That laugh curling Alice’s throat. That sound of, of…
A sound that renders Treavor’s mind a golden quiet, river running through a hushed meadow sky flecked aurelian, the mildest breeze and the air untouched untouchable by anyone aside from Alice, Alice in the center of his view, the all of Treavor’s knowing, stretched in sunlight shining down, and this hallowed ground could be eternal, and Treavor feels… Oh, gratified, flung free of himself and his perpetual disquiet, he feels rung through with relief and potential and wanting, he’d like to fling himself beside the man, the two of them lounging in the golden grass so far from everyone and everything, Treavor running finger through Alice’s hair and knowing Alice’s touch running through his own, only them and their nearness and this golden, golden quiet.
He’s.
Stricken.
Smiling, a lopsided expression, dreaming and woozy and hey, hey fuck, what he wouldn’t give to hear that sound again.
And hey, hey fuck, Alice is giving him some words, and Treavor wants to hear those words, needs to catch every single thing Alice might say (every single purred sound he might offer), so he nods once, sometimes that works to clear his head a little and it does that now, lets him hear Alice talk about the view and see Alice…
Beckoning him? That hand lifted like a gift, and…
And Alice said—
And Alice said?
And Alice called him?!
Alice called him to approach and Alice called him beautiful, or ’Beautiful,’ who the fuck does that, and Treavor’s biting his lip and Treavor’s thoughts are scattering against one another all over again, tell him it can’t be possible but it is possible Alice just called him ‘beautiful’ and it sounded so good, so fucking good, not like a joke just good, and also Alice raised a hand and Alice said, Alice is inviting him to step out, maybe to stay, to approach for sure and suddenly Treavor’s aware that he’s knocking a shoulder against the mostly-unopened door, that his hand’s slipping over the handle, pushing at the side, trying and trying and failing to push open a single simple door, and yeah okay there’s a little moment of frustration of panic as he scrambles, as he feels like oh fuck maybe he’s fucked maybe the door’s against him!, but then he manages, his hand pushes the right way and Treavor’s on the balcony, right there with Alice, and Treavor’s sinking onto one knee beside Alice, Perrier still clutched in his hand, his head almost aching from the beauty of this man and this moment.
Maybe they aren’t in some far-off meadow, but everything still looks golden, and isn’t it better being here, where the city’s sounds remind him that this is real, very real and not just a work of Treavor’s dreaming?
He’s got Alice’s hand in his free hand. He draws that hand toward him, slow and careful, admiring the form of it, the soft of skin and callused skin and eased muscle and frame of bone. And he’s grinning, and he’s smiling daftly still, and he presses Alice’s perfect goddamn hand. ]
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That laugh curling Alice’s throat. That sound of, of…
A sound that renders Treavor’s mind a golden quiet, river running through a hushed meadow sky flecked aurelian, the mildest breeze and the air untouched untouchable by anyone aside from Alice, Alice in the center of his view, the all of Treavor’s knowing, stretched in sunlight shining down, and this hallowed ground could be eternal, and Treavor feels… Oh, gratified, flung free of himself and his perpetual disquiet, he feels rung through with relief and potential and wanting, he’d like to fling himself beside the man, the two of them lounging in the golden grass so far from everyone and everything, Treavor running finger through Alice’s hair and knowing Alice’s touch running through his own, only them and their nearness and this golden, golden quiet.
He’s.
Stricken.
Smiling, a lopsided expression, dreaming and woozy and hey, hey fuck, what he wouldn’t give to hear that sound again.
And hey, hey fuck, Alice is giving him some words, and Treavor wants to hear those words, needs to catch every single thing Alice might say (every single purred sound he might offer), so he nods once, sometimes that works to clear his head a little and it does that now, lets him hear Alice talk about the view and see Alice…
Beckoning him? That hand lifted like a gift, and…
And Alice said—
And Alice said?
And Alice called him?!
Alice called him to approach and Alice called him beautiful, or ’Beautiful,’ who the fuck does that, and Treavor’s biting his lip and Treavor’s thoughts are scattering against one another all over again, tell him it can’t be possible but it is possible Alice just called him ‘beautiful’ and it sounded so good, so fucking good, not like a joke just good, and also Alice raised a hand and Alice said, Alice is inviting him to step out, maybe to stay, to approach for sure and suddenly Treavor’s aware that he’s knocking a shoulder against the mostly-unopened door, that his hand’s slipping over the handle, pushing at the side, trying and trying and failing to push open a single simple door, and yeah okay there’s a little moment of frustration of panic as he scrambles, as he feels like oh fuck maybe he’s fucked maybe the door’s against him!, but then he manages, his hand pushes the right way and Treavor’s on the balcony, right there with Alice, and Treavor’s sinking onto one knee beside Alice, Perrier still clutched in his hand, his head almost aching from the beauty of this man and this moment.
Maybe they aren’t in some far-off meadow, but everything still looks golden, and isn’t it better being here, where the city’s sounds remind him that this is real, very real and not just a work of Treavor’s dreaming?
He’s got Alice’s hand in his free hand. He draws that hand toward him, slow and careful, admiring the form of it, the soft of skin and callused skin and eased muscle and frame of bone. And he’s grinning, and he’s smiling daftly still, and he presses Alice’s perfect goddamn hand. ]
You just try getting rid of me.
Stuck here now.
[ And he can’t stop smiling. ]