lord treavor pendleton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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
Neither alone, neither insensible, neither left cold. Every motion is an ask and answer, a communion, and there was only one other thing like this in the world: Treavor moving to his side, and Alice's arm easing around unfamiliar shoulders.
Were they unfamiliar.
Is this unfamiliar.
Doesn't he know the invitation in the velvet brush of a parting mouth against his own and how to answer with a gentle deepening? The slightest change in pressure knocks him dizzy, sends the world reeling around him, leaving him certain he'll fall into nonexistence without the arms around him (his gravitational center, his absolute core, this man, and who's to say he isn't falling, and hard?) (Who's to say he didn't already fall.)
It's an explosion of stars behind his eyes, and the shudder of the earth waking (or that's Treavor's chest rising and falling against his own, or Treavor's heart thrumming almost indiscernible from his own, or that's someone's low sound, and it doesn't matter whose throat began the moan, because it's a shared reverb when Alice's lips part over Treavor's.
But it's not unfamiliar at all.
Hasn't he dreamed about this his whole life?
To be complete in himself. To come to another complete self, offer all of and only himself - and be welcomed. To be part of some greater whole. To move effortlessly together.
It breaks him. Of course it breaks him. Inevitable: he had to fall to his knees in fervor before this altar (Treavor, there's all and only Treavor, and never will be anything again as vital as him, certain as the ever-outward expanding of the universe and sunrise and breathing, oh, breathing. There will never be anyone held in Alice's eyes like this man.)
He had to break before he could heal, and ease, and breathe steady. Before the communion and tenderness granted to him like benevolence, like a blessing, miraculous, could be anything but wrenching. But he does ease, trembling; it's as simple as a sigh, and a winding of his arms, and a closer press of his body. An unfraught, rapturous moment when all of life seems to inhabit and be inhabited by him, and luckily, luckily, all of life is held on the perfect curve of Treavor's mouth.
He'd like to linger. He'd like to stay here in this sweetness for the rest of his life, occupying himself with nothing but the wonder of movement and movement, his awestruck regard fixed forever on the man kissing him so ecstatically.
(But he asked for one kiss.)
(But the joint is burning his fingers.)
(But life intrudes.)
(Maybe. Maybe he can ask for another.)
The parting is slow, not an abandonment - a caress of Treavor's cheek, and a touch of forehead to forehead, a silent 'wait, please, wait' - and then Alice reaches back to put the joint down. And then, as though he never left. As though there was no momentary loss, he's settled in once more, eyes fixed on what's held his focus for weeks - this incomparable beauty.
His smile the same wavered smile Treavor gave him on the other side of kissing him - as though in kissing, the expression was passed between them.
Alice's heart gently flayed.
Alice's heart, held out in both hands. ]
Thank you.
[ Hushed, reverent, still they feel inadequate for his gratitude. What he feels deserves something better than those paltry words. ]
Do you know how extraordinary you are?
no subject
It isn’t severance; the press of Alice’s forehead assures this. And Alice wouldn’t leave him. Alice wouldn’t drop away or break off without warning, and didn’t they hold that kiss together, wasn’t that drift of kisses - brief and yet momentous, lasting-like-forever kisses - a giving they shared? Something they crafted together, so of course there’s no abrupt end, and even the end feels more like a shit into another moment, another phase. Not ending, but continuation.
And there’re those eyes watching him (perfect, perfect blue, when Treavor’s never given much of a shit about blue eyes or any color eyes before; Treavor can’t remember seeing blue eyes or remember anyone else’s eyes, at all, that shit’s never stuck with him, but Christ, he could picture Alice’s eyes from hours away in an instant), and doesn’t that smile feel intimately familiar, and doesn’t he love it on Alice’s face? Loves every expression on that perfect goddamn face, and he could kiss it again, maybe he will kiss Alice and Alice’s face again, but for now it’s enough to watch his guy, letting his sight trace every contour of that face, registering every shifting glow of gorgeous auburn hair.
Everything about this space is dire and lasting. Rare and perdurable.
And there’s gratitude between them, what feels like thanks offered to one another and to the so-often-bullshit circumstances that drew them here. A thanks for what finally united them; a thanks for this perfect, this uninterrupted afternoon.
It wouldn’t be possible with anyone else. The universe wouldn’t align for this peace with any other person.
And Treavor is smiling and shaking his head a little, Treavor knows his eyes are stinging but they were already burning, right, and how could he have known this would happen? That anyone - that this guy, who makes him feel so fucking good - could grace him with words like that?
A fact he’s known for years, maybe decades: He isn’t extraordinary. Well. An extraordinary disappointment, maybe. Everything in his life has shown it, everyone’s told him as much.
But even thinking that feels like an insult to Alice. Who would never bend truth or speak lies at Treavor. Who only offers what he knows. Who Treavor would trust with the whole of his life, and his heart and his soul.
And Treavor’s smiling, a quirk at the corner of his mouth, his expression largely overwhelmed and grateful. ]
I know how good you make me feel.
I know how wonderful you are, or I’m starting to get an idea.
You make me float, did you know that? When you say my name or look at me or…
I’ve never been kissed like that.
[ He cocks his head slightly, nods, eyes never leaving Alice’s, his focus linked with his guy’s. ]
You’re perfect.
[ And then - because he wants to; and then, lingering over the name— ]
Alice.
My Alice, best guy.
[ And his smile’s grown daft, wondering at that name and the irrefutable, assuring truth of the man before him. ]
You look at me, and everything changes.
[ And it's the best fucking thing in the world. ]
no subject
The insistent beat of his pulse, throb of not-so-distant arousal, the contented warmth spilling through him like honey, and the flutter of elation. His arms shift and there's a boy (a man, Treavor, his, fuck, that's his someone, his person, his other, the-) still there, still wound inextricably with him. Legs tangled with legs, his hip against a pelvis and a hip against his pelvis (try not to focus long on that, on contact), stomach against his own, chest pressing and pressing and pressing his and they're breathing the same, but Alice can't recall trying to match Treavor's breathing.
(His body, that always felt too tall, too gangling, doesn't feel utterly out of place now beside a body from a similar mold, like clothes that fit well and not just well enough.
And he remembers the first morning, the thought of their similar but not the same hands, and how he had wondered if Treavor's would make his own beautiful. He wonders now if Treavor's form against his own makes him beautiful.
It makes him feel beautiful.)
It doesn't seem possible that there was someone so perfect all this time, who would fit so exactly against him. It seems extraordinary. It also seems impossibly natural.
Everything about Treavor has felt impossibly natural, from the moment Alice looked into his eyes on that harbor. He thinks he should tell him so, but Treavor is speaking, and Alice wants to heed him. He wants to give him every remaining energetic burst, every caress of fingertips - these, along his throat, his shoulder, his bared arm. He'd like to argue that he isn't perfect, that perfection is an unfair expectation, or maybe ascertain Treavor knows he means 'perfect for Treavor', and not to hold Alice up on some pedestal from which he's likely to fall.
But he says something else, and Alice freezes, stricken, his eyes seeking (night sky) (black water) (darkness behind starlight) Treavor's (and that's also perfect, neither up nor down but just there at his own eye level, always accessible should he need to fall into them again.)
My Alice, he said.
And without his safeguards. Without his walls. Here, high, on this perfect day, Alice looks across the space of an inch or two into the dark eyes of his other, his one (yes, that's -)
Treavor.
(Fuck.) (He's.)
Yeah. Yeah. He's the one.
And Alice thinks: It was always going to be you, wasn't it?
And thinks: Am I? Can I be?
He pauses time; it deserves pausing, and a kiss offered like a gift, pressed to Treavor's forehead.
He feels good. He feels good, and he doesn't think it's the weed. He doesn't think there's anything in the world that will make him feel as good as Treavor does, and that's something he wants to commit to memory. Something that needs to be spoken. ]
Nothing makes me feel like you do. If I look at you and make a change, it's because you alter the world for me. Make it brighter. Make it charming, and soft, and full of wonder.
That's important, Treavor. You're important to me. And - I can't promise it will be uncomplicated. But I think there's something here worth chasing.
[ He shifts a little, and his arm winds around the other man once more. Alice smiles again, though his voice lowers, and each speaks of something edging shy. ]
Worth revising my five-year plan.
[ His ten-year plan. His life plan. Fuck. ]
Because you - you say 'my Alice', and I find I quite like my name. And I. I'd like to be yours.
I'd like that.
no subject
If anyone else had mentioned it, Treavor might have laughed. Would have laughed. Because anyone who pieces out their future that way’s probably a stodgy sort of nerd who’s got no room for improvisation or fun (or a going-nowhere would-be-ruffian), and because setting out plans is a good way of calling down failure. Anyway, what’s the fun in a plan? And what’s the fucking point?
It’s what he’s declared time and again. What he said when he forfeited required classes for the sake of scattered electives; what he told himself when he quit attending half his classes, when he spent all his time with his camera or a revolving group of sort-of-friends at sort-of-parties. What he told Sheldon when Sheldon wouldn’t shut the fuck up about ‘hey but what’re you going to do anyway.’ What he told any date who asked, before he stopped attempting dates and stuck to hook-ups.
It’s what he told his family (in softer terms, often mumbled and half-lost) again and again, wishing they’d fuck off with their ‘now Treavor you need to do something’ bullshit, their ‘it needs to be a respectable something,’ their ‘if you had an ounce of spine you wouldn’t be back here in New York, taking jobs from our hands.’ (Eventually they did fuck off with that. Eventually a while ago, when it became clear he in fact wasn’t going to find a plan or make a plan or manage to stick to anything beyond the day-to-day of his not-really-job at his family’s firm.
It isn’t really better this way, with them resigned to his bottom-of-the-barrel place within their watch. But at least it means a little less griping from them.)
This is different, though, the way everything with Alice is different. Alice mentions a five-year plan, and Treavor glimpses a flash of meticulous calculations, of steps and maneuvers planned just-so. And what Treavor hears is Alice - painstaking in his designs, very nearly fussy (okay, maybe pretty actually kind of fussy) in everything he does - offering to open space for Treavor, to speak into possible being a possible future together.
Which is a brave thing and a generous thing to offer. Which sets Treavor surprised and smiling, attempting quiet encouragement even before he speaks. (The guy should knows that Treavor understands. That treavor doesn’t take his meaning lightly.)
(True, revising any plan around Treavor isn’t a good idea. Treavor’s a mess and he knows it, and he knows Alice should know it, and probably Alice does know it when the sun strikes a little less perfect and weed’s not a part of the equation.
Should he warn Alice? Maybe he should warn Alice. Or, no, why drag graveled details into this sun-struck afternoon? He’ll warn Alice another time, if he needs to. If Alice somehow hasn’t worked it out for himself.
And anyway. It strikes Treavor that he might like to live in this idea right now. Would like to curl himself in the thought that Alice might be inclined to make room for Treavor in his life.
It might not be so bad being part of a five-year plan. So long as that plan is Alice’s, and so long as it involves the two of them together.)
(Fuck, what would it be like to look ahead at anything beyond a roil of question marks and nothing?
What would it be like to look ahead every day, even on the darkest days, and see Alice waiting always, and Treavor rising to meet him, Treavor working day after day to meet him better, and prove worthy of this change of plans?)
This guy is wonderful.
Treavor’s guy is wonderful. ]
Hey, that’s good. Because I like your name a lot. It’s got a good sound. It conjures a great guy.
Really sticks with you.
[ It’s true he’d liked Alice’s name from day one, even if he hadn’t given the guy any kind of chance.
It’s true that since the day he awoke on Alice’s sofa, Treavor’s found himself reciting the name, relishing the name at odd moments, just to feel its form in his mouth and feel the world turned bright with his syllables.
And, speaking with appreciation, eyes slipping half-shut as he lingers in the sounds— ]
Alice.
[ That’s his thumb brushing Alice’s jawline, that’s his forefinger brushed the side of Alice’s face, deliberate and soft. That’s Treavor smiling warmly, reassuring, and yes, maybe smitter. ]
My Alice.
Definitely my Alice.
[ A small sigh, a nuzzle, and then he's seeking Alice's eyes again. ]
Complicated I can do. Complicated’s about all I know…
As long as it’s not too much for you.
[ A flash of concern, and his caress pauses, turns to a gentle hold. ]
I don’t want to make too much trouble for my best and only guy.
[ It feels good to say. Feels like relief and joy to think, the same way that hearing Alice call Treavor important thrilled him. ]
But hey, if you’re up for the challenge, I bet we can work it out.
[ A pause and a smile, a moment as he brushes his thumb along that jawline, then moves that thumb - his own thumb - to his lips, presses a kiss to his thumb, brushes his thumb at Alice’s jaw. And he cocks his head. ]
You’d really change your plan for me?
I don’t… I’m not big on planning, myself. But I’d like to be a part of yours. I’d like that a whole, whole lot.
no subject
(People routinely ask to touch his fucking beard like it's a pet he's carrying around. And some people don't ask at all, just dive right in, Alice snapping What the fuck?! and throwing a hand up to knock the intruder off his face, and oh, okay, he's the crazy one. It isn't that he minds people touching his beard - if he minded, he'd shave it off.
The same story for his hair. People (women, why is it always women?) want to play with it like he's a Barbie doll, and sometimes he'll sit and let them braid it with his eyes rolled and his mouth set in grim irritation, sure. People (men) want to pull on it while fucking.
Sure. All right.
If he minded, he'd cut it off.
He doesn't mind.
But it does nothing for him.
It. Did nothing for him.
This does something for him. How Treavor had his hand wound in Alice's hair, not pulling, not knotted or yanking. Treavor's thumb with the memory of a kiss on its pad, Treavor's every perfect touch leaves him shaken.
(There's something niggling at him, gnawing at the edges of his pleasure.)
He wants to guide Treavor's hand over every part of himself, echo every touch he ever endured with passive disinterest. He wants to know how easily he can be sundered now, can bow into a palm against his chest, into the coaxing of a fingertip at his throat.
(Something Treavor said, about.)
He wants to melt, and kiss some more, and maybe Treavor will let him gently - gently! - catch his lower lip between his teeth.
All of this, because today is lovely, and he's definitely verging towards stoned now that his heart is starting to calm itself down - and they're together, finally together, and Treavor is the One.
(That's it. The thing Treavor said.)
Alice reaches up, seeks Treavor's hand with his own and pulls it down, out of distraction range, and hums a sound: a man trying to shake off thrall, even if his eyes still track Treavor's. He said.
He said. I don't want to make too much trouble.
Alice's smile fades as the entirety of meaning sinks in, as his heart shatters down the center. (The desires, the lethargy, the dizzied warmth notions recede, and the world clarifies a little; he wishes it wouldn't. He wishes they could have held in that perfect sphere of softness just a little longer, but Treavor thinks Alice meant he's the complication, and that's gutting.
And Treavor doesn't understand, but needs to know, that Alice is the complication. And that's gutting, too.)
Softly, he manages: ]
Bunny.
[ As if to say, No, you've got it all wrong.
Or, How could you think that I meant you.
Or, Do you know how much I adore you. You wonder. You startling miracle.
He relinquishes the hand in favor of stroking his fingertips along Treavor's hairline, and then offering a cupped palm against his cheek. ]
I'm the complication.
[ He pauses, considering. Treavor drinks. Heavily. And that's a complication, and it's trouble, and it's something they need to deal with. Eventually.
But what he's bringing to Treavor's door is worse, isn't it? ]
I can't be out. [ He didn't mean to blurt that, even quietly, even with the pain lurking in his throat, so hurriedly, he adds: ] Not yet. But if you can bear with me. Wait for me to pass the bar -
[ Treavor knows, he remembers, that his life is handed to him. He also remembers telling Treavor the reason for the internship was to get out from under his father's financial hold.
He shouldn't have pressed this forward. He shouldn't have kissed Treavor. And he shouldn't be so frightened now of what could happen, of the absence of a safety net, of the lack of money.
But he's young. And he's terrified of all the walls and pyres that exist beyond his line of sight.
...And despite that. Despite that. He'd take this small risk, because Treavor is something worth chasing. Alice's eyes hold all that longing; if he can reach the finish line, then maybe. Maybe Treavor is what he can have.
Bar. Junior partnership. Treavor. The five-month plan. Three, if he pushes. Fuck. He'll push. For Treavor, he'll push. ]
Could you give me a few months of 'complicated'? Please, I.
[ It occurs to him belatedly that Treavor could very well say 'no'. He'd be right to say 'no'. There's no reason why Treavor should accommodate this unreasonable cowardice, this spinelessness, this.
He closes his eyes, holding on a moment longer to the nearness of the body against him, his hand slipping to Treavor's shoulder. And in the space between what he said and what Treavor will say, before there's an ending or a continuing, wreckage or relief, he shoves aside everything else, keeping only the warmth of a body, and the sound of blues from his phone, and the sunlight, and the smell of plants and weed and Treavor and himself, and the subtle sway of the hammock.
Just one more heartbeat of it, where the heart keeping time was in love, and he was smart enough to commit that to memory. ]
no subject
Treavor doesn’t know where the fade came from, or how to ease that smile back.
Or. Alice doesn’t want that ease right now. Alice is telling him something in that hum, in the way he’s taken Treavor’s hand. Not tearing away Treavor’s touch, but asking for a moment, a pause. A space to let in some unknown word or thought or subject, and if there’s anything Alice needs to address, Treavor won’t bar him. Will only watch quietly, making certain his eyes never waver, making certain Alice knows Treavor’s here no matter what.
He wants, he badly wants Alice to feel safeguarded and bolstered. Wants Alice to feel even a part of the security that Treavor feels when this guy holds him, brushes against him, heeds any word he says.
It means something that Treavor finds himself at a precipice, not knowing the shape of the could-be-trouble ahead and yet not flinching away, not trying to bat off the inevitable, not shrinking inside even a little. This is a wherewithal he rarely finds. A strength granted by the man who holds his hand with such care, who looks at if his heart’s been wrenched.
And Treavor wants to fix it.
And Treavor has to wait. Listen. (And if what Alice has to say is hard to hear, he’ll listen anyway, and register its every tone.)
So he keeps his quiet, expression carefully attentive, trying not to show worry (he can’t help a little bit of worry; Alice looks so stricken), doing his best not to impose or do more than curl his fingers just slightly, so slightly against Alice’s hand.
(And Alice calls him ’Bunny.’ Only ‘Bunny,’ and Treavor loves the sound of it, how he could be, how he is Alice’s bunny.
At the same time, Alice calls him ‘Bunny,’ and the word seems stark, alone; a correction with a note of sorrow, and again Treavor wants to reach out, hold his hand over Alice’s heart and offer healing.)
Hard not to melt into the drift of those fingers at his hair; impossible to wholly muffle a choked sound at Alice’s words: ’I’m the complication.’ Words fired with pains Treavor doesn’t know the outlines of. Words that ache to hear, because what Treavor reads in those words is blame, is a bearing down beneath some burden this man should never need to take alone.
Treavor tries to be still, but his hand moves to Alice’s cheek, offering quiet, quiet caresses in kind. (He can’t let Alice hang there without succor of some kind. He can’t watch Alice suffer distant. He won’t.) And he hears Alice’s words (and he hates the history they whisper, everything that’s conspired to leave Alice severed from so much, everything that means Alice has to hide (it’s his father, isn’t it? or his father’s part of it; Alice said something about, about wanting to break away, support himself, and maybe this is why, okay, okay, it sucks, fuck Alice’s dad if that’s what it is, but it’ll be okay, Treavor’ll help make sure Alice gets through things okay). His poor fucking guy. His poor fucking guy, who’s go so much shit at his shoulders.
Treavor wraps his arms around Alice, tight, tighter. Speaks softly— ]
It’s okay.
[ And then just holds Alice, nudging at his head, his hand stroking steady assurance at Alice’s neck.
This goddamn guy’s carrying too much. Treavor’s poor fuckin, beautiful goddamn guy. ]
Alice, hey. That’s not so bad. It’s not even that complicated. Not for me.
[ He traces a thumb from Alice’s temple to his cheek. Nudges the guy’s head again, hums a little lilting sound and places a light, light kiss against Alice’s hair. ]
I’d take a few years of complicated if you wanted it. Needed it.
[ Another kiss to the head. ]
There’s no rush, okay guy? As long as I’m here with you and you’re with me. You don’t have to worry.
[ Nudge, nudge. ]
Actually if you could tamp down the worry, that’d be pretty great. You’ve got enough shit to deal with without wondering if I… Hey. I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll take complicated with you over easy trails without you, you know? Any day of any month of any year.
That’s a Treavor Pendleton promise.
[ If Alice allows, he’ll take Alice’s hand carefully, almost deftly, and kiss the back of it once, then again, seeking Alice’s eyes after. ]
And I’m not gonna rush you. I don’t want to rush you.
I’ve got my Alice. That’s all that matters. Me and my beautiful guy.
A beautiful goddamn guy and his Bunny.