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
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]