[ This moment is important. The next will also be important, but this one deserves Alice's regard, his contemplation, to be honored. The vulnerability in Treavor's smile needs to be committed to the book of his memory, because there is something in Treavor that is vulnerable, and has been gently flayed by the request of a kiss.
(And Alice thinks he knows.
He thinks he knows because he has never been asked, either. When confronted with another's desire, his consent was expected. Implicit: you're here. What else did you come here for?
Treavor, he believes (he knows, he comprehends) has encountered the implicit expectation.
That's not why he wants Treavor to come here. This safe place. This haven, this home. And having seen that smile -
Fuck. That broken smile, that tremulous smile.
He'll remember to be grateful. He'll remember that everything Treavor gives him. Every enthusiastic 'yes', every astonished or wondering or eager 'yes'. Every kiss.
It's all a gift.)
His thumb is slipping away, his hand slipping into soft hair as easily as he dreams, as though his palm was made to cup this man's neck, the back of his head, to cradle and caress only him, and how many parts of himself fit with Treavor? What will it feel like to be the warmth at his back through the night? Will his knees find a perfect place to rest behind his, and Alice's arms fit around him comfortably, and even when Treavor's hair ends up in his mouth halfway through the night - will the perfection endure?
(What could it feel like to make love to him? If there's ever that gift. Will it feel like coming home?)
What little distance he gave, he closes again, pausing in the space of a breath from connection (where he breathed, and Treavor breathed, and he understood the start and end of creation.) This moment, too - this heartbeat, this small idle before the burst - he wants to remember. The warmth of lips near his own, and the fullness of his own wanting, and how, when he closes his eyes, everything ends except Treavor, and Alice's hammering pulse, and the unsteadiness of his breath unshared.
And then sweetness that clutches his throat and stings his eyes wet. (Was any mouth ever this warm against his own?) (Was any ever this soft, without invasion, without demand - only unendurably welcoming?) He could sink, and drown, and let himself die against lips like those.
But he has to take care. Not to rush by this moment. Not to take, or harm, or destroy something beautiful.
He has to take care with Treavor.
(...He has to take care of Treavor.)
He utters a soft, broken noise into this first brush of a kiss: half plea for more, half relief and joy for what he's found here. ]
no subject
(And Alice thinks he knows.
He thinks he knows because he has never been asked, either. When confronted with another's desire, his consent was expected. Implicit: you're here. What else did you come here for?
Treavor, he believes (he knows, he comprehends) has encountered the implicit expectation.
That's not why he wants Treavor to come here. This safe place. This haven, this home. And having seen that smile -
Fuck. That broken smile, that tremulous smile.
He'll remember to be grateful. He'll remember that everything Treavor gives him. Every enthusiastic 'yes', every astonished or wondering or eager 'yes'. Every kiss.
It's all a gift.)
His thumb is slipping away, his hand slipping into soft hair as easily as he dreams, as though his palm was made to cup this man's neck, the back of his head, to cradle and caress only him, and how many parts of himself fit with Treavor? What will it feel like to be the warmth at his back through the night? Will his knees find a perfect place to rest behind his, and Alice's arms fit around him comfortably, and even when Treavor's hair ends up in his mouth halfway through the night - will the perfection endure?
(What could it feel like to make love to him? If there's ever that gift. Will it feel like coming home?)
What little distance he gave, he closes again, pausing in the space of a breath from connection (where he breathed, and Treavor breathed, and he understood the start and end of creation.) This moment, too - this heartbeat, this small idle before the burst - he wants to remember. The warmth of lips near his own, and the fullness of his own wanting, and how, when he closes his eyes, everything ends except Treavor, and Alice's hammering pulse, and the unsteadiness of his breath unshared.
And then sweetness that clutches his throat and stings his eyes wet. (Was any mouth ever this warm against his own?) (Was any ever this soft, without invasion, without demand - only unendurably welcoming?) He could sink, and drown, and let himself die against lips like those.
But he has to take care. Not to rush by this moment. Not to take, or harm, or destroy something beautiful.
He has to take care with Treavor.
(...He has to take care of Treavor.)
He utters a soft, broken noise into this first brush of a kiss: half plea for more, half relief and joy for what he's found here. ]