[ It's not easy to hold a coherent thought in his head, between the lethargic tug of the weed and the caresses lavished on him. (This is heaven, he thinks again. This is ecstasy.) His skin lights brilliant beneath Treavor's touch, his neck arches to allow the nuzzle (beg for it) (invite more and more), and there's a gasp of air and a huffed laugh.
(People routinely ask to touch his fucking beard like it's a pet he's carrying around. And some people don't ask at all, just dive right in, Alice snapping What the fuck?! and throwing a hand up to knock the intruder off his face, and oh, okay, he's the crazy one. It isn't that he minds people touching his beard - if he minded, he'd shave it off.
The same story for his hair. People (women, why is it always women?) want to play with it like he's a Barbie doll, and sometimes he'll sit and let them braid it with his eyes rolled and his mouth set in grim irritation, sure. People (men) want to pull on it while fucking.
Sure. All right.
If he minded, he'd cut it off.
He doesn't mind.
But it does nothing for him.
It. Did nothing for him.
This does something for him. How Treavor had his hand wound in Alice's hair, not pulling, not knotted or yanking. Treavor's thumb with the memory of a kiss on its pad, Treavor's every perfect touch leaves him shaken.
(There's something niggling at him, gnawing at the edges of his pleasure.)
He wants to guide Treavor's hand over every part of himself, echo every touch he ever endured with passive disinterest. He wants to know how easily he can be sundered now, can bow into a palm against his chest, into the coaxing of a fingertip at his throat.
(Something Treavor said, about.)
He wants to melt, and kiss some more, and maybe Treavor will let him gently - gently! - catch his lower lip between his teeth.
All of this, because today is lovely, and he's definitely verging towards stoned now that his heart is starting to calm itself down - and they're together, finally together, and Treavor is the One.
(That's it. The thing Treavor said.)
Alice reaches up, seeks Treavor's hand with his own and pulls it down, out of distraction range, and hums a sound: a man trying to shake off thrall, even if his eyes still track Treavor's. He said.
He said. I don't want to make too much trouble.
Alice's smile fades as the entirety of meaning sinks in, as his heart shatters down the center. (The desires, the lethargy, the dizzied warmth notions recede, and the world clarifies a little; he wishes it wouldn't. He wishes they could have held in that perfect sphere of softness just a little longer, but Treavor thinks Alice meant he's the complication, and that's gutting.
And Treavor doesn't understand, but needs to know, that Alice is the complication. And that's gutting, too.)
Softly, he manages: ]
Bunny.
[ As if to say, No, you've got it all wrong.
Or, How could you think that I meant you.
Or, Do you know how much I adore you. You wonder. You startling miracle.
He relinquishes the hand in favor of stroking his fingertips along Treavor's hairline, and then offering a cupped palm against his cheek. ]
I'm the complication.
[ He pauses, considering. Treavor drinks. Heavily. And that's a complication, and it's trouble, and it's something they need to deal with. Eventually.
But what he's bringing to Treavor's door is worse, isn't it? ]
I can't be out. [ He didn't mean to blurt that, even quietly, even with the pain lurking in his throat, so hurriedly, he adds: ] Not yet. But if you can bear with me. Wait for me to pass the bar -
[ Treavor knows, he remembers, that his life is handed to him. He also remembers telling Treavor the reason for the internship was to get out from under his father's financial hold.
He shouldn't have pressed this forward. He shouldn't have kissed Treavor. And he shouldn't be so frightened now of what could happen, of the absence of a safety net, of the lack of money.
But he's young. And he's terrified of all the walls and pyres that exist beyond his line of sight.
...And despite that. Despite that. He'd take this small risk, because Treavor is something worth chasing. Alice's eyes hold all that longing; if he can reach the finish line, then maybe. Maybe Treavor is what he can have.
Bar. Junior partnership. Treavor. The five-month plan. Three, if he pushes. Fuck. He'll push. For Treavor, he'll push. ]
Could you give me a few months of 'complicated'? Please, I.
[ It occurs to him belatedly that Treavor could very well say 'no'. He'd be right to say 'no'. There's no reason why Treavor should accommodate this unreasonable cowardice, this spinelessness, this.
He closes his eyes, holding on a moment longer to the nearness of the body against him, his hand slipping to Treavor's shoulder. And in the space between what he said and what Treavor will say, before there's an ending or a continuing, wreckage or relief, he shoves aside everything else, keeping only the warmth of a body, and the sound of blues from his phone, and the sunlight, and the smell of plants and weed and Treavor and himself, and the subtle sway of the hammock.
Just one more heartbeat of it, where the heart keeping time was in love, and he was smart enough to commit that to memory. ]
no subject
(People routinely ask to touch his fucking beard like it's a pet he's carrying around. And some people don't ask at all, just dive right in, Alice snapping What the fuck?! and throwing a hand up to knock the intruder off his face, and oh, okay, he's the crazy one. It isn't that he minds people touching his beard - if he minded, he'd shave it off.
The same story for his hair. People (women, why is it always women?) want to play with it like he's a Barbie doll, and sometimes he'll sit and let them braid it with his eyes rolled and his mouth set in grim irritation, sure. People (men) want to pull on it while fucking.
Sure. All right.
If he minded, he'd cut it off.
He doesn't mind.
But it does nothing for him.
It. Did nothing for him.
This does something for him. How Treavor had his hand wound in Alice's hair, not pulling, not knotted or yanking. Treavor's thumb with the memory of a kiss on its pad, Treavor's every perfect touch leaves him shaken.
(There's something niggling at him, gnawing at the edges of his pleasure.)
He wants to guide Treavor's hand over every part of himself, echo every touch he ever endured with passive disinterest. He wants to know how easily he can be sundered now, can bow into a palm against his chest, into the coaxing of a fingertip at his throat.
(Something Treavor said, about.)
He wants to melt, and kiss some more, and maybe Treavor will let him gently - gently! - catch his lower lip between his teeth.
All of this, because today is lovely, and he's definitely verging towards stoned now that his heart is starting to calm itself down - and they're together, finally together, and Treavor is the One.
(That's it. The thing Treavor said.)
Alice reaches up, seeks Treavor's hand with his own and pulls it down, out of distraction range, and hums a sound: a man trying to shake off thrall, even if his eyes still track Treavor's. He said.
He said. I don't want to make too much trouble.
Alice's smile fades as the entirety of meaning sinks in, as his heart shatters down the center. (The desires, the lethargy, the dizzied warmth notions recede, and the world clarifies a little; he wishes it wouldn't. He wishes they could have held in that perfect sphere of softness just a little longer, but Treavor thinks Alice meant he's the complication, and that's gutting.
And Treavor doesn't understand, but needs to know, that Alice is the complication. And that's gutting, too.)
Softly, he manages: ]
Bunny.
[ As if to say, No, you've got it all wrong.
Or, How could you think that I meant you.
Or, Do you know how much I adore you. You wonder. You startling miracle.
He relinquishes the hand in favor of stroking his fingertips along Treavor's hairline, and then offering a cupped palm against his cheek. ]
I'm the complication.
[ He pauses, considering. Treavor drinks. Heavily. And that's a complication, and it's trouble, and it's something they need to deal with. Eventually.
But what he's bringing to Treavor's door is worse, isn't it? ]
I can't be out. [ He didn't mean to blurt that, even quietly, even with the pain lurking in his throat, so hurriedly, he adds: ] Not yet. But if you can bear with me. Wait for me to pass the bar -
[ Treavor knows, he remembers, that his life is handed to him. He also remembers telling Treavor the reason for the internship was to get out from under his father's financial hold.
He shouldn't have pressed this forward. He shouldn't have kissed Treavor. And he shouldn't be so frightened now of what could happen, of the absence of a safety net, of the lack of money.
But he's young. And he's terrified of all the walls and pyres that exist beyond his line of sight.
...And despite that. Despite that. He'd take this small risk, because Treavor is something worth chasing. Alice's eyes hold all that longing; if he can reach the finish line, then maybe. Maybe Treavor is what he can have.
Bar. Junior partnership. Treavor. The five-month plan. Three, if he pushes. Fuck. He'll push. For Treavor, he'll push. ]
Could you give me a few months of 'complicated'? Please, I.
[ It occurs to him belatedly that Treavor could very well say 'no'. He'd be right to say 'no'. There's no reason why Treavor should accommodate this unreasonable cowardice, this spinelessness, this.
He closes his eyes, holding on a moment longer to the nearness of the body against him, his hand slipping to Treavor's shoulder. And in the space between what he said and what Treavor will say, before there's an ending or a continuing, wreckage or relief, he shoves aside everything else, keeping only the warmth of a body, and the sound of blues from his phone, and the sunlight, and the smell of plants and weed and Treavor and himself, and the subtle sway of the hammock.
Just one more heartbeat of it, where the heart keeping time was in love, and he was smart enough to commit that to memory. ]