[ He's watching Treavor languidly, but closely, discerning, allowing knowing to pass into him and through him or remain as it may.
The way Treavor smokes. There's a lot to be learned just watching him, about how he doesn't cough, doesn't drag deep into his lungs either. Casual. Occasional user, Alice thinks. (Alice knows his drug of choice.) (Alice knows he doesn't drink here, he doesn't drink around Alice at all, even 'steps out for a minute' at work instead of blatantly drinking at his desk, and that's both sorrowful and wonderful of him.)
(Someday. Someday, he'll tell Treavor.
Thank you for respecting me.
And.
Please stop hiding it from me.
And.
Please, let me help you find help.)
The particularities of action: Treavor acts cool for the sake of cool, makes an art of the Fuck You School of it, where there is but one student and he is a dropout.
(If James Dean could see him now.)
For each detail, Alice finds himself unearthing only more questions. Treavor, an unfolding mystery. A philosophy he'd study his whole life, a religion, an ideology (but never, never an area of expertise. Only eternally confounding, and beautiful, and compelling.
Gratifying to pursue.)
There's so much he doesn't know.
Where does Treavor go when he's not here, and he's not at work? Where did he used to go? Where did he try his first joint, and where did he learn to hold the smoke in his mouth without puffing out his cheeks? Did he practice in front of a mirror, holding a cigarette and trying to get the perfect look of coolness, and does he know how beautiful his mouth is with the smoke curling past the curve of his lips?
And who are his friends? Has he ever been in love? Has he ever been loved back? Has he ever lain beside a boy, a man, this way, and just let the day go by without care?
The tip of Alice's thumb has found the softness of Treavor's lower lip and brushes delicately, following the crescent of the smile he's been given and given. This endless fascination, his (what are they to one another?) (stars) (birthrights) (warmth) boy's mouth.
He thinks he said something. "Hey", maybe, soft as a sigh, just enough for himself to move and for his binary star to maybe move in tandem.
He knows he leans up a little, cradling Treavor in one arm, and thinks about how his mouth feels like it's aching. It's something like greed sitting on the back of his tongue, and hunger in his throat, and his heart is hammering but everything feels good, everything is gold and warm and if anyone told him a month ago that he could have this, he'd say they were a liar.
(No one ever looked at him the way Treavor does.)
(No one ever needed him the way Treavor does.)
He's smiling, mostly tenderness, mostly warmth, a little mischief, and his mouth is very near, and his thumb is tracing a perfect (sultry, it's fucking sultry) lip again. ]
Breathe with me?
[ It's an idea, uncomplicated and eager and compelled, and he waits for the agreement (approval, consent, equal in eagerness, things he makes a point of seeking now) before taking another hit.
Before resting delicate fingertips on Treavor's jaw and holding steady, his mouth near, hovering, close enough that a single movement could upset a careful balance.
And here, just to try it. Just to see what happens, what great occurrence could shape his world from a single action: a gentle exhale of smoke, of the air from his lungs. ]
no subject
The way Treavor smokes. There's a lot to be learned just watching him, about how he doesn't cough, doesn't drag deep into his lungs either. Casual. Occasional user, Alice thinks. (Alice knows his drug of choice.) (Alice knows he doesn't drink here, he doesn't drink around Alice at all, even 'steps out for a minute' at work instead of blatantly drinking at his desk, and that's both sorrowful and wonderful of him.)
(Someday. Someday, he'll tell Treavor.
Thank you for respecting me.
And.
Please stop hiding it from me.
And.
Please, let me help you find help.)
The particularities of action: Treavor acts cool for the sake of cool, makes an art of the Fuck You School of it, where there is but one student and he is a dropout.
(If James Dean could see him now.)
For each detail, Alice finds himself unearthing only more questions. Treavor, an unfolding mystery. A philosophy he'd study his whole life, a religion, an ideology (but never, never an area of expertise. Only eternally confounding, and beautiful, and compelling.
Gratifying to pursue.)
There's so much he doesn't know.
Where does Treavor go when he's not here, and he's not at work? Where did he used to go? Where did he try his first joint, and where did he learn to hold the smoke in his mouth without puffing out his cheeks? Did he practice in front of a mirror, holding a cigarette and trying to get the perfect look of coolness, and does he know how beautiful his mouth is with the smoke curling past the curve of his lips?
And who are his friends? Has he ever been in love? Has he ever been loved back? Has he ever lain beside a boy, a man, this way, and just let the day go by without care?
The tip of Alice's thumb has found the softness of Treavor's lower lip and brushes delicately, following the crescent of the smile he's been given and given. This endless fascination, his (what are they to one another?) (stars) (birthrights) (warmth) boy's mouth.
He thinks he said something. "Hey", maybe, soft as a sigh, just enough for himself to move and for his binary star to maybe move in tandem.
He knows he leans up a little, cradling Treavor in one arm, and thinks about how his mouth feels like it's aching. It's something like greed sitting on the back of his tongue, and hunger in his throat, and his heart is hammering but everything feels good, everything is gold and warm and if anyone told him a month ago that he could have this, he'd say they were a liar.
(No one ever looked at him the way Treavor does.)
(No one ever needed him the way Treavor does.)
He's smiling, mostly tenderness, mostly warmth, a little mischief, and his mouth is very near, and his thumb is tracing a perfect (sultry, it's fucking sultry) lip again. ]
Breathe with me?
[ It's an idea, uncomplicated and eager and compelled, and he waits for the agreement (approval, consent, equal in eagerness, things he makes a point of seeking now) before taking another hit.
Before resting delicate fingertips on Treavor's jaw and holding steady, his mouth near, hovering, close enough that a single movement could upset a careful balance.
And here, just to try it. Just to see what happens, what great occurrence could shape his world from a single action: a gentle exhale of smoke, of the air from his lungs. ]