It isn’t severance; the press of Alice’s forehead assures this. And Alice wouldn’t leave him. Alice wouldn’t drop away or break off without warning, and didn’t they hold that kiss together, wasn’t that drift of kisses - brief and yet momentous, lasting-like-forever kisses - a giving they shared? Something they crafted together, so of course there’s no abrupt end, and even the end feels more like a shit into another moment, another phase. Not ending, but continuation.
And there’re those eyes watching him (perfect, perfect blue, when Treavor’s never given much of a shit about blue eyes or any color eyes before; Treavor can’t remember seeing blue eyes or remember anyone else’s eyes, at all, that shit’s never stuck with him, but Christ, he could picture Alice’s eyes from hours away in an instant), and doesn’t that smile feel intimately familiar, and doesn’t he love it on Alice’s face? Loves every expression on that perfect goddamn face, and he could kiss it again, maybe he will kiss Alice and Alice’s face again, but for now it’s enough to watch his guy, letting his sight trace every contour of that face, registering every shifting glow of gorgeous auburn hair.
Everything about this space is dire and lasting. Rare and perdurable.
And there’s gratitude between them, what feels like thanks offered to one another and to the so-often-bullshit circumstances that drew them here. A thanks for what finally united them; a thanks for this perfect, this uninterrupted afternoon.
It wouldn’t be possible with anyone else. The universe wouldn’t align for this peace with any other person.
And Treavor is smiling and shaking his head a little, Treavor knows his eyes are stinging but they were already burning, right, and how could he have known this would happen? That anyone - that this guy, who makes him feel so fucking good - could grace him with words like that?
A fact he’s known for years, maybe decades: He isn’t extraordinary. Well. An extraordinary disappointment, maybe. Everything in his life has shown it, everyone’s told him as much.
But even thinking that feels like an insult to Alice. Who would never bend truth or speak lies at Treavor. Who only offers what he knows. Who Treavor would trust with the whole of his life, and his heart and his soul.
And Treavor’s smiling, a quirk at the corner of his mouth, his expression largely overwhelmed and grateful. ]
I know how good you make me feel.
I know how wonderful you are, or I’m starting to get an idea.
You make me float, did you know that? When you say my name or look at me or…
I’ve never been kissed like that.
[ He cocks his head slightly, nods, eyes never leaving Alice’s, his focus linked with his guy’s. ]
You’re perfect.
[ And then - because he wants to; and then, lingering over the name— ]
Alice.
My Alice, best guy.
[ And his smile’s grown daft, wondering at that name and the irrefutable, assuring truth of the man before him. ]
no subject
It isn’t severance; the press of Alice’s forehead assures this. And Alice wouldn’t leave him. Alice wouldn’t drop away or break off without warning, and didn’t they hold that kiss together, wasn’t that drift of kisses - brief and yet momentous, lasting-like-forever kisses - a giving they shared? Something they crafted together, so of course there’s no abrupt end, and even the end feels more like a shit into another moment, another phase. Not ending, but continuation.
And there’re those eyes watching him (perfect, perfect blue, when Treavor’s never given much of a shit about blue eyes or any color eyes before; Treavor can’t remember seeing blue eyes or remember anyone else’s eyes, at all, that shit’s never stuck with him, but Christ, he could picture Alice’s eyes from hours away in an instant), and doesn’t that smile feel intimately familiar, and doesn’t he love it on Alice’s face? Loves every expression on that perfect goddamn face, and he could kiss it again, maybe he will kiss Alice and Alice’s face again, but for now it’s enough to watch his guy, letting his sight trace every contour of that face, registering every shifting glow of gorgeous auburn hair.
Everything about this space is dire and lasting. Rare and perdurable.
And there’s gratitude between them, what feels like thanks offered to one another and to the so-often-bullshit circumstances that drew them here. A thanks for what finally united them; a thanks for this perfect, this uninterrupted afternoon.
It wouldn’t be possible with anyone else. The universe wouldn’t align for this peace with any other person.
And Treavor is smiling and shaking his head a little, Treavor knows his eyes are stinging but they were already burning, right, and how could he have known this would happen? That anyone - that this guy, who makes him feel so fucking good - could grace him with words like that?
A fact he’s known for years, maybe decades: He isn’t extraordinary. Well. An extraordinary disappointment, maybe. Everything in his life has shown it, everyone’s told him as much.
But even thinking that feels like an insult to Alice. Who would never bend truth or speak lies at Treavor. Who only offers what he knows. Who Treavor would trust with the whole of his life, and his heart and his soul.
And Treavor’s smiling, a quirk at the corner of his mouth, his expression largely overwhelmed and grateful. ]
I know how good you make me feel.
I know how wonderful you are, or I’m starting to get an idea.
You make me float, did you know that? When you say my name or look at me or…
I’ve never been kissed like that.
[ He cocks his head slightly, nods, eyes never leaving Alice’s, his focus linked with his guy’s. ]
You’re perfect.
[ And then - because he wants to; and then, lingering over the name— ]
Alice.
My Alice, best guy.
[ And his smile’s grown daft, wondering at that name and the irrefutable, assuring truth of the man before him. ]
You look at me, and everything changes.
[ And it's the best fucking thing in the world. ]