[ Nothing that Treavor says after the word 'round' really registers. Perhaps in the vaguest sense, Alice is receiving the comments and committing them to memory, and perhaps later he will reflect upon the apology granted to him for the insults and taunts and aggravations he's endured.

But right now, Alice has stiffened, and is staring at Treavor, aghast, his lips parted and one side of his mouth lifted in faint (not faint) horror, exposing his teeth. His brows are raised like a plea because maybe he misunderstood. Maybe Treavor didn't actually say he's going to wear that (ugly) shirt again, after showering, when he's clean and it's filthy from whatever he was doing by that dumpster.

(It looks like the fashion industry's artistic interpretation of a dumpster, actually.) (Smells like one, too.)

This man. Needs help.

(There's no pleasure this time.)

(...Maybe a little.)

One thing is certain: he's going to burn that shirt before letting Treavor wear it out of this apartment if it hasn't been cleaned.

And he's shaking his head slowly, decisively, already turning away and rejecting argument with the mere movement of body and tone of voice. It's settled and he's not. Going to listen to this.

(Another round? Christ.) ]

No.

[ Just that. A barely-calm, slightly off-pitch 'no', absolutely fucking not, and he's standing, collecting things to clean and casting a helpless not-smile towards the other man. ]

The shirt.

It reeks. No. Have anything you want out of my closet. Tell me what you want from your place and I'll go get it. Rob the neighbors. But you're not putting it back on after you've cleaned you, and if you try it, I'll burn the fucking thing.

[ And, water glass, plate of uneaten eggs, and towel in hand, he stares at a spot just past Treavor's head like a man who has seen evil, make a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, flicks another look at his guest (friend?) (something other?) and shakes his head again, more quickly this time.

Then mutters to himself. ]

Another round. Christ. Christ.