[ That sound Treavor makes is going to lodge itself in Alice's brain. He'll revisit it again and again, examine it, trying to determine just what it meant, what it could mean. (How he'd like to hear it again.)
(There will, at some future point in time, be an elaborate constructed fantasy of mostly-innocent kisses and whimpers, possibly to be tested in varying circumstances and locations.

He doesn't dare think too long or hard about Treavor in more erotic circumstances than that. His wanting is vague (the way a dog would like to chase a car. The dog has no idea what to do with the car, should it ever catch it.) Even his own fumbling self-ministration - infrequent and guilty, infrequent and markedly shameful and tense and perfunctory - is a blank-minded activity.

Mostly.

It feels wrong. To indulge in (fantasies about a man) something that isn't his.)

But kisses are innocent. And that whimper was so sweet. And Treavor is so soft, and right now. Right now, the whole world is warm and honey-gold, and Treavor is his Bunny.

Alice's arms are winding tight around him once more right as some new thought enters his comprehension from the voice he adores, the voice that made that whimper, and Alice is looking (staring) at not really anything, just distantly past black hair and thinking about all the work it will take to care for his Bunny (trouble-prone and messy and in need of so much care.)

How much work it has taken, since that night he brought Treavor home. All the things Treavor needs to be happy and healthy. All the things he can give.

It won't be thankless, and fingers through his hair, and he's tingling, he's making a noise of his own he didn't quite tamp down, a lazy, pleased noise that would have been a moan, could have been if he had parted his lips.

Wound up as he is with (his his his) Treavor, there's no clever way of hiding his arousal. (And it's fine. He can be hard. Why does it need to be a problem? They're talking, they're talking about the best things, his favorite things, things that are bound to excite him. Treavor and care, and anyway, the sun is warm and he feels so fucking nice. Let it be what it is. It's all good, it's all wonderful.)

He shifts a little for comfort, for the pleasantry of contact and warmth of the body against his own, and murmurs something half lost in the nuzzle he burrows against Treavor's throat - the best work, that part's inescapable.

And if he presses closer. Can they melt in to one another? Can they stay here always, bound up like this? How tightly does he need to hold on to this man to keep him here under a blue sky, surrounded by plants and warm breezes and distant city sounds and the lull of music from his phone?

He eases back, because there's a perfect way to hold Treavor, to see him and still feel the length of his body, to still be wrapped up and pressed against him while watching him contentedly. When Alice finds it, he breathes a satisfied sigh and reaches up to trace his fingers through the other man's hair. (Like the first time. Along his hairline, soothing, wondering, where have you been all my life.) ]

Nothing about you is thankless.

[ A hum, and a stretch, his body settling closer, please, closer. ]

It's all 'care'. Tell me what you want. I'll go do your laundry. I'll cook your dinner. Comb your hair for you.

[ Amused, lazy, he nudges his head nearer and drops his voice to a whisper again. ]

Bathe you.

[ His hand is wandering without any ill intent - more fascination, idly - down from Treavor's hair to the buttons of his shirt. The ones he has managed to button today. Alice finds the topmost, half unbuttons it slowly, then buttons it again, a vague smile on his face. ]

Just exist, Bunny. Breathe. Smile. Be happy. That's all the thanks I'll ever need.