OPEN RP POST

[loyalless]

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[plantdaddy]

[ Nothing that Treavor says after the word 'round' really registers. Perhaps in the vaguest sense, Alice is receiving the comments and committing them to memory, and perhaps later he will reflect upon the apology granted to him for the insults and taunts and aggravations he's endured.

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.

[sweatycoward]

[ Treavor was watching the eggs and he was watching nothing and he was watching Hope, and by the time he looks at Alice again, he sees there’s something very… Wrong? Distressing?

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. ]

[plantdaddy]

[ He starts to argue. He doesn't care what memories Treavor has with that shirt, because it's dirty and there's no pride to be taken from smelling like a landfill. There's already a script in his head, a dialogue about Treavor, and how Treavor needs to have more respect for himself, he needs to take better care of himself, and if he's not going to do it, then for fuck's sake, let Alice help -

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. ]