[ The easy peace is creeping in again, and Alice lies near and aware of every part of himself as it exists in relation to and contact with Treavor.
The insistent beat of his pulse, throb of not-so-distant arousal, the contented warmth spilling through him like honey, and the flutter of elation. His arms shift and there's a boy (a man, Treavor, his, fuck, that's his someone, his person, his other, the-) still there, still wound inextricably with him. Legs tangled with legs, his hip against a pelvis and a hip against his pelvis (try not to focus long on that, on contact), stomach against his own, chest pressing and pressing and pressing his and they're breathing the same, but Alice can't recall trying to match Treavor's breathing.
(His body, that always felt too tall, too gangling, doesn't feel utterly out of place now beside a body from a similar mold, like clothes that fit well and not just well enough.
And he remembers the first morning, the thought of their similar but not the same hands, and how he had wondered if Treavor's would make his own beautiful. He wonders now if Treavor's form against his own makes him beautiful.
It makes him feel beautiful.)
It doesn't seem possible that there was someone so perfect all this time, who would fit so exactly against him. It seems extraordinary. It also seems impossibly natural.
Everything about Treavor has felt impossibly natural, from the moment Alice looked into his eyes on that harbor. He thinks he should tell him so, but Treavor is speaking, and Alice wants to heed him. He wants to give him every remaining energetic burst, every caress of fingertips - these, along his throat, his shoulder, his bared arm. He'd like to argue that he isn't perfect, that perfection is an unfair expectation, or maybe ascertain Treavor knows he means 'perfect for Treavor', and not to hold Alice up on some pedestal from which he's likely to fall.
But he says something else, and Alice freezes, stricken, his eyes seeking (night sky) (black water) (darkness behind starlight) Treavor's (and that's also perfect, neither up nor down but just there at his own eye level, always accessible should he need to fall into them again.)
My Alice, he said.
And without his safeguards. Without his walls. Here, high, on this perfect day, Alice looks across the space of an inch or two into the dark eyes of his other, his one (yes, that's -)
Treavor.
(Fuck.) (He's.)
Yeah. Yeah. He's the one.
And Alice thinks: It was always going to be you, wasn't it?
And thinks: Am I? Can I be?
He pauses time; it deserves pausing, and a kiss offered like a gift, pressed to Treavor's forehead.
He feels good. He feels good, and he doesn't think it's the weed. He doesn't think there's anything in the world that will make him feel as good as Treavor does, and that's something he wants to commit to memory. Something that needs to be spoken. ]
Nothing makes me feel like you do. If I look at you and make a change, it's because you alter the world for me. Make it brighter. Make it charming, and soft, and full of wonder.
That's important, Treavor. You're important to me. And - I can't promise it will be uncomplicated. But I think there's something here worth chasing.
[ He shifts a little, and his arm winds around the other man once more. Alice smiles again, though his voice lowers, and each speaks of something edging shy. ]
Worth revising my five-year plan.
[ His ten-year plan. His life plan. Fuck. ]
Because you - you say 'my Alice', and I find I quite like my name. And I. I'd like to be yours.
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The insistent beat of his pulse, throb of not-so-distant arousal, the contented warmth spilling through him like honey, and the flutter of elation. His arms shift and there's a boy (a man, Treavor, his, fuck, that's his someone, his person, his other, the-) still there, still wound inextricably with him. Legs tangled with legs, his hip against a pelvis and a hip against his pelvis (try not to focus long on that, on contact), stomach against his own, chest pressing and pressing and pressing his and they're breathing the same, but Alice can't recall trying to match Treavor's breathing.
(His body, that always felt too tall, too gangling, doesn't feel utterly out of place now beside a body from a similar mold, like clothes that fit well and not just well enough.
And he remembers the first morning, the thought of their similar but not the same hands, and how he had wondered if Treavor's would make his own beautiful. He wonders now if Treavor's form against his own makes him beautiful.
It makes him feel beautiful.)
It doesn't seem possible that there was someone so perfect all this time, who would fit so exactly against him. It seems extraordinary. It also seems impossibly natural.
Everything about Treavor has felt impossibly natural, from the moment Alice looked into his eyes on that harbor. He thinks he should tell him so, but Treavor is speaking, and Alice wants to heed him. He wants to give him every remaining energetic burst, every caress of fingertips - these, along his throat, his shoulder, his bared arm. He'd like to argue that he isn't perfect, that perfection is an unfair expectation, or maybe ascertain Treavor knows he means 'perfect for Treavor', and not to hold Alice up on some pedestal from which he's likely to fall.
But he says something else, and Alice freezes, stricken, his eyes seeking (night sky) (black water) (darkness behind starlight) Treavor's (and that's also perfect, neither up nor down but just there at his own eye level, always accessible should he need to fall into them again.)
My Alice, he said.
And without his safeguards. Without his walls. Here, high, on this perfect day, Alice looks across the space of an inch or two into the dark eyes of his other, his one (yes, that's -)
Treavor.
(Fuck.) (He's.)
Yeah. Yeah. He's the one.
And Alice thinks: It was always going to be you, wasn't it?
And thinks: Am I? Can I be?
He pauses time; it deserves pausing, and a kiss offered like a gift, pressed to Treavor's forehead.
He feels good. He feels good, and he doesn't think it's the weed. He doesn't think there's anything in the world that will make him feel as good as Treavor does, and that's something he wants to commit to memory. Something that needs to be spoken. ]
Nothing makes me feel like you do. If I look at you and make a change, it's because you alter the world for me. Make it brighter. Make it charming, and soft, and full of wonder.
That's important, Treavor. You're important to me. And - I can't promise it will be uncomplicated. But I think there's something here worth chasing.
[ He shifts a little, and his arm winds around the other man once more. Alice smiles again, though his voice lowers, and each speaks of something edging shy. ]
Worth revising my five-year plan.
[ His ten-year plan. His life plan. Fuck. ]
Because you - you say 'my Alice', and I find I quite like my name. And I. I'd like to be yours.
I'd like that.