[ He starts to argue. He doesn't care what memories Treavor has with that shirt, because it's dirty and there's no pride to be taken from smelling like a landfill. There's already a script in his head, a dialogue about Treavor, and how Treavor needs to have more respect for himself, he needs to take better care of himself, and if he's not going to do it, then for fuck's sake, let Alice help -
It all slips away from him with three words (important memories, now, he'll hear those words tracking him through every hour of the day), as though a soft and subtle knife eased deep and tenderly into his midsection, and oh, he's breathless. Stock-still, dumbstruck, and now exhaling the little bit of air left in his lungs in a small huff.
And the look on his face, for just a heartbeat, says: I didn't know anyone could cut so deep.
And. I didn't know I'd like it.
And. Fuck.
And something wordless, something inexpressible with words, that circumscribes a too-fast beating heart, and memories held dear and (no longer) private, and wonder at the notion that he could move five feet away from Treavor and still he managed to reach, and touch, and bury himself in parts of Alice that were until last night -
Last night.
Unreached. Untouched.
He's standing stock-still with a plate in one hand and a cup and a towel in the other, wanting to remember everything about this morning and last night and most of all this moment, because Treavor said he and that hideous, hideous shirt have memories.
Important memories.
And he spoke something out of hiding. He spoke something into possibility, into. Into maybe. Maybe, if Alice can (get his shit together) (get through this internship) (get away from his family?) (get his head on straight) sort himself out a little. Maybe this.
Maybe this.
((Somewhere deep, he recoils from the thought. An immediate mental reel of disgust. Maybe this? What? He and Treavor will live happily ever after? Treavor will endure his deviance, his wrongness, let him kiss, let him touch, let him screw -) (This is what happened. Last time. Last time, when he kept flinching in public from every touch. Last time, when he would suddenly find himself doused cold and limp, unable to keep up with what his partner wanted, angry with himself and angry with him and angry. Just angry. And. That painfully civil parting. How it didn't hurt at all; how Alice was already halfway out the door.)) (This.)
(This isn't that.)
This isn't that.
He moves and Treavor moves, and Treavor's hand in his feels like no hand has ever felt against any part of his body. The mess of black hair in light and how Treavor reached to comfort (comfort!) Hope (oh, he saw that, don't think he didn't see that, and he'll remember it for the rest of his life) when he suspected a momentary agitation, and how he fit perfectly in Alice's arms.
And how right now, though Alice hates that shirt, and how it's a mess of uncompromisingly dissonant color and pattern, and how it smells like harbor water and dumpster, and how it might be insidiously polyester, Treavor has said it's important because of memories (of him? of him. Of him.) So.
So the shirt stays. Forever. Does Treavor want it immediately? He'll go hand-wash it right now. Fuck. He'll even use the good detergent.
He almost starts to juggle dishes in a half-scramble to touch that hand again, not really thinking things through - thank god for Treavor having some presence of mind, because Alice has lost his own.
And he's nodding. Yes. Okay. No burning the shirt. (The important shirt, with important memories (now) (he's smiling, fuck, he must look like such an idiot) (important memories, now, he said, though.)
(...Also.)
Also.
That agreement to wear something of Alice's.
That shouldn't be causing a flicker of nervous anticipation, should it? That shouldn't be exciting.
Right?
(He's not going to think too much about it. If he doesn't dwell on it, he won't summon up the, the, ah. Problem. Caused so recently by the way Treavor touched him.) (Just be pragmatic about this. It's just a fucking shirt.)
(Like the other one is just a fucking shirt. With important memories.) ]
Your shirts are sacrosanct. I promise. [ Holy relics, and he'll be their Swiss Guard, their priest, their pilgrim all in one. ]
The bathroom's to the left of the stairs. The red toothbrush is for you. Use whatever else you need - please leave it alone if you don't have what it's used for.
[ Meaning, beard oil. Meaning, leave his beard-specific products alone. As he turns away, he asks no one in particular: ]
...Do I look like I can pull off orange?
[ No redhead on earth, Treavor.
And he's off with his dishes and his grin and the tenderest of knives bleeding him out. ]
no subject
It all slips away from him with three words (important memories, now, he'll hear those words tracking him through every hour of the day), as though a soft and subtle knife eased deep and tenderly into his midsection, and oh, he's breathless. Stock-still, dumbstruck, and now exhaling the little bit of air left in his lungs in a small huff.
And the look on his face, for just a heartbeat, says: I didn't know anyone could cut so deep.
And. I didn't know I'd like it.
And. Fuck.
And something wordless, something inexpressible with words, that circumscribes a too-fast beating heart, and memories held dear and (no longer) private, and wonder at the notion that he could move five feet away from Treavor and still he managed to reach, and touch, and bury himself in parts of Alice that were until last night -
Last night.
Unreached. Untouched.
He's standing stock-still with a plate in one hand and a cup and a towel in the other, wanting to remember everything about this morning and last night and most of all this moment, because Treavor said he and that hideous, hideous shirt have memories.
Important memories.
And he spoke something out of hiding. He spoke something into possibility, into. Into maybe. Maybe, if Alice can (get his shit together) (get through this internship) (get away from his family?) (get his head on straight) sort himself out a little. Maybe this.
Maybe this.
((Somewhere deep, he recoils from the thought. An immediate mental reel of disgust. Maybe this? What? He and Treavor will live happily ever after? Treavor will endure his deviance, his wrongness, let him kiss, let him touch, let him screw -) (This is what happened. Last time. Last time, when he kept flinching in public from every touch. Last time, when he would suddenly find himself doused cold and limp, unable to keep up with what his partner wanted, angry with himself and angry with him and angry. Just angry. And. That painfully civil parting. How it didn't hurt at all; how Alice was already halfway out the door.)) (This.)
(This isn't that.)
This isn't that.
He moves and Treavor moves, and Treavor's hand in his feels like no hand has ever felt against any part of his body. The mess of black hair in light and how Treavor reached to comfort (comfort!) Hope (oh, he saw that, don't think he didn't see that, and he'll remember it for the rest of his life) when he suspected a momentary agitation, and how he fit perfectly in Alice's arms.
And how right now, though Alice hates that shirt, and how it's a mess of uncompromisingly dissonant color and pattern, and how it smells like harbor water and dumpster, and how it might be insidiously polyester, Treavor has said it's important because of memories (of him? of him. Of him.) So.
So the shirt stays. Forever. Does Treavor want it immediately? He'll go hand-wash it right now. Fuck. He'll even use the good detergent.
He almost starts to juggle dishes in a half-scramble to touch that hand again, not really thinking things through - thank god for Treavor having some presence of mind, because Alice has lost his own.
And he's nodding. Yes. Okay. No burning the shirt. (The important shirt, with important memories (now) (he's smiling, fuck, he must look like such an idiot) (important memories, now, he said, though.)
(...Also.)
Also.
That agreement to wear something of Alice's.
That shouldn't be causing a flicker of nervous anticipation, should it? That shouldn't be exciting.
Right?
(He's not going to think too much about it. If he doesn't dwell on it, he won't summon up the, the, ah. Problem. Caused so recently by the way Treavor touched him.) (Just be pragmatic about this. It's just a fucking shirt.)
(Like the other one is just a fucking shirt. With important memories.) ]
Your shirts are sacrosanct. I promise. [ Holy relics, and he'll be their Swiss Guard, their priest, their pilgrim all in one. ]
The bathroom's to the left of the stairs. The red toothbrush is for you. Use whatever else you need - please leave it alone if you don't have what it's used for.
[ Meaning, beard oil. Meaning, leave his beard-specific products alone. As he turns away, he asks no one in particular: ]
...Do I look like I can pull off orange?
[ No redhead on earth, Treavor.
And he's off with his dishes and his grin and the tenderest of knives bleeding him out. ]