[ If he thinks about any of this, if he lets any part of what the guy’s saying filter into comprehension, he’ll be done for. Thoughts thrown out of whack and out of reach, understanding of the world gone skewed. Because this guy… This guy.
Alice doesn’t know. How Treavor is. Sure, he’s got an idea, he’s been at the receiving end of half-assed taunts and knows Treavor works (‘works’) for his brothers and presumably knows Treavor’s a liability to his brothers and he’s dealt with Hangover Hours Treavor more than once or twice or, shit, this guy’s come to his rescue a lot.
Okay, all of that’s true. But it’s still only a small slice of the shit pie, and this guy should be careful, this guy doesn’t know Treavor, this guy can’t amend decades of Treavor’s bullshit with a few nice words.
Kind words. This guy is… gracious. Generous. A good fuckin guy, whatever he might say about himself. ((Okay but. Okay and. If Treavor knows this about Alice - and he’s certain he knows this about Alice - isn’t it possible, maybe possible that Alice could know a few things about Treavor?)) Good not just because he brought Treavor here, but because he must’ve gotten Treavor dressed for bed, gave him a nice place on a nice couch, introduced him to his cat, made him eggs (??), gave him the courtesy of explaining why he’s not going to be providing alcohol. And a dozen, four or five dozen other things. Treavor could make a list, if he wanted. If Alice wanted.
He’s looking at Alice’s hand in his own. Looking at the shifted position, feeling the clasp of that hand, the unflinching of that hand. And it occurs to Treavor that Alice is really, really fucking present here, his focus on Treavor, his eyes, his thoughts, his self less as if pulled inward.
Treavor likes that hand in his own. Treavor’s always liked a good dose of human contact, but this. (The perfect press of it, the ease of holding and the way he thinks he can feel Alice’s heartbeat in Alice’s palm, the way it seems to draw into his own hand, steadying him, could-be-guiding him.) This is something other, something more than.
Something in him feels a little like glowing. He doesn’t question it. (He doesn’t dare to look too close, and risk dispersing it or putting out the light.)
Still watching their twined hands, Treavor sighs mildly, would shake his head if he wasn’t studiously keeping still (better not to jostle himself; it doesn’t take much to kick up a plummeting nausea). Then he shifts his eyes back up at the guy, letting Alice hold his eyes, letting himself take in Alice’s. Registering what he sees for later, for thought. (So much of this is going to play itself inside his head again, again, again. He knows it; he doesn’t mind.)
(This guy is good to him.
This guy’s a good guy.
And this guy is specifically being really goddamn good to Treavor.)
(Treavor likes this guy’s hand in his own.)
(This guy should be. Careful.)
Treavor shifts his thumb against Alice’s hand again. Treavor’s watching the guy, not sure how to explain that he knows Alice’s meaning and yeah, Alice is cutting pretty close (real fucking close) to the bone with those observations (always prepared to foot some kind of bill, well yeah of course, that’s what happen when you spend your life accruing debt after debt after debt, when yeah your brothers can pay off actual real monetary problems but you can’t on your own; you get used to prepping yourself for unspecified payback), but also he doesn’t get the sense Alice is a kind of asks-for-return or even wants or accepts much return.
He’s just. Kind of that mythic standup dude.
(Who also happens to possess a bracing touch, a touch that could make a person glow.)
(Who also brushed his fingers over Treavor’s hair, against his forehead. (That happened, didn’t it? And it offered at once depthless tranquility and tingled excitation.))
(Who’s got a way of speaking, a way of weighing over words, a way of lending tenor to words and a way of staring open-eyed (open-souled?) that could make Treavor’s heart stop.) ]
Shit. Alice. …It’s too early in the day for me to explain to you the flaws in your logic. Let’s save the validity talk until you know just how rabid an asshole I am.
[ There’s a minor smile, flickered with an unconscious upset, something akin to forlornness or regret. Something that could have been a wince against his headache or a trick of the eye; there and then vanished. ]
You’re a smart guy, don’t get me wrong. Or I assume you’re smart, or you look like a guy who knows his way around some insight.
…Or maybe that’s the glasses, hm?
[ Not that they’re bad glasses. The guy looks pretty good in glasses.
Then again, the guy’d probably look good in a lot of things. ]
That’s what I mean about you being a good guy, anyway. You’ve got… vision beyond the bullshit level. And patience. Shit. You’ve got the patience of a goddamn saint.
You like to help people, right? That’s not… Hey, Alice, I don’t know if you know? But that’s not a common commodity here.
[ Here in this garbage fucking city. Cold and chock-full of rats.
…Treavor doesn’t mind the rats. Or the thousands of strangers, people he can wonder about, wish about, watch and think maybe they’ve got okay lives, maybe someone here’s found something worth living in (and if they can, maybe someday, somewhere, he’ll meet brighter fortune; it isn’t likely, it’s a thought that grows dimmer each year, but even now it offers sparks of interest on better days).
Those strangers usually turn out to be shit once you get to know em.
But this guy. This Alice. He’s… Somehow better than his first impression. Less noxious, not noxious at all, almost kind of gentle, and yeah, just better by fucking far. ]
I don’t remember a whole lot about last night, but I know I felt all right. Not like I had anything to worry about.
no subject
Alice doesn’t know. How Treavor is. Sure, he’s got an idea, he’s been at the receiving end of half-assed taunts and knows Treavor works (‘works’) for his brothers and presumably knows Treavor’s a liability to his brothers and he’s dealt with Hangover Hours Treavor more than once or twice or, shit, this guy’s come to his rescue a lot.
Okay, all of that’s true. But it’s still only a small slice of the shit pie, and this guy should be careful, this guy doesn’t know Treavor, this guy can’t amend decades of Treavor’s bullshit with a few nice words.
Kind words. This guy is… gracious. Generous. A good fuckin guy, whatever he might say about himself. ((Okay but. Okay and. If Treavor knows this about Alice - and he’s certain he knows this about Alice - isn’t it possible, maybe possible that Alice could know a few things about Treavor?)) Good not just because he brought Treavor here, but because he must’ve gotten Treavor dressed for bed, gave him a nice place on a nice couch, introduced him to his cat, made him eggs (??), gave him the courtesy of explaining why he’s not going to be providing alcohol. And a dozen, four or five dozen other things. Treavor could make a list, if he wanted. If Alice wanted.
He’s looking at Alice’s hand in his own. Looking at the shifted position, feeling the clasp of that hand, the unflinching of that hand. And it occurs to Treavor that Alice is really, really fucking present here, his focus on Treavor, his eyes, his thoughts, his self less as if pulled inward.
Treavor likes that hand in his own. Treavor’s always liked a good dose of human contact, but this. (The perfect press of it, the ease of holding and the way he thinks he can feel Alice’s heartbeat in Alice’s palm, the way it seems to draw into his own hand, steadying him, could-be-guiding him.) This is something other, something more than.
Something in him feels a little like glowing. He doesn’t question it. (He doesn’t dare to look too close, and risk dispersing it or putting out the light.)
Still watching their twined hands, Treavor sighs mildly, would shake his head if he wasn’t studiously keeping still (better not to jostle himself; it doesn’t take much to kick up a plummeting nausea). Then he shifts his eyes back up at the guy, letting Alice hold his eyes, letting himself take in Alice’s. Registering what he sees for later, for thought. (So much of this is going to play itself inside his head again, again, again. He knows it; he doesn’t mind.)
(This guy is good to him.
This guy’s a good guy.
And this guy is specifically being really goddamn good to Treavor.)
(Treavor likes this guy’s hand in his own.)
(This guy should be. Careful.)
Treavor shifts his thumb against Alice’s hand again. Treavor’s watching the guy, not sure how to explain that he knows Alice’s meaning and yeah, Alice is cutting pretty close (real fucking close) to the bone with those observations (always prepared to foot some kind of bill, well yeah of course, that’s what happen when you spend your life accruing debt after debt after debt, when yeah your brothers can pay off actual real monetary problems but you can’t on your own; you get used to prepping yourself for unspecified payback), but also he doesn’t get the sense Alice is a kind of asks-for-return or even wants or accepts much return.
He’s just. Kind of that mythic standup dude.
(Who also happens to possess a bracing touch, a touch that could make a person glow.)
(Who also brushed his fingers over Treavor’s hair, against his forehead. (That happened, didn’t it? And it offered at once depthless tranquility and tingled excitation.))
(Who’s got a way of speaking, a way of weighing over words, a way of lending tenor to words and a way of staring open-eyed (open-souled?) that could make Treavor’s heart stop.) ]
Shit. Alice. …It’s too early in the day for me to explain to you the flaws in your logic. Let’s save the validity talk until you know just how rabid an asshole I am.
[ There’s a minor smile, flickered with an unconscious upset, something akin to forlornness or regret. Something that could have been a wince against his headache or a trick of the eye; there and then vanished. ]
You’re a smart guy, don’t get me wrong. Or I assume you’re smart, or you look like a guy who knows his way around some insight.
…Or maybe that’s the glasses, hm?
[ Not that they’re bad glasses. The guy looks pretty good in glasses.
Then again, the guy’d probably look good in a lot of things. ]
That’s what I mean about you being a good guy, anyway. You’ve got… vision beyond the bullshit level. And patience. Shit. You’ve got the patience of a goddamn saint.
You like to help people, right? That’s not… Hey, Alice, I don’t know if you know? But that’s not a common commodity here.
[ Here in this garbage fucking city. Cold and chock-full of rats.
…Treavor doesn’t mind the rats. Or the thousands of strangers, people he can wonder about, wish about, watch and think maybe they’ve got okay lives, maybe someone here’s found something worth living in (and if they can, maybe someday, somewhere, he’ll meet brighter fortune; it isn’t likely, it’s a thought that grows dimmer each year, but even now it offers sparks of interest on better days).
Those strangers usually turn out to be shit once you get to know em.
But this guy. This Alice. He’s… Somehow better than his first impression. Less noxious, not noxious at all, almost kind of gentle, and yeah, just better by fucking far. ]
I don’t remember a whole lot about last night, but I know I felt all right. Not like I had anything to worry about.
Which also isn't all that common.
[ At all. ]