[ It doesn't vanish, or strip away to something callous. Treavor meets him with the same gentle ardor, and Alice recognizes in some distant way that it's effortless. That what's being given isn't one being led, permitting the other to determine alone pace and force and where to venture next. He moves, and Treavor moves, and together.
Neither alone, neither insensible, neither left cold. Every motion is an ask and answer, a communion, and there was only one other thing like this in the world: Treavor moving to his side, and Alice's arm easing around unfamiliar shoulders.
Were they unfamiliar.
Is this unfamiliar.
Doesn't he know the invitation in the velvet brush of a parting mouth against his own and how to answer with a gentle deepening? The slightest change in pressure knocks him dizzy, sends the world reeling around him, leaving him certain he'll fall into nonexistence without the arms around him (his gravitational center, his absolute core, this man, and who's to say he isn't falling, and hard?) (Who's to say he didn't already fall.)
It's an explosion of stars behind his eyes, and the shudder of the earth waking (or that's Treavor's chest rising and falling against his own, or Treavor's heart thrumming almost indiscernible from his own, or that's someone's low sound, and it doesn't matter whose throat began the moan, because it's a shared reverb when Alice's lips part over Treavor's.
But it's not unfamiliar at all.
Hasn't he dreamed about this his whole life?
To be complete in himself. To come to another complete self, offer all of and only himself - and be welcomed. To be part of some greater whole. To move effortlessly together.
It breaks him. Of course it breaks him. Inevitable: he had to fall to his knees in fervor before this altar (Treavor, there's all and only Treavor, and never will be anything again as vital as him, certain as the ever-outward expanding of the universe and sunrise and breathing, oh, breathing. There will never be anyone held in Alice's eyes like this man.)
He had to break before he could heal, and ease, and breathe steady. Before the communion and tenderness granted to him like benevolence, like a blessing, miraculous, could be anything but wrenching. But he does ease, trembling; it's as simple as a sigh, and a winding of his arms, and a closer press of his body. An unfraught, rapturous moment when all of life seems to inhabit and be inhabited by him, and luckily, luckily, all of life is held on the perfect curve of Treavor's mouth.
He'd like to linger. He'd like to stay here in this sweetness for the rest of his life, occupying himself with nothing but the wonder of movement and movement, his awestruck regard fixed forever on the man kissing him so ecstatically.
(But he asked for one kiss.)
(But the joint is burning his fingers.)
(But life intrudes.)
(Maybe. Maybe he can ask for another.)
The parting is slow, not an abandonment - a caress of Treavor's cheek, and a touch of forehead to forehead, a silent 'wait, please, wait' - and then Alice reaches back to put the joint down. And then, as though he never left. As though there was no momentary loss, he's settled in once more, eyes fixed on what's held his focus for weeks - this incomparable beauty.
His smile the same wavered smile Treavor gave him on the other side of kissing him - as though in kissing, the expression was passed between them.
Alice's heart gently flayed.
Alice's heart, held out in both hands. ]
Thank you.
[ Hushed, reverent, still they feel inadequate for his gratitude. What he feels deserves something better than those paltry words. ]
no subject
Neither alone, neither insensible, neither left cold. Every motion is an ask and answer, a communion, and there was only one other thing like this in the world: Treavor moving to his side, and Alice's arm easing around unfamiliar shoulders.
Were they unfamiliar.
Is this unfamiliar.
Doesn't he know the invitation in the velvet brush of a parting mouth against his own and how to answer with a gentle deepening? The slightest change in pressure knocks him dizzy, sends the world reeling around him, leaving him certain he'll fall into nonexistence without the arms around him (his gravitational center, his absolute core, this man, and who's to say he isn't falling, and hard?) (Who's to say he didn't already fall.)
It's an explosion of stars behind his eyes, and the shudder of the earth waking (or that's Treavor's chest rising and falling against his own, or Treavor's heart thrumming almost indiscernible from his own, or that's someone's low sound, and it doesn't matter whose throat began the moan, because it's a shared reverb when Alice's lips part over Treavor's.
But it's not unfamiliar at all.
Hasn't he dreamed about this his whole life?
To be complete in himself. To come to another complete self, offer all of and only himself - and be welcomed. To be part of some greater whole. To move effortlessly together.
It breaks him. Of course it breaks him. Inevitable: he had to fall to his knees in fervor before this altar (Treavor, there's all and only Treavor, and never will be anything again as vital as him, certain as the ever-outward expanding of the universe and sunrise and breathing, oh, breathing. There will never be anyone held in Alice's eyes like this man.)
He had to break before he could heal, and ease, and breathe steady. Before the communion and tenderness granted to him like benevolence, like a blessing, miraculous, could be anything but wrenching. But he does ease, trembling; it's as simple as a sigh, and a winding of his arms, and a closer press of his body. An unfraught, rapturous moment when all of life seems to inhabit and be inhabited by him, and luckily, luckily, all of life is held on the perfect curve of Treavor's mouth.
He'd like to linger. He'd like to stay here in this sweetness for the rest of his life, occupying himself with nothing but the wonder of movement and movement, his awestruck regard fixed forever on the man kissing him so ecstatically.
(But he asked for one kiss.)
(But the joint is burning his fingers.)
(But life intrudes.)
(Maybe. Maybe he can ask for another.)
The parting is slow, not an abandonment - a caress of Treavor's cheek, and a touch of forehead to forehead, a silent 'wait, please, wait' - and then Alice reaches back to put the joint down. And then, as though he never left. As though there was no momentary loss, he's settled in once more, eyes fixed on what's held his focus for weeks - this incomparable beauty.
His smile the same wavered smile Treavor gave him on the other side of kissing him - as though in kissing, the expression was passed between them.
Alice's heart gently flayed.
Alice's heart, held out in both hands. ]
Thank you.
[ Hushed, reverent, still they feel inadequate for his gratitude. What he feels deserves something better than those paltry words. ]
Do you know how extraordinary you are?