.) (Treavor.)
(Knows.)
A twist in his guts, bile rising, and a wounded animal stare at the floor.
Treavor knows. Treavor knows. Treavor knows. (Fuck. He should have just. Played it off. Kept his fucking mouth shut. Never bantered or flirted or teased or whatever word went with that stupid thing he said. Fuck. Fuck.)
There's a weight on his shoulder and abstractly, he knows what it is. He knows there are words with it. In that moment, his misfiring mind has the temerity to wonder, Is he giving me the 'you're a great guy, but-' speech?
He's never actually heard that one before. It's not you, it's me. That would be new. He should try to tune in to that? Maybe?
He's sitting up, and he's trying to give Treavor his attention, and Treavor's telling him to breathe, but he can't do that anymore, because there's another kaleidoscopic twist. Another weight against a non-celestial body. (He moved, and Treavor moved. Not in tandem - they moved in different trajectories, Alice away and Treavor toward, but isn't that still somehow in tandem?) (He moved away and Treavor touched him, and he moved, meaning to pull further away, and Treavor was touching him more.)
Treavor's hand on his hand.
Alice is staring at it like he's never seen a hand before. (Alice is staring at it like an animal stares at an oncoming car.)
(The way planets don't stare at oncoming meteors, unless the meteors are the kind that will obliterate everything. A change in all life. The end of the dinosaurs, the rise of mankind.)
(His heartbeat feels like it's in his skull. Behind his eyes.)
He doesn't move. (He doesn't want to move. Not one. Muscle. Inch.) ((But if he moves away, just once more, will Treavor still move in tandem, and where and how will he touch then?) (Does he want to risk that?))
Breathe.
He has to. Breathe.
Treavor's hand is. (Paler than his own.) (Thinner than his own.) (The same length, and breadth.) (Heavy.) (Damp with sweat.) (Warm.) (Blue veins under his skin and his knuckles, his fingers are elegant, or would be if he took care of them.) (There's dirt under his nails.) (There's a smudge.) (A scar?) (His nails are ragged, he needs to cut his nails, needs someone to cut his nails.)
(It's so goddamned beautiful.) (It makes his own hand look beautiful.) (He wants to cry. He wants to spread his fingers and see if Treavor will twine his own with them. He wants (to feel that hand's grace for the rest of his life) to cry.)
Alice forces himself to look away, and the act is painful. (How long has he been silent? A few seconds, or a few moments?) He takes a small breath, and manages to offer words that feign calm. ]
You're welcome on my couch, and anywhere else in my home.
It won't happen again.
[ Carefully - painfully. (Horribly. (Like dying. Like ending life support.)) He slides his hand out from under Treavor's.
As though joking, he adds softly: ]
You should feel safe from me, as much as from anything out there, after all. No wondering about meanings.
no subject
Wouldn't that just make sense. (He hates it. He hates the kaleidoscopic shift of perspective from one moment to the next, how the world can change from two bodies moving in tandem to one body leashed to another, one body incapable of doing anything but obeying the call of another. One is romantic. It has some shine to it that could be hope, or possibility. Or even just a very pleasant daydream, a memory to be recalled when the space around one body is unutterably lonely.
The other is despairingly inevitable, and damning. Humiliating.
More loneliness.))
His forehead is resting on his wrist, his hand and the cloth dangling, because he is in fact forcing himself to breathe, to stop panicking, to be rational and not put this on a man with a hangover. This is selfish, this is stupid, this is unreasonable. (He crossed a line and made Treavor uncomfortable. He undid all the good he tried to do because of a reckless moment.) (Treavor.)
(Knows.)
A twist in his guts, bile rising, and a wounded animal stare at the floor.
Treavor knows. Treavor knows. Treavor knows. (Fuck. He should have just. Played it off. Kept his fucking mouth shut. Never bantered or flirted or teased or whatever word went with that stupid thing he said. Fuck. Fuck.)
There's a weight on his shoulder and abstractly, he knows what it is. He knows there are words with it. In that moment, his misfiring mind has the temerity to wonder, Is he giving me the 'you're a great guy, but-' speech?
He's never actually heard that one before. It's not you, it's me. That would be new. He should try to tune in to that? Maybe?
He's sitting up, and he's trying to give Treavor his attention, and Treavor's telling him to breathe, but he can't do that anymore, because there's another kaleidoscopic twist. Another weight against a non-celestial body. (He moved, and Treavor moved. Not in tandem - they moved in different trajectories, Alice away and Treavor toward, but isn't that still somehow in tandem?) (He moved away and Treavor touched him, and he moved, meaning to pull further away, and Treavor was touching him more.)
Treavor's hand on his hand.
Alice is staring at it like he's never seen a hand before. (Alice is staring at it like an animal stares at an oncoming car.)
(The way planets don't stare at oncoming meteors, unless the meteors are the kind that will obliterate everything. A change in all life. The end of the dinosaurs, the rise of mankind.)
(His heartbeat feels like it's in his skull. Behind his eyes.)
He doesn't move. (He doesn't want to move. Not one. Muscle. Inch.) ((But if he moves away, just once more, will Treavor still move in tandem, and where and how will he touch then?) (Does he want to risk that?))
Breathe.
He has to. Breathe.
Treavor's hand is. (Paler than his own.) (Thinner than his own.) (The same length, and breadth.) (Heavy.) (Damp with sweat.) (Warm.) (Blue veins under his skin and his knuckles, his fingers are elegant, or would be if he took care of them.) (There's dirt under his nails.) (There's a smudge.) (A scar?) (His nails are ragged, he needs to cut his nails, needs someone to cut his nails.)
(It's so goddamned beautiful.) (It makes his own hand look beautiful.) (He wants to cry. He wants to spread his fingers and see if Treavor will twine his own with them. He wants (to feel that hand's grace for the rest of his life) to cry.)
Alice forces himself to look away, and the act is painful. (How long has he been silent? A few seconds, or a few moments?) He takes a small breath, and manages to offer words that feign calm. ]
You're welcome on my couch, and anywhere else in my home.
It won't happen again.
[ Carefully - painfully. (Horribly. (Like dying. Like ending life support.)) He slides his hand out from under Treavor's.
As though joking, he adds softly: ]
You should feel safe from me, as much as from anything out there, after all. No wondering about meanings.