[ The day is infinite, and this moment is everything.
A kiss can be perfunctory and a kiss can be a step toward predetermined completion and a kiss can be a rushing, scrambling want. A kiss can be a bite or a trial, a demand or a rushing toward escape. A warning to hurry up and follow along, never linger, never dwell. Treavor’s known all of these kisses, learned to read and follow their tenor, learned to know what was expected and how to respond with minimal upset, get a kiss a hasty pawing a screw and move along.
(There was a time— He used to think. He used to think there could be something comforting in cuddling up next to someone. Used to think maybe love-making wasn’t a misnomer, that intimacy could come twined with safety and care if he kept looking, if he just lucked out and stumbled on the right person.
Then again. Treavor also used to think that maybe, someday, he’d be something other than a pain-in-the-ass burden to his family.
And he used to think maybe someday, he could be a little like all right with himself.)
He’d stopped looking for more. He’d stopped hoping for more. He’d stopped hoping for much at all. You learn to want within the bounds you’re permitted, or you bury your wanting and only take what comes.
This, though.
This brush of lips, warmth to warmth and euphoric excruciation. Treavor’s heart racing, body wrapped warm and prickling electric all at once, dizziness vanished and the present slammed into focus, so that he feels those lips perfectly, knows every milligram of careful pressure, knows the impress of Alice’s skin beneath his fingers and the shift of his every strand of hair beneath Alice’s touch. Every motion outlined; every pulse-beat seismic.
Alice kisses him, and the world turns again, deepens again.
Alice kisses him, and again rewrites the rhythms of the earth.
Alice…
Oh, Alice.
There’s a sigh in his throat that could be a name, the name, the name of his beautiful guy, if only Treavor could turn sound and feeling into words. But Alice has stolen the words from the sky. But Alice has filled the sky with brand-new words, a language Treavor’s never held upon his tongue, but recognizes. But knows deeper than any words he’s ever spoken.
Alice.
Alice.
This man is.
Alice is—
Yes.
Resurrection. Every hope returning, the ghost of Treavor’s wishes given life again.
Alice, breathing life into him.
Bless this man, and everything he is.
Treavor’s response is gentle, a soft brush in kind, pressure barely landing and still, still it tingles through his spine his heels his fingers. Still it could raze him, flickers toward the edge of conflagration. This sort of harrowing, he wouldn’t mind. He could welcome this burn, if it seared Alice through him, wrote Alice’s name and voice and consequence through Treavor’s bones.
He would like to kiss this guy forever, hold Alice forever, melt against his being.
But even this, now, is enough.
Even this is so, so fucking much. More than Treavor could have thought to ask for; more than he has any right to hold. (And yet. Alice says he has worth. Alice looks at Treavor, and Treavor knows there’s good in him, something worth lasting and worthy of other-than-pain.)
This is so far-flung from pain. The absolute goddamn opposite. It’s healing, the way that with a glance and a touch, this guy eases the bite of every wrong and woe. The way that with a kiss, Alice blooms Treavor’s knowing into flowered fields, the past grown over with green, dead trees flourishing to offer shade, a place to linger with his hopes and with this man. A place where the thought of some future makes sense, where there’s no sting in looking at the years ahead.
And he with this guy. His guy. His beautiful, his gracious, guy, whose kiss means renewal, whose kiss Treavor returns again, another delicate brushing, lips slightly parted, lingering a little longer in appreciation, in unhurried and ecstatic invitation. ]
no subject
A kiss can be perfunctory and a kiss can be a step toward predetermined completion and a kiss can be a rushing, scrambling want. A kiss can be a bite or a trial, a demand or a rushing toward escape. A warning to hurry up and follow along, never linger, never dwell. Treavor’s known all of these kisses, learned to read and follow their tenor, learned to know what was expected and how to respond with minimal upset, get a kiss a hasty pawing a screw and move along.
(There was a time— He used to think. He used to think there could be something comforting in cuddling up next to someone. Used to think maybe love-making wasn’t a misnomer, that intimacy could come twined with safety and care if he kept looking, if he just lucked out and stumbled on the right person.
Then again. Treavor also used to think that maybe, someday, he’d be something other than a pain-in-the-ass burden to his family.
And he used to think maybe someday, he could be a little like all right with himself.)
He’d stopped looking for more. He’d stopped hoping for more. He’d stopped hoping for much at all. You learn to want within the bounds you’re permitted, or you bury your wanting and only take what comes.
This, though.
This brush of lips, warmth to warmth and euphoric excruciation. Treavor’s heart racing, body wrapped warm and prickling electric all at once, dizziness vanished and the present slammed into focus, so that he feels those lips perfectly, knows every milligram of careful pressure, knows the impress of Alice’s skin beneath his fingers and the shift of his every strand of hair beneath Alice’s touch. Every motion outlined; every pulse-beat seismic.
Alice kisses him, and the world turns again, deepens again.
Alice kisses him, and again rewrites the rhythms of the earth.
Alice…
Oh, Alice.
There’s a sigh in his throat that could be a name, the name, the name of his beautiful guy, if only Treavor could turn sound and feeling into words. But Alice has stolen the words from the sky. But Alice has filled the sky with brand-new words, a language Treavor’s never held upon his tongue, but recognizes. But knows deeper than any words he’s ever spoken.
Alice.
Alice.
This man is.
Alice is—
Yes.
Resurrection. Every hope returning, the ghost of Treavor’s wishes given life again.
Alice, breathing life into him.
Bless this man, and everything he is.
Treavor’s response is gentle, a soft brush in kind, pressure barely landing and still, still it tingles through his spine his heels his fingers. Still it could raze him, flickers toward the edge of conflagration. This sort of harrowing, he wouldn’t mind. He could welcome this burn, if it seared Alice through him, wrote Alice’s name and voice and consequence through Treavor’s bones.
He would like to kiss this guy forever, hold Alice forever, melt against his being.
But even this, now, is enough.
Even this is so, so fucking much. More than Treavor could have thought to ask for; more than he has any right to hold. (And yet. Alice says he has worth. Alice looks at Treavor, and Treavor knows there’s good in him, something worth lasting and worthy of other-than-pain.)
This is so far-flung from pain. The absolute goddamn opposite. It’s healing, the way that with a glance and a touch, this guy eases the bite of every wrong and woe. The way that with a kiss, Alice blooms Treavor’s knowing into flowered fields, the past grown over with green, dead trees flourishing to offer shade, a place to linger with his hopes and with this man. A place where the thought of some future makes sense, where there’s no sting in looking at the years ahead.
And he with this guy. His guy. His beautiful, his gracious, guy, whose kiss means renewal, whose kiss Treavor returns again, another delicate brushing, lips slightly parted, lingering a little longer in appreciation, in unhurried and ecstatic invitation. ]