[ If there's a silence now, it's because Alice has seen something. Or because Alice knows he has been seen, straight through to some other life, somewhere raced across an ocean. He's been watching Treavor measure that information, each piece like a small grain of sand on his internal scale (against what?) and felt the not-unfamiliar discomfort of being judged by his fellow man - a jury of his peers composed of a single person. Always a single person.
It isn't Treavor's fault, of course.
It's conditioning; he has learned to fear the verdict. (No, that's wrong: he has learned to fear the sentence, because there is only one possible verdict when you plead guilty for the crime of deviance. Non-heteronormative.)
(I'm (sorry)(not interested in women)(sorry)(messed up)(sorry)(broken)(sorry)(confused)(so fucking sorry)(please don't tell my da my grandfather my aunt my sister my)(sorry sorry fuck I'm sorry)(I thought you were coming on to me)(sorry)(twisted) gay.)
There's no punishment here. Only the weight of a touch, and something like. (Knowing.) (Insight.) Mercy.
Treavor's hand is a pardon, and he feels a sob catch in his throat. Gratitude that could ravage his face if he didn't hold impossibly still, blinking his odd rapid blinking before sniffing once and looking away. And there's room to breathe here, in this apartment. This safe place, away from the things that hound him.
Treavor can come here and be safe; Alice can let him come here and be safe, and still feel safe, himself.
That thought sits warmly in the center of his chest, and even evokes the faint glimmer of a smile.
There's no one he'd rather have sweating on his sofa. And for god's sake, if there's one thing he can do in this world from birth to death - only one thing he accomplished, or will accomplish, that will ever hold any real meaning - he's content knowing it was giving Treavor some belief in his own value. ]
If the cost of your belief in the value of what I respect is a lack of faith in my judgment...well, it's paradoxical, but I'll live with it.
[ There's a little narrowing around his eyes - something like play, like mirth, just a flicker of could-be humor.
Like a call-and-response, the sweep of Treavor's thumb is answered with a slow movement of his own.
He doesn't know what this is.
It doesn't necessarily have to be anything. But he does like the way their hands feel together. And he likes being known, and judged, and not tossed to some gallows by this man.
And caring for him. He likes that.
So. ]
You should eat. Have a shower, if you want. I washed your trousers, but the shirt was dry-clean only?
[ And ugly.
He's not. Saying that.
It wasn't that ugly.
(Yes, it was.) ]
You can borrow one. I'll find something that isn't too far outside your tastes. Or we'll cover you with the blanket until you get home so no one sees you in anything lame.
[ Maybe. Just maybe. He recalls hearing a time or two. That his clothes are not the most appreciable to Treavor. But his words carry a dry, good-natured humor lurking in their depths, and there's a smile cautiously daring one corner of his mouth. ]
no subject
It isn't Treavor's fault, of course.
It's conditioning; he has learned to fear the verdict. (No, that's wrong: he has learned to fear the sentence, because there is only one possible verdict when you plead guilty for the crime of deviance. Non-heteronormative.)
(I'm (sorry)(not interested in women)(sorry)(messed up)(sorry)(broken)(sorry)(confused)(so fucking sorry)(please don't tell my da my grandfather my aunt my sister my)(sorry sorry fuck I'm sorry)(I thought you were coming on to me)(sorry)(twisted) gay.)
There's no punishment here. Only the weight of a touch, and something like. (Knowing.) (Insight.) Mercy.
Treavor's hand is a pardon, and he feels a sob catch in his throat. Gratitude that could ravage his face if he didn't hold impossibly still, blinking his odd rapid blinking before sniffing once and looking away. And there's room to breathe here, in this apartment. This safe place, away from the things that hound him.
Treavor can come here and be safe; Alice can let him come here and be safe, and still feel safe, himself.
That thought sits warmly in the center of his chest, and even evokes the faint glimmer of a smile.
There's no one he'd rather have sweating on his sofa. And for god's sake, if there's one thing he can do in this world from birth to death - only one thing he accomplished, or will accomplish, that will ever hold any real meaning - he's content knowing it was giving Treavor some belief in his own value. ]
If the cost of your belief in the value of what I respect is a lack of faith in my judgment...well, it's paradoxical, but I'll live with it.
[ There's a little narrowing around his eyes - something like play, like mirth, just a flicker of could-be humor.
Like a call-and-response, the sweep of Treavor's thumb is answered with a slow movement of his own.
He doesn't know what this is.
It doesn't necessarily have to be anything. But he does like the way their hands feel together. And he likes being known, and judged, and not tossed to some gallows by this man.
And caring for him. He likes that.
So. ]
You should eat. Have a shower, if you want. I washed your trousers, but the shirt was dry-clean only?
[ And ugly.
He's not. Saying that.
It wasn't that ugly.
(Yes, it was.) ]
You can borrow one. I'll find something that isn't too far outside your tastes. Or we'll cover you with the blanket until you get home so no one sees you in anything lame.
[ Maybe. Just maybe. He recalls hearing a time or two. That his clothes are not the most appreciable to Treavor. But his words carry a dry, good-natured humor lurking in their depths, and there's a smile cautiously daring one corner of his mouth. ]