There was silence, and on the other side, there’s Alice’s hand still in his (Alice’s thumb offering caress, trilling over Treavor’s skin) (it’s a welcome touch, a deft touch, attentive and measured, and Treavor, yes, Treavor knows he’d like to feel more of it), there’s meaning in Alice’s expression that Treavor doesn’t try to define (but he’ll remember that look, and the feeling of its sight), and there’s a smile, there’s something like humor, there’s something like ease in speaking.
They’ve passed through something, hand-in-hand. And Treavor’s heart could burst from that feeling.
There’s a smile from Alice again, and Treavor likes that little smile, could-be-smile, is-in-fact-a-smile. He thinks he’d like to see more of that smile, and that this guy should be given more reason to smile. It’s a look that speaks of restoration, of renewal. It a look that says this guy is so much more than anyone’s seen, maybe. And shouldn’t that smile be cherished, and tended, and preserved?
Treavor’s smiling back, crooked and a little daft, struck with the sight and the realness of this guy.
But also. And also. He should probably… say something. The guy spoke and he should reply. So. So. ]
You washed my pants?
[ And called them trousers. Ff, what a nerd.
Good kind of nerd.
The kind of nerd that manages being golden guy professional during the day, turns up in crisp-pressed shirts (which, okay, boring, but also okay, it’s not like Alice looks bad or boring in them, guy’s kind of a stunner in probably everything, it’s the hair or the eyes or something in the essence of him), files through his work like it’s no problem, hour after hour after eighty fucking hours holy shit, no one should be in the basement that long (maybe the guy could use… a little more company down there?). The kind of nerd that knows how many hours of interaction compose a maybe-friend and who likes Swedish fucking Fish (no joke, was the guy serious? like that’s grandpa-tier candy, right up there with Werther’s) and who doesn’t mind keeping his messy drunk of an officemate (a friend) (a… what, maybe could-be-other-than-friend?) company and singing songs, talking about…
Oh shit, they talked about like. Eels in the harbor, right? Something like that? What Treavor remembers is glimpses, impressions, but it’s enough to quirk a smile from him. ]
Shit, thanks.
I’ve gotta stop it with the dry cleaning shirts. Like. Fuck, I’m not responsible enough for that shit.
[ Guess how many shirts Treavor’s ruined by dumping them in with the wash? Just take a wild, wild, guess, and if you guessed anywhere along the lines of ‘lots,’ hey nice job, you win the grand prize! ]
Nothing against your shirts or your blanket, but I could just give last night’s shirt a second round? Limited time reappearance, something like… that.
[ It wouldn’t be unusual. A lot of Treavor’s evening-going-out shirts also end up being morning-going-home shirts.
And— Something else, that thing about lame— Oh. Right. Yeah. He.
Definitely. Definitely said something like that about Alice’s clothes. Definitely said something like that more often than once.
Fuck. Well, fuck, there’s another locus of regretting. Like, yeah, the work look hadn’t been anything special (though don’t the guy’s clothes always look right for him? again: somehow not boring on Alice; guy could probably wear Chauncey-style up-to-the-armpits pants and still look right, look good), but Treavor’d been venting irritations that, okay, yeah, had nothing to do with Alice, and had been taking any angle to get a dig in.
Treavor’s scratching the back of his neck, looking askance, biting at his lip and then speaking. ]
Heyy, your shirts aren’t so bad.
I mean, they’d be bad on me, ‘cause I’m a tacky bastard, but you make em shine.
[ A silence, still scratching his neck. ]
Uhh. In this morning’s edition of Treavor’s a dick: Your clothes are all right and I was being pissy. Like. Treavor being a dick didn’t know what he was talking about.
Sorry about that.
[ He casts a sideways glance at the eggs, pulls a sour face - the eggs themselves don’t look like shit eggs, just, he needs a little longer before food’s gonna be possible (since someone doesn’t have any booze around) (but that’s okay; that’s Alice’s choice, and Treavor’s gonna be okay with that). And he reaches to the other side, scratches Hope behind the ears, under that soft goddamn chin. Fuck, she’s got him smiling again. Why’s he never had a cat? ]
Maybe shower before food? The water’s, mm… It’ll get me there.
They look like good eggs.
[ They look like scrambled eggs. Which are hard to fuck up, but which Treavor has - admittedly and often - fucked up anyway. So he can call them good eggs! He’s earned that right. ]
no subject
There was silence, and on the other side, there’s Alice’s hand still in his (Alice’s thumb offering caress, trilling over Treavor’s skin) (it’s a welcome touch, a deft touch, attentive and measured, and Treavor, yes, Treavor knows he’d like to feel more of it), there’s meaning in Alice’s expression that Treavor doesn’t try to define (but he’ll remember that look, and the feeling of its sight), and there’s a smile, there’s something like humor, there’s something like ease in speaking.
They’ve passed through something, hand-in-hand. And Treavor’s heart could burst from that feeling.
There’s a smile from Alice again, and Treavor likes that little smile, could-be-smile, is-in-fact-a-smile. He thinks he’d like to see more of that smile, and that this guy should be given more reason to smile. It’s a look that speaks of restoration, of renewal. It a look that says this guy is so much more than anyone’s seen, maybe. And shouldn’t that smile be cherished, and tended, and preserved?
Treavor’s smiling back, crooked and a little daft, struck with the sight and the realness of this guy.
But also. And also. He should probably… say something. The guy spoke and he should reply. So. So. ]
You washed my pants?
[ And called them trousers. Ff, what a nerd.
Good kind of nerd.
The kind of nerd that manages being golden guy professional during the day, turns up in crisp-pressed shirts (which, okay, boring, but also okay, it’s not like Alice looks bad or boring in them, guy’s kind of a stunner in probably everything, it’s the hair or the eyes or something in the essence of him), files through his work like it’s no problem, hour after hour after eighty fucking hours holy shit, no one should be in the basement that long (maybe the guy could use… a little more company down there?). The kind of nerd that knows how many hours of interaction compose a maybe-friend and who likes Swedish fucking Fish (no joke, was the guy serious? like that’s grandpa-tier candy, right up there with Werther’s) and who doesn’t mind keeping his messy drunk of an officemate (a friend) (a… what, maybe could-be-other-than-friend?) company and singing songs, talking about…
Oh shit, they talked about like. Eels in the harbor, right? Something like that? What Treavor remembers is glimpses, impressions, but it’s enough to quirk a smile from him. ]
Shit, thanks.
I’ve gotta stop it with the dry cleaning shirts. Like. Fuck, I’m not responsible enough for that shit.
[ Guess how many shirts Treavor’s ruined by dumping them in with the wash? Just take a wild, wild, guess, and if you guessed anywhere along the lines of ‘lots,’ hey nice job, you win the grand prize! ]
Nothing against your shirts or your blanket, but I could just give last night’s shirt a second round? Limited time reappearance, something like… that.
[ It wouldn’t be unusual. A lot of Treavor’s evening-going-out shirts also end up being morning-going-home shirts.
And— Something else, that thing about lame— Oh. Right. Yeah. He.
Definitely. Definitely said something like that about Alice’s clothes. Definitely said something like that more often than once.
Fuck. Well, fuck, there’s another locus of regretting. Like, yeah, the work look hadn’t been anything special (though don’t the guy’s clothes always look right for him? again: somehow not boring on Alice; guy could probably wear Chauncey-style up-to-the-armpits pants and still look right, look good), but Treavor’d been venting irritations that, okay, yeah, had nothing to do with Alice, and had been taking any angle to get a dig in.
Treavor’s scratching the back of his neck, looking askance, biting at his lip and then speaking. ]
Heyy, your shirts aren’t so bad.
I mean, they’d be bad on me, ‘cause I’m a tacky bastard, but you make em shine.
[ A silence, still scratching his neck. ]
Uhh. In this morning’s edition of Treavor’s a dick: Your clothes are all right and I was being pissy. Like. Treavor being a dick didn’t know what he was talking about.
Sorry about that.
[ He casts a sideways glance at the eggs, pulls a sour face - the eggs themselves don’t look like shit eggs, just, he needs a little longer before food’s gonna be possible (since someone doesn’t have any booze around) (but that’s okay; that’s Alice’s choice, and Treavor’s gonna be okay with that). And he reaches to the other side, scratches Hope behind the ears, under that soft goddamn chin. Fuck, she’s got him smiling again. Why’s he never had a cat? ]
Maybe shower before food? The water’s, mm… It’ll get me there.
They look like good eggs.
[ They look like scrambled eggs. Which are hard to fuck up, but which Treavor has - admittedly and often - fucked up anyway. So he can call them good eggs! He’s earned that right. ]