lord treavor pendleton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
loyalless) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
loyalless) wrote in kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pmOPEN RP POST
send a prompt, a starter, images, words, music, whatever you like.
loyalless) wrote in kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
no subject
His head fucking hurts but he barely notices.
The pressure’s closing in, and he feels the world going black at the edges, feels his insides and awareness roiling. He could vomit. He couldn’t do a thing because everything’s tensed and the moment’s too razored for motion. Cuts at his throat with each attempted breath.
He’s fallen through the earth. Fallen past any semblance of solid ground, and its gravel all around, gravel and pressure and oncoming heat.
He wants to be angry.
He is angry; at the refusal, the suggestion that this guy’s got any idea what Treavor could use or any right to talk about, what, taking care of him, like sometimes a drink isn’t all Treavor needs for care, like a drink or two hasn’t gotten him through all the fucking shit in his life. This asshole doesn’t know him. This asshole’s going on some fucking soapbox spiel and fuck off, Treavor didn’t ask for care, he didn’t ask for someone to call, he asked for a fucking drink. And he even tried to ask nicely, and this guy’s talking about well you know it’s just fine if Treavor’s pissed off, what the fuck?
Like this guy’s got any fucking idea. Golden fucking intern, maybe his brothers hired this jag to get Treavor sober, or - better yet - to kick Treavor close to sobriety, just to shove him back under again. Just to teach some fucking lesson, another round of lectures about everything Treavor can’t handle everything he’s not cut out to be, all the ways he’s a goddamn disappointment.
(Hasn’t Treavor heard this shit before? From his his brothers, his former step-mother, his sort-of-sometimes-‘friends,’ from strangers on the street, from Sheldon’s dad and Shaw’s fiancée and from former instructors and the list goes on, a string a rush of condemnations and yeah, fuck all of you, Treavor knows he’s a shit and probably he’s killing himself definitely he’s not doing anyone any favors, but what the fuck ever, he didn’t ask to be born.)
(Okay. …But.
…There was no denouncement in what this guy - intern guy, Alice guy - said. Not in the words, not in the voice, and Treavor hadn’t realized it at first but now… It’s true, isn’t it, or it seems true. (He wants to believe it’s true?) (But why the fuck would he do that. Why would he entertain that kind of thought or hope, when he knows it’s Never A Thing?)
Treavor doesn’t know what to make of that.
Treavor can’t make anything of that, not now, but it gives him pause, suspends him further in this space between moments, space between speaking, this could-be-anger could-be-rejection could-be-marrow-deep-weariness.)
He’s numb. He feels numb or he feels broken open, and what’s he supposed to do with… It’s a lot. Alice said a lot of things and Treavor can hardly take hold of any one of them, can’t tell how they’re meant to piece together or reach to him.
And what did… ’Please don’t ask me again.’
He’s talking like Treavor has a choice in this. Like Alice is offering Treavor a choice.
(This guy. Alice. Called Treavor his. Friend.
And nothing in the word rang false, deadly or metallic.
(Because what does the guy want, calling him that? There’s nothing here the golden guy stands to gain at all. No reason to feign friendship, so. So… What. What is any of this supposed to mean.))
The guy’s moving away. Looks like he’s moving away. Treavor’s still sitting still and doesn’t know that he can speak, doesn’t know he’s going to speak until he hears his own voice, not loud but also not wavered. ]
That’s where you stand.
[ He wants to reach for the cat, Lady Hope. He wants to sink away, just disappear be somewhere else and not have to deal with this. (He wants, almost, to reach for Alice, tell the guy to hold the fuck on, don’t… don’t go anywhere.)
(The guy sang to him last night.) (The guy gave him a place to sleep.) (The guy knows something about the kind of shit Treavor is, and still he came for Treavor, brought him here; still he’s talking to Treavor like, what, he maybe believes Treavor maybe-deserves a little more than a flat refusal.)
(What a fucking. Thing.) ]
…Fuck.
[ He needs a drink. He needs a fucking drink, and it’s shitty for Alice to say no, to give him a goddamn lecture (not a lecture) like it’s just that easy (but that isn’t what the guy said, either).
But it’s also not. Shitty the way Alice said things.
It’s not shitty that Alice didn’t just cold-refuse him, didn’t throw condemnation his way.
(The guy’s telling him something. Wrapped up in all of this, the guy’s maybe telling him a lot of things.)
((Fuck this morning got. Real deep, real fast. Shit.))
He’s looking at Alice now. Starting to register the sight of the guy again. Not giving his full focus to the guy or the sight of the guy (Treavor doesn’t have his own full focus, side-swiped as he’s been), but watching him. Eyes holding him. ]
Guess it’s… Your house, your rules.
[ Slowly, slowly, he’s been pushing back against the couch, shoulders tense his whole goddamn body tense, him driving back as if to disappear into the cushions, eyes still on Alice.
It’s not his business. It’s not any of Alice’s fucking business.
But. ]
Fuck.
[ And Treavor finally manages to move a hand, press his hand against his head, eyes clenching shut again. ]
…All right.
[ …Fuck. ]
no subject
And while he's there. He rewets the towel. Refills the water glass. Watches Treavor from the corner of his eye, noting the nothing and everything that seems to be moving through the expression of the Addict in Chaos. (That is what's happening, he thinks: Treavor is processing what he was told.)
(That's something.)
(An unlikely something. To process, rather than snap defensive. To process, rather than storm out. He has nothing keeping him here, has he? No real reason he has to stay.)
Alice is setting the water carefully on the coffee table in front of the other man when the words come, and he pauses, a momentary hesitation, his eyes raising and brows raising further. Yes, it's where he stands. More processing?
And he straightens, the cloth balled in one hand and arms folded as he drinks his coffee, letting Treavor finish sorting this one through without hurry or imposition.
(Look at him, miserable. He wants to. (Pull him near?) (Stroke his hair.) (Hum some soft melody to him until his shoulders ease his spine eases his whole self against Alice's whole self.)
(He wants to. Comfort him.)
He wants to - and this, importantly. This, substantively more important, than any nestling desire occurring in his ribs. He wants to help Treavor.
Not care, for the sake of that melting, good feeling, that connectedness. He wants to help, because Treavor seems very alone, and not once has Alice ever picked him up from the same place twice.
So he lowers his coffee and considers. And then sets the coffee down entirely, and moves to resume his place on the sofa at Treavor's side where, if it won't be thrown off, he'll offer his hands again.
A cool cloth pressed to an aching forehead and eyes.
An arm around tense shoulders, or whatever comforting touch will be allowed.
His words come soft and with a jesting casualness that veers too close to earnestness to really be casual at all. ]
My house, my rules. Sure.
Rule One is the most important, though: you can come here whenever you want. Any time you need a place to go and feel okay. No strings attached, no matter what you've been doing before you turn up. You're always welcome here.
no subject
Alice came back and there’s a cloth at Treavor’s head and he presses against it, in need of the relief (in need of a drink) (he’s not going to get a drink; made a bad fuckin call there, dumbass) (he needs a new plan, think about, think about, once he’s out of here, his fucking head) ((did he just… agree not to ask Alice for any kind of drink, and did he really mean it?)) and letting his mind sit blank for a moment, letting the cool creep over him, not banishing the nausea but tempering its upset.
Well, hey, small victories: he’s upright, and even though his head’s been working overtime, he’s probably not going to vomit on the couch. That nausea was getting bad, but between the support at his back and the cloth at his head, he might just make it through.
If he can. Keep his head on straight. Not think about how real respite’s a whole journey away; no booze until he makes it home, or at least makes it out of this place, down to the nearest shop. (…He doesn’t like, particularly, having this thought.) (He can’t just not have that fucking thought, for shit’s sake.) ((And he can’t wave away the trickle of guilt through his spine.))
Just. Breathe. Focus on the cloth. How much he’d like to sink into a lake, buoyed in the cool suspension. Just him and the flux and flow of gentle waves. (Just him and the garbled sound of fish.) (((’Poff.’))) (A shower might help. That’d be an okay idea, maybe.)
And there’s another touch (a careful and an unobtrusive touch; not withheld, but waiting, as-if-testing, paying attention) that nearly sends Treavor cold, that he nearly shakes away. There’s a line of thought that no, fuck you, get off and get away, Treavor’s had enough of your intervention and enough of your caring and who do you think you are, telling Treavor what he needs, and Treavor’s got enough fucking problems right now and enough going on in his head without this added factor.
Only Treavor also doesn’t. Really. Want that touch gone.
The touch approaches and fuck, isn’t close contact always Treavor’s weakness (okay, all right, one of many weaknesses) and - maybe more important - doesn’t he want to let it wrap him now? He was glad, maybe (maybe?), that the guy returned; he’d be glad, maybe (probably), to feel that touch again.
So he. Lets himself ease into that touch, just slightly. Not wholly relaxing, but not bristling, not pushing away.
He could use this. (Would like this.) Never mind how prickly he feels or how much some part of him might like to flash teeth. (This is better than biting defensive, maybe?) (And hey, why did Alice come back? Why’s he here again? …Why’s he doing any of this?)
Treavor listens, and Treavor still isn’t sure he’s grasping what Alice means, because it sounds like something unlikely, something even friends don’t really offer, except maybe sometimes-Sheldon, and it sounds like Alice maybe means it? But that doesn’t make sense. But there’s no reason he should, unless. Unless the twins are behind this or unless Alice wants something or unless Alice is… just. Kind? A sort of. Kind guy?
What an impossible fucking idea.
(An idea Treavor would like so believe, and see realized.)
Treavor’s eyes are closed against the cloth and then staring off at nothing, closed and then staring at nothing. And he thinks about… Alice called it ‘Rule One.’ Like a joke and not a joke at all. Again, he doesn’t know he’s going to speak until he hears his own voice— ]
Why?
no subject
So he settles, still and calm, mostly unmoving and forcing himself to remain relaxed. (In case a shoulder is needed. In case his own tension feeds Treavor's. In case a knotted chest or a sharp angle somewhere in his own body might cause further discomfort.
In case something about the way he sits near and anxious speaks of something he doesn't want to discuss now. Or think about.
Because this isn't that. This is absolutely not that.)
He shifts the cloth now and then to soothe away sweat, to cool Treavor's throat and cheeks before turning it over - to the air-exposed side, of course, the cooler side - and returning it to mercifully cover his eyes and forehead.
His own eyes are worried. (How much aspirin does Treavor throw back in a day, a week, a year, and does it work anymore?) (Or is the pain, the nausea - more agony of the mind, more inflictions of his own desire to reach for another drink, and soon?)
The question garners a stillness more than stillness from Alice, and a staring off at some point beyond the other man. There are many reasons.
Your smile in the sick yellow lights at the harbor, when you laid your head on my shoulder and asked me for your song, and I held you like you were mine.
You said my cat was perfect.
You slept in my arms last night and I slept like shit but it's the best I've felt in a long time.
The sunlight hit you from the windows like a halo and I think you might be holy.
And.
No one like you should end up calling someone like me because you're drunk and stranded at the harbor.
And.
There was someone like you, a long time ago. A lot of someones like you, in a lot of ways, like my life was teaching me to be what you need.
He doesn't say any of this.
What he says, first, a means of buying himself time: ]
You know. It takes fifty hours of interaction with a person before you begin to consider them a casual friend. Ninety for a 'real' one, and two hundred hours before they're your best mate. I've spent -
[ A pause. ]
Three hundred hours in that basement, and at least half of them with you. I told you last night, I don't have friends; I have my cat, and I have you in that fucking basement.
That should probably count for something, yeah?
[ He's joking. Mostly. Maybe. He doesn't know if he's joking. Maybe it does count for something. (Treavor feels warm at his side.) (Treavor's safety is important to him.)
Clearly his throat awkwardly, he tries again. And still, his voice is low, an even and honeyed tone. ]
Sorry. I. Candor is a fickle thing, when it comes to what drives us.
[ A breath. ]
Everyone needs a safe place, Treavor. I don't know if you have that somewhere, but it can't hurt to have it here, too. And I can't...
[ He pauses, trying to parse his thoughts, his head back slightly and eyes on the ceiling. His lips purse before he manages to carry on. ]
If something happened to you because you thought you had nowhere to go - because you thought every door was closed to you. I couldn't live with that.
[ Treavor's eyes may be covered, but Alice's sniff betrays him; another awkward clearing of his throat follows. ]
I couldn't live with it if I hated you. So. You know. The old adage. 'You can always come home.'
Or - here. They don't make adages about crashing at your weird mate's apartment.
no subject
Listening in spite of a gnashing hangover. Listening without promise of a drink, with certainty of not having a drink so long as he’s here, and still he doesn’t want, really, to leave.
It’s… good here. He feels something like safe. Like he’s less hounded by absences, by himself. Like he can breathe a little. ’Everyone needs a safe place,’ Alice said, and how the guy managed to make his home that place and how the guy knew Treavor maybe needed that place is a mystery, but doesn’t it feel nice to be here? Like cares have been ebbed distant even without a drink. Like the blankets around him and the cat curled nearby and the man next to him (the man who can hold him int hose blue, blue eyes; the man whose presence shifts the room) all barricade the day’s fears and troubles.
(It’s a little like having a home. Maybe.)
The guy can’t know that for Treavor, yeah there was always a so-called home to return to, a so-called home he was compelled, is still compelled to return to. The locus of his family, to which he owes his loyalties, his life, his livelihood. Less ‘you can always come home,’ more ‘you can never leave.’
It’d be nice. To have a place that didn’t feel like that. Haunted by specters of his family, his fuck-ups.
And though this guy’s got no cause for being gentle with Treavor, here he is, offering something like sanctuary, a place Treavor isn’t scrambling to flee, a place that doesn’t leave Treavor scrambling from himself.
This guy’s. Not so bad. (Treavor’s starting to believe that doesn’t speak the half of it.)
This guy’s had plenty of reason to snap at Treavor, to dislike Treavor, to wish Treavor would shut the hell up and disappear. But he’s never bitten needlessly. (But he’s answered Treavor’s texts.) But he bats back almost playful. (’Eh,’ he said; ’eh, maybe I’ll forgive you,’ casual and slung back against the couch; not everyone can pull of both casual and businesslike; not everyone - hardly anyone - plays along with Treavor’s hypotheticals and storytelling.
(’You’d tell me a story,’ he said. There’s something this guy maybe understands, or guesses. Something Treavor maybe doesn’t think on much about himself.))
Alice is a guy who maybe doesn’t like to do harm, or see harm done. (Holy fuck, is this guy an actual, genuine, got-into-law-to-help-people kind of guy? A question that makes Treavor blink, a thought for another time.)
He’s a nice guy. A good guy, or he wants to be, or tries to be. Treavor’s mostly assumed people like this were a myth. Or at least were forever outside his sphere, which make sense given the way his world is populated by jags and he killed his one chance at another world and he’s always been bad at making lasting friends and by this point he’s fucking hopeless.
(…But then. This guy said. About the time thing. The hours thing. The maybe… having grounds to be a kind of friends thing, and it hurts how much that bites at Treavor’s heart, the idea of a friend, the could-be-reality of a friend. (Fucking pathetic.) (Yeah, but, whatever. It gets lonely, this shitty world. Isn’t he always looking for could-be friends? Strangers he can feign are friends if he drinks enough and they’re in an okay mood? What would it be to have a stable someone in his life, outside of his family and their shitty friends, outside of Sheldon who, admittedly, isn’t a total fuck-up, but gets on Treavor’s fucking nerves.)
There’s grounding in the way this guy talks, the way he is.
There’s something like lightness in hearing him.
And there’s a lot here in word, in motion, in proximity that Treavor’ll come back to later that night, the next day, for weeks to come. Considering what any of it means, what Alice is - intentionally and otherwise - telling.
For now, Treavor nods slowly once, twice, pressing his head into the cloth (it’s cool still, or cool because Alice switched sides; guy knows a thing or two about this, huh?), flicking a look at the guy as he speaks. ]
Careful, Alice. Someone might get the idea you’re an okay guy.
…That or this is some kind of elaborate plan to… murder me and steal my desk?
Is that it?
[ His voice not loud, but exaggerated in a faux whisper, and here he manages to move his head a little, to offer an exaggerated wink before pressed his head back against the cloth. ]
Hey! Kidding.
Both desks are shit.
[ But maybe. Maybe the guy working at the other desk isn’t shit. And maybe the next time Treavor heads into work, it won’t be at the ready to bristle, to snarl, to ward off someone he’d rather never deal with.
Maybe. Maybe going into work won’t look quite so miserable, anymore. ]
Anyway, hate to break it to you, but I’m not sure you qualify as ‘weird.’ Your place's too clean and you've got too much of that casual social grace thing going.
no subject
Not intern, or jag, or hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. (Or one of the hundred other nicknames he's acquired over the past month due to some animosity he hasn't quite understood.) And not Lord Alice.
Just. Alice.
And it feels -
Complicated.
(His name is a complicated thing. Where it began from a place of ethnicity he can't claim - his mother's interest in some obscure Italian footballer, an Alessandro something - and gravitated to Alex for most of his childhood simply for ease.
And sometime. Before, he thinks. The incident in the car, with the boy. Maybe when his grandfather started seeing something he didn't like? Alice, sneered like an insult across the room. Or when his name became slurred on a drunken tongue, Alex becoming Alice? He was young and not young anymore, he remembers that.
It caught on too fast, he remembers that, too.
And how it felt like a dagger.
And how he became accustomed to the dagger being nestled between his ribs, after a while. It was painful, but it was his. And there might be a dagger and he might be bleeding, but he was surviving the wound, wasn't he? So he healed around it.
For a while, when he introduced himself, it was Alice. Yeah, like Alice Cooper. This, from the mouth of a mop-topped, baby-faced redhead with his hunched shoulders and his awkward smile and his angry eyes: it didn't matter who shared that name. He learned to stop defending it.
Granted, there are a lot of things that are his that he no longer feels the need to defend. His plants. His solitude. His lack of alcohol in his apartment. His fussiness about everything from clothes to coffee. (And there are things in constant need of guardianship from the knowing of the world.)
But his name is a place of hurt and repossession, endlessly wounding and healing. He refuses to change it, and he refuses to let others twist it into mockery.
What kind of name is Alice?
It's my name.
Unwavering. Cold. Complicated.)
(It. Feels so. Complicated to hear Treavor say it.) (It feels so fucking good to hear him say it, and that's the complication.)
His hand has gone still while the other man speaks, and Alice is watching him (listening to that stage whisper, trying not to think of other whispers (in the dark, against his ear)(Alice, if he would whisper that, would it heal the word entirely, would it renew it, would it make it worthy and beautiful -)), his brows raised just a little.
Treavor winks and he doesn't. Know what to make of that.
(Is he.)
(F...lirting?)
(Don't be an idiot.)
Better to redirect. Better to focus his attention on. On something else. On the jokes. On the compliment. On nodding and making a patronizing 'mhmm' noise before flipping the cloth once more and pressing it over Treavor's forehead.
(Would it. Hurt to. Play back, a little?
Since it felt not terrible to hear him say that word. Since he's struggling, and trying so hard? Since he's in pain?
Not flirting! It's not that. That's not what's happening here. But maybe make him smile?
Bantering. It's just bantering, sure.)
His voice isn't a stage whisper. It's simply invitingly low, his mouth half-lifting with a little amusement. ]
Now, Treavor, if I wanted to murder you, why would I bring you back to my immaculate apartment? Clearly, whatever my elaborate plan is for your desk, it doesn't involve getting rid of you.
[ ...Christ. Christ he. Has to look away. That might have pushed his luck. Carefully, he adds with a little self-deprecating huff of a laugh: ]
I'm particular. Let's don't mistake that for social grace.
no subject
Could be your apartment’s immaculate because you just gave it a deep clean. Had to after the last of your heinous deeds, huh?
Hey, guy.
[ He taps at… well, no, near is own temple deliberately, hand a little shaky, voice even, mock-dramatic. ]
Where. Are. The. Bodies?
[ And a grin as he drops his hand.
What Treavor assumes: If Alice isn’t going to kill Treavor for his desk, probably he’s gonna try outfoxing or sweet-talking Treavor into trading. Which, ha, no fuckin chance!
In fact, Treavor’s snorting at the thought, would shake his head if he wasn’t so intent on pressing against the cool damn cloth. ]
I’ve got news for you guy: I’m not switching desks, no matter how nice you ask.
Yours’s got Chauncey all over it.
[ …Wait, though.
Wait wait wait wait, though. Play what Alice said back through his mind. (Play what Alice said back through his mind as if Alice wasn’t a guy Treavor worked with and as if Treavor hasn’t been a mega-pest to Alice for weeks on end (and as if Treavor isn’t very obviously a hot goddamn mess) and as if maybe they’d just met for the first time last night.
Wait was Alice. Making a joke? Like a little bit of a lewd joke? (Or a not-a-joke? (He is pretty close, huh? (Pretty comforting.) (Pretty pretty.) ((Got a pretty nice voice.)) ((Feels pretty good to sit by.)) …Okay, no, not— Probably not not-a-joke. That wouldn’t make sense at all, right? Fuck, Treavor knows better than that.)
Could this guy be lewd if he tried?
(Does this guy know how to flirt? Is he flirt-compatible, even? He’s a guy who works too much and takes his job at the shitfirm way too seriously, work work all day, comes home and cleans his apartment apparently - and, ha ha, picks up drunks by the river, gives them a clean place to sleep - which doesn’t seem to leave a lot of space for flirting.
But also Alice looks like a guy who gets laid plenty. Also Treavor’s pretty sure there’s been some mention of Tindr or one of those let’s-get-fucking apps. Which maybe doesn’t require flirting so much as an open mind and convenience.
..In. Treavor’s experience. Anyway.)
((He doesn’t know the answer. Whether Alice could potentially flirt or not, though what matters is it… Uh. Nothing of that sort is happening here, and anyway, every thought in that direction’s falling into buzzing, into static. Just another question to move on from.))
(Something else. Flip it into something else.)
For a moment or two, Treavor’s been drawn back from the cloth, staring at Alice a little, confusion drawn clear in his expression. Trying to place these thoughts with the image of the Golden Intern, Golden Guy. Now he blinks, hitches a half-grin. ]
Ohhh, I see what’s happening.
[ He doesn't know where he's going with this, but he's absolutely plunging into it. ]
You want to push our desks together. Make a platform out of em. Stage a musical revue for spare coin, right? Hat out, voices strong. Entertainment for the masses.
no subject
Not the grin. The expression that preceded it. It's going to linger with him (another knife to heal around, another reminder), something seared into the channels of his memory. Treavor leaning away, and Treavor perplexed.
Because Alice misconstrued something that was said, and tried to rise to the occasion. Because Alice (flirted) (why did he fucking) (with a man) (he knows better, fuck, he fucking knows, he knows) bantered, and said something weird, and his throat, chest, stomach -
It's all gone tense under the damnation of that confusion. Nauseated. (The feeling of going quickly, moving fast and free and eagerly, and the abrupt crash with calamity. Breath-robbing and sick and shameful.) (Distantly: a feeling like deflation. The emotion that comes after 'no', and before 'oh, okay'. Puncture.) (More distantly: a hollowness, like his head is a drumskin and his throat is the reverb, and he's been struck. (He wanted. He wants.)) He wishes Treavor wouldn't look at him that way, a wild animal in the road and Alice an oncoming car.
He can't quite (doesn't at all) suppress the expression that moves over his face: a rapid blinking as he looks away again. Embarrassment, lips pursing as he bows his head.
Treavor's talking, trying to force the conversation away from the mess that was made by his own bastardized effort to approach something that wasn't his to approach, and that's good of him. Alice is grateful, or will be grateful in time.
And he should. Try and say something back. (He should try not to run away, to press the cloth into Treavor's hands under some pretense of cleaning the kitchen or watering the plants.)
A breath. ]
Caught me. Performance art in a legal firm. Always been my dream.
[ It falls flat with that pall cast over it. (The pall he cast. The awkwardness he caused.
Fuck. Fuck, if it gets out. If Treavor's angry. If he tells someone Alice hit on him -) (He won't do that. That's not the situation, and he won't do that.)
(He could apologize?)
(He.)
(It's not. The worst idea. He is sorry.) ]
I. What I said.
Um.
[ Christ. There's the 'um', the indicator species of his discomfort.
He sighs, and gives the other man the force of his focus once more, lowering the cloth enough to see his face, to let him see his own. To show his effort to be earnest, and contrite.
His arm moves to the back of the sofa. ]
I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate, if for no other reason than because I didn't bring you here to - to.
[ A distressed cant of his head. Please don't make me say it.
He says it anyway, of course, in a small, wavered voice. ]
Hook up.
[ And barreling along: ]
I don't. I. That's not. A thing I do. I said I do, but it's not. Um. Hooking - up.
[ He's losing the thread here, his breathing beginning to pick up and his distress and shame distilling, pure. ]
It was just. A thing to say. F-felt all right to ff-fl-
[ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He can't get his "f"s out. ]
- I don't know. It was stupid, and I made you uncomfortable, and I'm sorry.
no subject
…No?
He doesn’t—
He didn’t.
…Treavor hadn’t been making up that other meaning.
He wants to stop this. This tidal-wave confessional, this (pain) (sorrow) panic in the guy’s voice, in his eyes, holy fuck, Alice looks like he’s trying to crawl out of his skin. (And Treavor knows that feeling. And Treavor doesn’t want to see it, feels its panic sinking through him.) (And Treavor doesn’t want to see this guy so stricken. This guy who’s been really actually good to him this morning, last night. (Who told Treavor he could be safe here, any time here.))
(Is this real?)
This is real. This is an actual, true-as-facts falling apart and Treavor doesn’t know what the fuck to fucking do.
(He wants to help?)
He feels pretty fucking helpless. Feels his own expression turning shocked, confused, panicked, and yeah, okay, something like sad or like sorrowed, something like at a loss. Something like guilty. This guy was being good to him and Treavor just skated the fuck on by.
Nice fucking job, Treavor, jesus shit, it’s not like the signs weren’t there.
And yeah on one hand if someone puts an arm around you draws close to you maybe absolutely it makes sense to think you know what, maybe this is a flirt situation, an interested situation, but also if you’re Treavor Pendleton, that doesn’t really happen. Not with guys who’re being kind or careful. Not with anyone who’s being kind or careful.
And he works with this guy. And this guy’s tolerated him but like. Fuck else was Alice gonna do, given the men he works for, the precarious nature of any New York internship. And Treavor hadn’t given the guy much thought as anything beyond an irritant, and Treavor’d figured Alice was taking pretty much the same approach to him, and yeah the guy picked him up last night, brought him here, but the guy’s picked him up before and lots of people’ve picked Treavor up before, scraped him up at his brothers’ command, and.
And. It doesn’t matter, really. Because whatever Treavor thought, this right here is the truth the guy’s giving. And he can’t leave (he doesn’t want to leave) Alice stranded alone in it.
(This isn’t his business.)
(This is definitely his fucking business.
He’s not gonna just. Shake this off.) ]
Hey. Hey, hey, hey. It’s—
[ His hand’s moving to Alice shoulder, will hold there if Alice allows. (It doesn’t occur to Treavor that maybe touching the guy’ll make things worse. Or it doesn’t occur to him until he’s already reached out, and there’s not taking back the gesture, and it’s not like he wants to take it back, anyway.) If the guy doesn’t want his hand, the guy can shrug it off. Treavor’s watching; Treavor’s trying to pay attention, his aching head backgrounded in the face of this… this…
It’s a little catastrophic, is what it feels like.
Alice doesn’t seem a whole lot like he’s here, on solid ground. And if Alice has allowed Treavor to remain at his shoulder, Treavor’ll press his hold a little stronger. ]
Hey. Alice. It’s all right.
[ Treavor doesn’t know what he’s doing. Treavor doesn’t know what he’s doing, so he resorts to rambling, stumbling his way through some words, any words, trying to sort what Alice said and how Alice looks and what Treavor knows (and what Treavor feels, or maybe feels, or maybe that’s just a matter for later, it’s a lot to add to an already overloaded equation), looking for something, an answer to offer a little bit of calm, a little bit of something for Alice to hold onto.
(Shit. Shit, the guy’s worried he’s been caught hitting on a coworker, or… or? Something more to that sentence, that notion, though Treavor can’t find it.)
(…Did the guy say something about not telling the truth about those hookups he supposedly had? That’s a. Probably not a fun fucking thing to share.
Shit.) ]
I didn’t think you were. …Uh, I’m. Kind of. Fucking.
I didn’t catch on. I mean, I thought, maybe, but also. Uh. Insufficient evidence, or something. I’m not…
Like I said. Been a class-A dick to you. Been sitting here hungover on your couch.
[ You know what, you know what. If Treavor can’t get his words together about what he did or didn’t think, if he can’t tell Alice why it all right, he should at least, he can at least try to get the guy to calm down a little.
Because holy fuck, this guy’s gonna pass out if he keeps going like this. Gonna spiral toward a deeper and deeper mess, and it’s a lot like watching Sheldon slip into his own anxieties, and okay, okay, maybe Treavor doesn’t know much about giving people a hand when shit’s rough, but he can try this, at least. ]
Hey, hey, Alice. You’ve gotta breathe, okay?
[ If Alice allows, he’ll move his free hand to take one of Alice’s, an act of imploring, an attempt at calming the guy down. And he’ll press Alice’s hand if he can. ]
Just. In, out, in, out?
It’s all right.
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Wouldn't that just make sense. (He hates it. He hates the kaleidoscopic shift of perspective from one moment to the next, how the world can change from two bodies moving in tandem to one body leashed to another, one body incapable of doing anything but obeying the call of another. One is romantic. It has some shine to it that could be hope, or possibility. Or even just a very pleasant daydream, a memory to be recalled when the space around one body is unutterably lonely.
The other is despairingly inevitable, and damning. Humiliating.
More loneliness.))
His forehead is resting on his wrist, his hand and the cloth dangling, because he is in fact forcing himself to breathe, to stop panicking, to be rational and not put this on a man with a hangover. This is selfish, this is stupid, this is unreasonable. (He crossed a line and made Treavor uncomfortable. He undid all the good he tried to do because of a reckless moment.) (Treavor.)
(Knows.)
A twist in his guts, bile rising, and a wounded animal stare at the floor.
Treavor knows. Treavor knows. Treavor knows. (Fuck. He should have just. Played it off. Kept his fucking mouth shut. Never bantered or flirted or teased or whatever word went with that stupid thing he said. Fuck. Fuck.)
There's a weight on his shoulder and abstractly, he knows what it is. He knows there are words with it. In that moment, his misfiring mind has the temerity to wonder, Is he giving me the 'you're a great guy, but-' speech?
He's never actually heard that one before. It's not you, it's me. That would be new. He should try to tune in to that? Maybe?
He's sitting up, and he's trying to give Treavor his attention, and Treavor's telling him to breathe, but he can't do that anymore, because there's another kaleidoscopic twist. Another weight against a non-celestial body. (He moved, and Treavor moved. Not in tandem - they moved in different trajectories, Alice away and Treavor toward, but isn't that still somehow in tandem?) (He moved away and Treavor touched him, and he moved, meaning to pull further away, and Treavor was touching him more.)
Treavor's hand on his hand.
Alice is staring at it like he's never seen a hand before. (Alice is staring at it like an animal stares at an oncoming car.)
(The way planets don't stare at oncoming meteors, unless the meteors are the kind that will obliterate everything. A change in all life. The end of the dinosaurs, the rise of mankind.)
(His heartbeat feels like it's in his skull. Behind his eyes.)
He doesn't move. (He doesn't want to move. Not one. Muscle. Inch.) ((But if he moves away, just once more, will Treavor still move in tandem, and where and how will he touch then?) (Does he want to risk that?))
Breathe.
He has to. Breathe.
Treavor's hand is. (Paler than his own.) (Thinner than his own.) (The same length, and breadth.) (Heavy.) (Damp with sweat.) (Warm.) (Blue veins under his skin and his knuckles, his fingers are elegant, or would be if he took care of them.) (There's dirt under his nails.) (There's a smudge.) (A scar?) (His nails are ragged, he needs to cut his nails, needs someone to cut his nails.)
(It's so goddamned beautiful.) (It makes his own hand look beautiful.) (He wants to cry. He wants to spread his fingers and see if Treavor will twine his own with them. He wants (to feel that hand's grace for the rest of his life) to cry.)
Alice forces himself to look away, and the act is painful. (How long has he been silent? A few seconds, or a few moments?) He takes a small breath, and manages to offer words that feign calm. ]
You're welcome on my couch, and anywhere else in my home.
It won't happen again.
[ Carefully - painfully. (Horribly. (Like dying. Like ending life support.)) He slides his hand out from under Treavor's.
As though joking, he adds softly: ]
You should feel safe from me, as much as from anything out there, after all. No wondering about meanings.
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He catches that hand again. Palm at Alice’s wrist, his fingers wrapping Alice’s palm, thumb resting at the back of Alice’s hand. Not forceful, not gripping, but with imploring insistence. Just. ’Hey, come on. Stay. You don’t have to go.’
(If he doesn’t think far about what’s happening, he can’t get caught in spiraled questions, in every sign and indication that…
Something’s happening to this guy. A lot of things are happening to this guy (happened to this guy?)
(The weight of the way the guy looked at his hand and all that space between words, all that howling screaming silent behind Alice’s absence and pulling away and stuttered words.
(The way Alice seemed to try gathering himself.)
(The way that gathering fell apart.)
Like watching someone fall through ice, like watching someone plummet through the earth, barraged and burning. Like tapping at a stone, a strong and solid-looking boulder, and the rock-face chips and shatters and there’s magma, suddenly, lava spilling outward.
What’s happening isn’t controllable, precisely. What’s happening with Alice is bigger than this moment, and the guy’s trying to manage it (a managing that feels like closing off, like tamping down) (a managing that feels not-unfamiliar; push something away push something back into order and maybe you can seal a gap (for now) (never mind that you’re still bleeding)), but the guy’s missing some pieces, Treavor reminds himself there are things the guy’s got wrong, or it seems like the guy’s got wrong, and the whole thing feels messy right now and maybe the least Treavor can do is try to offer some amending, because maybe it’ll help, maybe it’ll keep the guy from sealing himself with these mistakes.
(That last thing the guy said. ’You should feel safe from me.’ It’s a weird fucking thing to say. It’s a hollowing thing to hear. Because there’s meaning to those words, maybe history behind them, though Treavor doesn’t know it. Because the words ache with something badly wounded.
And isn’t it strange, to think of feeling unsafe here.
Treavor’s felt - Treavor knows he’s felt - more secure this morning than he’s been in ages. (Knows this guy feels safer than anyone he’s met in years.))
If Alice has allowed Treavor to keep his hand, Treavor’ll brush his thumb against the back of that hand once, twice. Steady while Treavor looks for Alice’s eyes, seeking to fix them with his own, a variation on the usual staring; still persistent, unrelenting, but without coldness, lacking distance. Penetrating, but not hostile, not unkind. ]
Alice. Listen to me, okay?
[ ’I don’t know what’s doing on, but—‘ Not that, no. ]
You’re okay.
I’m okay.
Hey, everything’s all right. You scraped me up and gave me a place to sleep. You did a good guy thing, kept me from sleeping against a dumpster. That makes you pretty much the polar opposite of dickweed, got it?
And uh.
[ He flicks a glance away, wants to scratch his neck. Avoids the urge and fixes Alice in his stare again. ]
You can’t kick yourself for me being dense. I just figured… Like I said, I’m a dick, been a dick, I’m a mess sweating all over your very nice sofa, like I’m the last person in the world I’d bat eyes at, and my standards are pretty nonexistent. And hey, to be fair, I didn’t know you had it in you to make a, uh, suggestive joke.
[ He manages to cock an eyebrow, a little. ]
You’ve got surprises in you, Alice.
[ And, pressing that hand, if he still has that hand— ]
Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong. Look at me: self-inflicted sick aside, I’m a-okay.
You’ve been a good guy. Pretty sure you are a good guy, and you don’t need to worry. I'm not worried. Hey, that’s a Treavor Pendleton promise!
[ And? Fuck it, a minor tilt on the head, and a wink just for Alice. ]
no subject
It's a different touch. It's an alien touch, because hands often touch his hands, and there are a multitude of ways to excuse the genial connection of one palm and another palm. But this is Treavor's hand on his wrist, and his fingertips could trace the lines of Alice's palm and tell his fortune, tell his past, could know the essence of his work ethic from the small knot of muscle at the base of his thumb and the callouses at the heels of his fingers.
(He wants. (He wants, oh god, he wants so much, and yesterday he wanted so little.) He wants Treavor's elegant fingertips with their dirty nails to explore his hand. He wants to be known by the lines and creases on his palm.)
(That thought makes him feel like his lungs are breathing something other than air, dizzying and intoxicating and deadly.)
He thinks if Treavor's fingers do move, he'll tremble, and betray something other than panic. Something other than shame, or something along with shame.
(A strange thought occurs: Alice doesn't hear a resounding 'no' in this refusal to let him remove himself into himself. But he does hear something, is aware of an undercurrent of unvoiced language speaking to him, only to him -
Is he imagining that awareness.)
(Is he imagining that comprehension. In the silence beneath words, a plea. To stay.) (It must be his imagination, because moving away is a deconstruction of himself in ways he never knew were possible. Moving away is fighting gravity.) (...But that hand is there and Alice doesn't delude himself often. Not that way.)
(If Treavor -)
If Treavor. Asked him to stay.
There's no question he can put to that. No doubts, or worries. He's staring at the hand on his wrist and feeling the fingers against his palm and telling his own fortune: Treavor will say stay, and Alice will stay.
It's the movement of Treavor's thumb that catches him off-guard, his attention so fixed on the other side of the situation. However slowly or quickly the reality of that brush, it takes an eternity and a heartbeat, and to his credit.
To his credit, he makes no sound.
To his credit, he doesn't flinch, or close his eyes, or melt back into the sofa.
Even if the brush of that thumb felt like a lit fuse. Even if a moan built in his throat and a quiver began in his stomach, his thighs. Even if the second brush deserved a sigh, and Alice on his knees at this man's feet, and of course he'll stay. Where the fuck could he go? Where would be far enough to forget how that felt?
It could be that he does none of this because Treavor is holding him fixed in this moment, and he's talking, but his eyes are the absolute sum of Alice's comprehension. His eyes, and their certainty of hold. (He stepped into a trap, and he isn't certain how, or when, but there's no extricating himself, oh, and remember, he remembers, (does Treavor recall last night?) looking in his eyes and stroking his cheek his hair his neck, singing to him, one loneliness meeting another.) (Stay, he felt or heard or understood stay.)
How much can he hide under this gaze? How much would he try to hide? Would he bother hiding anything, if Treavor came looking? (The inability to fight the oncoming car-meteor-Treavor.) (The inevitability of their orbit.) (His own direly hard arousal, his dizziness, his climbing confusion, the way his vision seems to hold nothing but the eyes that have managed to pin him through like an insect.)
Treavor's talking and Alice is nodding in agreement, not because there's anything in particular to agree with, but because Treavor is pressing his hand and staring into his eyes, and there's nowhere he needs to go, nothing he needs to do. And maybe. Maybe if he stays absolutely fucking still, he can stay in those eyes for a while.
And then he furrows his brow, like one slowly struggling out of the grip of a daze, and shakes his head. ]
Okay - but -
No.
No, that's -
[ He has to. Not. Look at those beautiful fucking eyes.
He's gripping something.
His hand has turned over and what he's gripping, what he's doing is too much to contemplate, and the grip is soft and utterly right, the way one fits in the other and his fingertips rest against a wrist, but he can't think about that.
(Or stop doing it.) ]
Listen. It's important to me. You don't...come here looking for a place that isn't a dumpster, self-inflicted sick or not, and think it's okay: that I can - 'bat my eyes' at you. Because I'm a good guy?
[ He's shaking his head, more certain of himself now, able to look askance at Treavor. ]
That wasn't the intention. I don't want any repayment. I wouldn't do that to you, and frankly, that's a low fucking bar to set and call me a 'good guy'.
[ He frowns, and then returns the press that was given to him. His voice is soft now, and fretful, and his eyes flick to and away from Treavor's. ]
You shouldn't walk in somewhere, already prepared to foot the bill. Yeah, you're a dick. You're also a lot of other things, and your validity, your absolute value - to me, or to anyone - shouldn't depend on whether you hate being in a basement office, or if you're willing to put up with some suggestive jokes when you've got a hangover.
You're worth -
[ He doesn't have a right to. Speak to Treavor about his worth.
Equally as sure, Alice knows he has every right. That, as much as anything else in these moments of eyes and fingertips and absence and trajectory and not-loss, frightens him. ]
...You're worth more than any of that. And all of it. Okay?
no subject
Alice doesn’t know. How Treavor is. Sure, he’s got an idea, he’s been at the receiving end of half-assed taunts and knows Treavor works (‘works’) for his brothers and presumably knows Treavor’s a liability to his brothers and he’s dealt with Hangover Hours Treavor more than once or twice or, shit, this guy’s come to his rescue a lot.
Okay, all of that’s true. But it’s still only a small slice of the shit pie, and this guy should be careful, this guy doesn’t know Treavor, this guy can’t amend decades of Treavor’s bullshit with a few nice words.
Kind words. This guy is… gracious. Generous. A good fuckin guy, whatever he might say about himself. ((Okay but. Okay and. If Treavor knows this about Alice - and he’s certain he knows this about Alice - isn’t it possible, maybe possible that Alice could know a few things about Treavor?)) Good not just because he brought Treavor here, but because he must’ve gotten Treavor dressed for bed, gave him a nice place on a nice couch, introduced him to his cat, made him eggs (??), gave him the courtesy of explaining why he’s not going to be providing alcohol. And a dozen, four or five dozen other things. Treavor could make a list, if he wanted. If Alice wanted.
He’s looking at Alice’s hand in his own. Looking at the shifted position, feeling the clasp of that hand, the unflinching of that hand. And it occurs to Treavor that Alice is really, really fucking present here, his focus on Treavor, his eyes, his thoughts, his self less as if pulled inward.
Treavor likes that hand in his own. Treavor’s always liked a good dose of human contact, but this. (The perfect press of it, the ease of holding and the way he thinks he can feel Alice’s heartbeat in Alice’s palm, the way it seems to draw into his own hand, steadying him, could-be-guiding him.) This is something other, something more than.
Something in him feels a little like glowing. He doesn’t question it. (He doesn’t dare to look too close, and risk dispersing it or putting out the light.)
Still watching their twined hands, Treavor sighs mildly, would shake his head if he wasn’t studiously keeping still (better not to jostle himself; it doesn’t take much to kick up a plummeting nausea). Then he shifts his eyes back up at the guy, letting Alice hold his eyes, letting himself take in Alice’s. Registering what he sees for later, for thought. (So much of this is going to play itself inside his head again, again, again. He knows it; he doesn’t mind.)
(This guy is good to him.
This guy’s a good guy.
And this guy is specifically being really goddamn good to Treavor.)
(Treavor likes this guy’s hand in his own.)
(This guy should be. Careful.)
Treavor shifts his thumb against Alice’s hand again. Treavor’s watching the guy, not sure how to explain that he knows Alice’s meaning and yeah, Alice is cutting pretty close (real fucking close) to the bone with those observations (always prepared to foot some kind of bill, well yeah of course, that’s what happen when you spend your life accruing debt after debt after debt, when yeah your brothers can pay off actual real monetary problems but you can’t on your own; you get used to prepping yourself for unspecified payback), but also he doesn’t get the sense Alice is a kind of asks-for-return or even wants or accepts much return.
He’s just. Kind of that mythic standup dude.
(Who also happens to possess a bracing touch, a touch that could make a person glow.)
(Who also brushed his fingers over Treavor’s hair, against his forehead. (That happened, didn’t it? And it offered at once depthless tranquility and tingled excitation.))
(Who’s got a way of speaking, a way of weighing over words, a way of lending tenor to words and a way of staring open-eyed (open-souled?) that could make Treavor’s heart stop.) ]
Shit. Alice. …It’s too early in the day for me to explain to you the flaws in your logic. Let’s save the validity talk until you know just how rabid an asshole I am.
[ There’s a minor smile, flickered with an unconscious upset, something akin to forlornness or regret. Something that could have been a wince against his headache or a trick of the eye; there and then vanished. ]
You’re a smart guy, don’t get me wrong. Or I assume you’re smart, or you look like a guy who knows his way around some insight.
…Or maybe that’s the glasses, hm?
[ Not that they’re bad glasses. The guy looks pretty good in glasses.
Then again, the guy’d probably look good in a lot of things. ]
That’s what I mean about you being a good guy, anyway. You’ve got… vision beyond the bullshit level. And patience. Shit. You’ve got the patience of a goddamn saint.
You like to help people, right? That’s not… Hey, Alice, I don’t know if you know? But that’s not a common commodity here.
[ Here in this garbage fucking city. Cold and chock-full of rats.
…Treavor doesn’t mind the rats. Or the thousands of strangers, people he can wonder about, wish about, watch and think maybe they’ve got okay lives, maybe someone here’s found something worth living in (and if they can, maybe someday, somewhere, he’ll meet brighter fortune; it isn’t likely, it’s a thought that grows dimmer each year, but even now it offers sparks of interest on better days).
Those strangers usually turn out to be shit once you get to know em.
But this guy. This Alice. He’s… Somehow better than his first impression. Less noxious, not noxious at all, almost kind of gentle, and yeah, just better by fucking far. ]
I don’t remember a whole lot about last night, but I know I felt all right. Not like I had anything to worry about.
Which also isn't all that common.
[ At all. ]
no subject
Unspeakably right. Natural, and unbearable because it will in ten minutes or an hour or three hours be gone. (And he comprehends extinction now. He comprehends the destruction of rain forests. He understands why people fear the deaths of bee colonies. He understands the loss of condors, of megafauna, of rare plants, of the ice caps. He understands supernovas and the heat death of the universe, and why all these things are tragic.
Why dying is tragic.
What is gone, and can never occur again.)
There's something vaguely amusing, and vaguely melancholy about what their conversation has become: each of them trying to convince the other of their worth, while rejecting their own. It strikes Alice that he really doesn't know much about Treavor, and Treavor doesn't know much at all about him; what he has are impressions, and a belief about the neutrality of people. (And Treavor, smiling. Treavor, excited, reaching for Hope, and calling her perfect. Hope's refusal to leave the man's side all through the morning, and her apparent approval of him.) (A glimpse last night at the wounded self, the loneliness, the soft and gentle person wanting connection, wanting starlight and fish stories and contact in a desolate city.)
Treavor says he likes to help people, and Alice pulls a face that speaks eh, a sort of shrug of an expression. Alice doesn't like people. He likes his routine, his apartment, his own company and his cat. (He likes the hand in his hand, Christ, he likes that so much.) It's not untrue that his morality is strict, that he feels strongly on the lines of giving aid when he can.
But what he likes.
He likes. Helping Treavor.
Which is a very different thing from 'people'.
(What. Really. Does Treavor see in him that makes him think Alice is 'good'? Has he seen something else? Has he watched at all over the past month, or only crafted in his mind an adversary at the Other Desk, someone to torment (why?) and annoy?)
He watches the other man for a moment, silent, truly looking at him: his eyes, his nose, the perfect curve of his mouth (another wistful brush of his fingertips in an arc across the softness of a wrist, wishing, and wishing, and wanting), the mess of him begging for someone to clean him up and set him right again ((please, yes, and he tries to ignore the feeling, that melting pleasure, but it's so tantalizing and it's so available, isn't it?)) ]
Self-deprecation could turn into a competition between us if we keep on. I'll acknowledge I - like to help you. 'People' is a very broad category.
[ His voice softens, and his gaze drifts slightly right. ]
But I like to help you. I'm not certain it makes me good. But it makes you think I am, and that amounts to the same.
[ To Alice, it amounts to the same.
Really. What other opinion matters, aside from the one attached to the hand in his, and the eyes that won't let him flee this conversation?
A little cant of his head, and he presses on, returning his eyes to his locus, his lodestone (a star, if not northern, if not guiding, at least it's his.) ]
And you can compromise, as well. Acknowledge you have worth to me, no matter how flawed or nonsensical my logic might seem.
[ He pauses, opens his mouth to say more. Looks away uncomfortably - and oddly, his hold tightens just a little, as though seeking affirmation. Confirmation. Or simply comfort, before he draws a breath and adds carefully: ]
You know. I've known rabid assholes. People worse than you, even on our lousiest encounters. I don't think you've got it in you to rise to that occasion, Treavor.
no subject
Only. It’s true there’re worse people. People who do more aggregate harm, more lasting harm, harm that bleeds for years and years. It’s true Treavor’s known - Treavor knows - a dozen handfuls of these people.
It’s possible Alice has known them, too.
Maybe it’s likely.
And think of what the guy said. About… Not being safe? Being someone people don’t feel safe around. Which doesn’t make sense to Treavor (where in shit’s name is the possible danger in this man?) until he half-traces the itch of a thought toward the roots of Alice’s hedgings, his warnings, the way he backed off that sorta-buried joke in a flailing stumble. Suggestive but not, and the guy’d seemed horrified he’d let it fly.
And Alice doesn’t hook up much. Alice doesn’t maybe hook up at all, says he doesn’t have friends, many friends, any friends, says Treavor is maybe as close as he’s got to a friend and actually, hold up a moment, that’s a terrifying fucking thought for that guy, huh?
There are things Alice is hiding. Maybe something Alice was hiding and then wasn’t hiding so much and that, wouldn’t that explain a lot about horror and ‘safe’ and Treavor doesn’t worry much about shit like this, but he knows people do worry, he knows people can be shits about who you fuck and don’t fuck and.
And. You don’t get ideas like not-safe and need-to-hide in your head unless people put ‘em there, or give you cause to hide. So maybe Treavor has some idea what Alice is getting at about rabid assholes. (And maybe Treavor’s fist is clenching slightly, his fingers tensed, his jaw set minutely. Fuck those assholes, whoever they are. Were. Are.)
A follow-up thought: Treavor should be careful with this guy. Gentle with this guy? Whatever’s going on, it isn’t easy for Alice.
(Whatever’s going on, it isn’t unattached to Treavor. The guy likes to help him. The guy brought him here. ’It makes you think I am, and that amounts to the same.’ ’Worth to me.’ ’You have worth to me.’ That. Isn’t something Treavor can’t touch right now. The words or their implications or the way they roll a shattered, welcome warmth through him.
There’s meaning here. There’s… fuck, there’s a lot of meaning here.)
(What the fuck did Treavor ever do to incur this guy’s favor? Another question for another time.)
When he speaks, he’s looking past Alice, a little to the left and far distant, though his hand keeps its hold, his hand offers a firm, lingering press. ]
…I’ll take your word on that.
Sucks for you, guy.
[ It’s an attempt at offering tentative recognition, at suggesting yeah, maybe he’s got some idea what Alice is talking about. Suggesting Treavor won’t push at the recognition unless Alice wants.
He lets silence settle for a moment, a few moments, look away and looking away and finally returning to find Alice’s eyes. ]
Anyway, you’re right. it’s not an occasion I’m interested in. More, uh. I’d rather give it a good bird.
[ One more press of the hand, and a firm, slow sweep on his thumb over Alice’s hand. Just. Trying to ease the guy a little. (Trying to let that guy know he’s not in danger.)
Treavor shakes his head, a gesture at once small and exaggerated, then crooks an awkward half-grin. ]
As far as the rest goes, I’m not known for my compromises.
[ Which. The speaking of it shakes his smile a little, shocks through his head. Because it isn’t true. Because it’s patently untrue, whatever he might like to say or think about himself.
Treavor compromises all the fucking time, or straight-up gives in, crumbles at the slightest prod of pressure. It’s why he’s here, in this shit-eating city. Why he spends half his life in that basement and hasn’t made even a weak attempt to climb out. Why he stumbles out of bed and curls up on the floor when Tricia cocks a finger, why he doesn’t balk when someone says step aside, step aside, for anything at all.
It’s a wonder he’s any kind of a whole person anymore.
(Or. Put more accurately, he’s not so much a whole person anymore, the way he’s let all of these pieces fall aside, but also that isn’t the point here, and also he doesn’t fucking want to think about that, and the point now is, the point right now is—)
He strengthens the grin again, give a mock sigh, eyes rolling for Alice’s benefit. ]
But. What the hell. This once. I guess. Because you caught me in an okay mood. Because you put me in an okay mood.
[ Because if Treavor thinks, really thinks about Alice’s words (worth and amounting and what measures up and what worth could possibly mean, and what’s Treavor supposed to do with words he’s never found connected with himself?), that shattered warmth’ll flood through him, set him to glowing, set him warmed beyond thought beyond hold of himself and on a path toward something like (something that inarguably is) hope.
Because no one makes Treavor feel this way, and here comes this guy, and Treavor’s hungover and grinning anyway, thinking there’s nowhere else he’d like to be, thinking he feels a little like all right here. ]
Because you’re a good guy, like it or not.
I guess I’ll let it fly for now. Like if you want to say there’s worth in this mess sweating on your sofa, I guess I can’t contest it. Just gonna have to roll with believing.
[ The grins quirks a little more, and Treavor cocks his head, eyebrow raised. ]
You can’t stop me from questioning your judgment, though. Seriously questioning your judgment.
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It isn't Treavor's fault, of course.
It's conditioning; he has learned to fear the verdict. (No, that's wrong: he has learned to fear the sentence, because there is only one possible verdict when you plead guilty for the crime of deviance. Non-heteronormative.)
(I'm (sorry)(not interested in women)(sorry)(messed up)(sorry)(broken)(sorry)(confused)(so fucking sorry)(please don't tell my da my grandfather my aunt my sister my)(sorry sorry fuck I'm sorry)(I thought you were coming on to me)(sorry)(twisted) gay.)
There's no punishment here. Only the weight of a touch, and something like. (Knowing.) (Insight.) Mercy.
Treavor's hand is a pardon, and he feels a sob catch in his throat. Gratitude that could ravage his face if he didn't hold impossibly still, blinking his odd rapid blinking before sniffing once and looking away. And there's room to breathe here, in this apartment. This safe place, away from the things that hound him.
Treavor can come here and be safe; Alice can let him come here and be safe, and still feel safe, himself.
That thought sits warmly in the center of his chest, and even evokes the faint glimmer of a smile.
There's no one he'd rather have sweating on his sofa. And for god's sake, if there's one thing he can do in this world from birth to death - only one thing he accomplished, or will accomplish, that will ever hold any real meaning - he's content knowing it was giving Treavor some belief in his own value. ]
If the cost of your belief in the value of what I respect is a lack of faith in my judgment...well, it's paradoxical, but I'll live with it.
[ There's a little narrowing around his eyes - something like play, like mirth, just a flicker of could-be humor.
Like a call-and-response, the sweep of Treavor's thumb is answered with a slow movement of his own.
He doesn't know what this is.
It doesn't necessarily have to be anything. But he does like the way their hands feel together. And he likes being known, and judged, and not tossed to some gallows by this man.
And caring for him. He likes that.
So. ]
You should eat. Have a shower, if you want. I washed your trousers, but the shirt was dry-clean only?
[ And ugly.
He's not. Saying that.
It wasn't that ugly.
(Yes, it was.) ]
You can borrow one. I'll find something that isn't too far outside your tastes. Or we'll cover you with the blanket until you get home so no one sees you in anything lame.
[ Maybe. Just maybe. He recalls hearing a time or two. That his clothes are not the most appreciable to Treavor. But his words carry a dry, good-natured humor lurking in their depths, and there's a smile cautiously daring one corner of his mouth. ]
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There was silence, and on the other side, there’s Alice’s hand still in his (Alice’s thumb offering caress, trilling over Treavor’s skin) (it’s a welcome touch, a deft touch, attentive and measured, and Treavor, yes, Treavor knows he’d like to feel more of it), there’s meaning in Alice’s expression that Treavor doesn’t try to define (but he’ll remember that look, and the feeling of its sight), and there’s a smile, there’s something like humor, there’s something like ease in speaking.
They’ve passed through something, hand-in-hand. And Treavor’s heart could burst from that feeling.
There’s a smile from Alice again, and Treavor likes that little smile, could-be-smile, is-in-fact-a-smile. He thinks he’d like to see more of that smile, and that this guy should be given more reason to smile. It’s a look that speaks of restoration, of renewal. It a look that says this guy is so much more than anyone’s seen, maybe. And shouldn’t that smile be cherished, and tended, and preserved?
Treavor’s smiling back, crooked and a little daft, struck with the sight and the realness of this guy.
But also. And also. He should probably… say something. The guy spoke and he should reply. So. So. ]
You washed my pants?
[ And called them trousers. Ff, what a nerd.
Good kind of nerd.
The kind of nerd that manages being golden guy professional during the day, turns up in crisp-pressed shirts (which, okay, boring, but also okay, it’s not like Alice looks bad or boring in them, guy’s kind of a stunner in probably everything, it’s the hair or the eyes or something in the essence of him), files through his work like it’s no problem, hour after hour after eighty fucking hours holy shit, no one should be in the basement that long (maybe the guy could use… a little more company down there?). The kind of nerd that knows how many hours of interaction compose a maybe-friend and who likes Swedish fucking Fish (no joke, was the guy serious? like that’s grandpa-tier candy, right up there with Werther’s) and who doesn’t mind keeping his messy drunk of an officemate (a friend) (a… what, maybe could-be-other-than-friend?) company and singing songs, talking about…
Oh shit, they talked about like. Eels in the harbor, right? Something like that? What Treavor remembers is glimpses, impressions, but it’s enough to quirk a smile from him. ]
Shit, thanks.
I’ve gotta stop it with the dry cleaning shirts. Like. Fuck, I’m not responsible enough for that shit.
[ Guess how many shirts Treavor’s ruined by dumping them in with the wash? Just take a wild, wild, guess, and if you guessed anywhere along the lines of ‘lots,’ hey nice job, you win the grand prize! ]
Nothing against your shirts or your blanket, but I could just give last night’s shirt a second round? Limited time reappearance, something like… that.
[ It wouldn’t be unusual. A lot of Treavor’s evening-going-out shirts also end up being morning-going-home shirts.
And— Something else, that thing about lame— Oh. Right. Yeah. He.
Definitely. Definitely said something like that about Alice’s clothes. Definitely said something like that more often than once.
Fuck. Well, fuck, there’s another locus of regretting. Like, yeah, the work look hadn’t been anything special (though don’t the guy’s clothes always look right for him? again: somehow not boring on Alice; guy could probably wear Chauncey-style up-to-the-armpits pants and still look right, look good), but Treavor’d been venting irritations that, okay, yeah, had nothing to do with Alice, and had been taking any angle to get a dig in.
Treavor’s scratching the back of his neck, looking askance, biting at his lip and then speaking. ]
Heyy, your shirts aren’t so bad.
I mean, they’d be bad on me, ‘cause I’m a tacky bastard, but you make em shine.
[ A silence, still scratching his neck. ]
Uhh. In this morning’s edition of Treavor’s a dick: Your clothes are all right and I was being pissy. Like. Treavor being a dick didn’t know what he was talking about.
Sorry about that.
[ He casts a sideways glance at the eggs, pulls a sour face - the eggs themselves don’t look like shit eggs, just, he needs a little longer before food’s gonna be possible (since someone doesn’t have any booze around) (but that’s okay; that’s Alice’s choice, and Treavor’s gonna be okay with that). And he reaches to the other side, scratches Hope behind the ears, under that soft goddamn chin. Fuck, she’s got him smiling again. Why’s he never had a cat? ]
Maybe shower before food? The water’s, mm… It’ll get me there.
They look like good eggs.
[ They look like scrambled eggs. Which are hard to fuck up, but which Treavor has - admittedly and often - fucked up anyway. So he can call them good eggs! He’s earned that right. ]
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But right now, Alice has stiffened, and is staring at Treavor, aghast, his lips parted and one side of his mouth lifted in faint (not faint) horror, exposing his teeth. His brows are raised like a plea because maybe he misunderstood. Maybe Treavor didn't actually say he's going to wear that (ugly) shirt again, after showering, when he's clean and it's filthy from whatever he was doing by that dumpster.
(It looks like the fashion industry's artistic interpretation of a dumpster, actually.) (Smells like one, too.)
This man. Needs help.
(There's no pleasure this time.)
(...Maybe a little.)
One thing is certain: he's going to burn that shirt before letting Treavor wear it out of this apartment if it hasn't been cleaned.
And he's shaking his head slowly, decisively, already turning away and rejecting argument with the mere movement of body and tone of voice. It's settled and he's not. Going to listen to this.
(Another round? Christ.) ]
No.
[ Just that. A barely-calm, slightly off-pitch 'no', absolutely fucking not, and he's standing, collecting things to clean and casting a helpless not-smile towards the other man. ]
The shirt.
It reeks. No. Have anything you want out of my closet. Tell me what you want from your place and I'll go get it. Rob the neighbors. But you're not putting it back on after you've cleaned you, and if you try it, I'll burn the fucking thing.
[ And, water glass, plate of uneaten eggs, and towel in hand, he stares at a spot just past Treavor's head like a man who has seen evil, make a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, flicks another look at his guest (friend?) (something other?) and shakes his head again, more quickly this time.
Then mutters to himself. ]
Another round. Christ. Christ.
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Fuck, was that a shadow of horror? What did Treavor say, was it the thing about Alice’s shirt, or about not eating the eggs (shit, shit, did he offend the guy, leave him thinking there was something wrong with the perfectly probably good eggs?), or, shit, did talking about the shit he said about Alice-at-work’s clothes reminds Alice what a dick he’s got in his home, or, or…?
Fuck, Alice looks agitated. The whole room feels agitated. (Treavor gives Hope another careful pet, soothing just in case she’s caught onto the agitation too.)
Fuck, did Treavor break the guy?
Or—?
Wait.
Wait wait wait this is about?
Holy fuck. He could almost laugh, he could definitely crack a grin (it’s kind of… hey, it’s kind of cute, seeing the guy flustered like this, and it’s nothing big, just the matter of Treavor’s shirt, and shit, this guy’s fussy when he wants to be, and it doesn’t sit bad on him), only he doesn’t want Alice to think he’s mocking the guy or like… Not taking him seriously.
He’s. Pretty invested in this shirt thing. Treavor doesn’t see the big deal, but then Treavor pretty regularly wears not-quite-clean clothes and did this guy just suggest robbing the neighbors? Treavor can’t tell whether that’s Alice making a joke or Alice being serious, thinks probably it’s a mix of the two, thinks holy shit, this guy’s a perfect storm of cleanliness when he gets going, isn’t he?
And that muttering. Treavor doesn’t hate that muttering, either; has to wipe a growing grin from his face and nod, nod, tell himself that all right, maybe Treavor doesn’t give two fucks about rewearing the shirt, but if it’s gonna cause this kind of seismic upset with Alice, he’ll chill out on that suggestion.
And. Wear whatever Alice has got in his closet. Which might not be… so… bad? (Which, hey, Treavor’s got a jacket, his jacket, his style, so okay, he can survive any shirt for a little while.)
He nods again, watching Alice, offering imploring eyes in an attempt at letting the guy know he’s not gonna put up a fight on this one. That okay, hey, if this’ll make Alice’s life a little easier, Treavor’ll accept the fate of sporting a different shirt. ]
Hey, no need to get you into trouble with the neighbors, huh?
[ This time he doesn’t try to hide the half-grin. ]
…No burning my shirt, either. I like that shirt. Hey. It might reek, but that’s my reek. And that shirt and me’ve got memories.
[ Kind… of. He vaguely remembers where it came from, does remember he felt good about its vibe. Doesn’t remember much about the other nights he wore it, but last night’s pretty clear, and last night was pretty great, and hey, that shirt’s his official sitting-on-the-dock-with-Alice shirt, that’s important, and Treavor’s grin’s gone a little daft with sentiment. He cocks his head, fixes Alice with a meaningful stare. ]
Important memories, now.
Look, okay, deal time: I’ll wear… something. Whatever you’ve got. You can even pick it, and I won’t gripe unless it’s let's say over 35% orange. I can’t wear orange, fuck, nope. Otherwise I’ll hold my head up and endure whatever you've got, and you don’t burn my shirt, all right?
[ And, after a moment, he sticks out a hand, arm holding not quite steady. ]
Shake on it?
[ ...Oh. Wait.
Hands full. Alice's hands are very full. Shit.
Treavor draws his hand back, scratches his neck. ]
Okay, not shake, maybe. Nod on it?
[ Treavor nods. See? There. A lot easier. ]
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It all slips away from him with three words (important memories, now, he'll hear those words tracking him through every hour of the day), as though a soft and subtle knife eased deep and tenderly into his midsection, and oh, he's breathless. Stock-still, dumbstruck, and now exhaling the little bit of air left in his lungs in a small huff.
And the look on his face, for just a heartbeat, says: I didn't know anyone could cut so deep.
And. I didn't know I'd like it.
And. Fuck.
And something wordless, something inexpressible with words, that circumscribes a too-fast beating heart, and memories held dear and (no longer) private, and wonder at the notion that he could move five feet away from Treavor and still he managed to reach, and touch, and bury himself in parts of Alice that were until last night -
Last night.
Unreached. Untouched.
He's standing stock-still with a plate in one hand and a cup and a towel in the other, wanting to remember everything about this morning and last night and most of all this moment, because Treavor said he and that hideous, hideous shirt have memories.
Important memories.
And he spoke something out of hiding. He spoke something into possibility, into. Into maybe. Maybe, if Alice can (get his shit together) (get through this internship) (get away from his family?) (get his head on straight) sort himself out a little. Maybe this.
Maybe this.
((Somewhere deep, he recoils from the thought. An immediate mental reel of disgust. Maybe this? What? He and Treavor will live happily ever after? Treavor will endure his deviance, his wrongness, let him kiss, let him touch, let him screw -) (This is what happened. Last time. Last time, when he kept flinching in public from every touch. Last time, when he would suddenly find himself doused cold and limp, unable to keep up with what his partner wanted, angry with himself and angry with him and angry. Just angry. And. That painfully civil parting. How it didn't hurt at all; how Alice was already halfway out the door.)) (This.)
(This isn't that.)
This isn't that.
He moves and Treavor moves, and Treavor's hand in his feels like no hand has ever felt against any part of his body. The mess of black hair in light and how Treavor reached to comfort (comfort!) Hope (oh, he saw that, don't think he didn't see that, and he'll remember it for the rest of his life) when he suspected a momentary agitation, and how he fit perfectly in Alice's arms.
And how right now, though Alice hates that shirt, and how it's a mess of uncompromisingly dissonant color and pattern, and how it smells like harbor water and dumpster, and how it might be insidiously polyester, Treavor has said it's important because of memories (of him? of him. Of him.) So.
So the shirt stays. Forever. Does Treavor want it immediately? He'll go hand-wash it right now. Fuck. He'll even use the good detergent.
He almost starts to juggle dishes in a half-scramble to touch that hand again, not really thinking things through - thank god for Treavor having some presence of mind, because Alice has lost his own.
And he's nodding. Yes. Okay. No burning the shirt. (The important shirt, with important memories (now) (he's smiling, fuck, he must look like such an idiot) (important memories, now, he said, though.)
(...Also.)
Also.
That agreement to wear something of Alice's.
That shouldn't be causing a flicker of nervous anticipation, should it? That shouldn't be exciting.
Right?
(He's not going to think too much about it. If he doesn't dwell on it, he won't summon up the, the, ah. Problem. Caused so recently by the way Treavor touched him.) (Just be pragmatic about this. It's just a fucking shirt.)
(Like the other one is just a fucking shirt. With important memories.) ]
Your shirts are sacrosanct. I promise. [ Holy relics, and he'll be their Swiss Guard, their priest, their pilgrim all in one. ]
The bathroom's to the left of the stairs. The red toothbrush is for you. Use whatever else you need - please leave it alone if you don't have what it's used for.
[ Meaning, beard oil. Meaning, leave his beard-specific products alone. As he turns away, he asks no one in particular: ]
...Do I look like I can pull off orange?
[ No redhead on earth, Treavor.
And he's off with his dishes and his grin and the tenderest of knives bleeding him out. ]