I finished the 3rd chapter for my U2 fic!!
And I am happy!! Thanks to Rogue Writer, lardencelover, and anyone and everyone in the U2 slash community @ fanfic.net. Really picked me up, and I banged out the third chapter, which is far from good, but its satisfactory. Also thanks to Te, for her Smallville fic, Whosever Loveth Maketh A Lie, and thanks to Basingstoke's Five Things That Aren't True fics that had a major influence. lol.
The desert winds are hot, stifling in their sheer intensity, but when night comes, a cool, unobtrusive hand settles on the heat, bathing the air with nice, delicate sheets of wind. Here Adam dreams beside his friend.
He thinks that maybe the dreams are metaphorical, because otherwise, why dream the same dream over and over again? Why pound something into your subconscious repeatedly, if it wasn’t important? He dreams of the desert salt, opening his mouth and tasting the dry crystals saturating his tongue, and opening his eyes to see the barren land, the sun rising like a red giant from beyond the dunes of sand.
He walks along, alone, bare feet wriggling into the grains beneath his toes. He is always barefoot, and he always seems to have lost his shirt, and the only article of clothing he has on are the jeans hanging on his too thin hips. He feels old, and fragile, like he might break or be swept away if the wind blew too hard. He wouldn’t be surprised if one day he did.
He’ll look to his right, always, always to his right, just after he’s passed the third great mound of desert sand, and crouched behind there will be Larry, golden and glistening from the torch of the sun. In reality, he knows that Larry is actually sleeping to his right, that if he were to reach out in his sleep, he would touch both the Larry in his dreams and the Larry beside him.
When he passes the third dune, Larry is still there. There, like always, bending on one knee with his head bowed, and some inner reason knows that there’s no way Adam could see Larry’s lashes fluttering with every shallow breath Larry took, but he *could*. Because this was a *dream*.
The next part only reinforces that it is a dream, and Adam always wishes with a bright flare of need in his stomach that it isn’t, because anything so perfect could not happen in real life. No matter how much he wants it, and represses the feeling.
There’s a slight shift in temperature here, in the heat that makes Adam’s palms sweaty – and he tells himself it is only the heat, not some foolish emotion that speeds up his heart and makes his palms slick – when Larry looks up.
Everything is just so crystal clear.
Larry’s eyes are violet. And that’s odd, because they were never violet before. And this time, when Larry smiles, a hidden light lights up his face, and Larry’s lips are bruised indigo. Golden and violet and indigo and lashes fluttering with every shaky breath, he reminds Adam of a wilting flower in the desert.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. Because this dream isn’t real, because Larry would freak if Adam were to look at him with such beauty in his eyes in reality, and this is all about metaphors and what they mean, isn’t it?
In real life, there’s a war going on. In real life, Adam can’t even so much as touch Larry tenderly without being looked at with contempt.
So in the dream, Adam reaches out like he always does, and touches what he can’t in reality. And in reality, he always reaches out, as he does in the dream, but he never really touches the Larry of flesh and bone. Only the dream.
Only the dream.
Those lashes flutter, but not womanly like. On Larry, and to Adam’s eyes, it is always so masculine, a sign of vulnerability that makes Adam want to protect him even more than he already does.
And here Adam kneels in front of his friend, eye to eye, and reaches out and kisses him with his hands. He touches Larry’s golden eyebrows, watches the violet orbs of his eyes flicker and feels an actual physical pull to want to reach out and *touch* those eyes, never mind the perverseness of the act. Anywhere, anyway, he touches Larry, it is only intimate.
When Adam leans in to kiss Larry’s soft mouth, he always wakes up. And he wakes up hovering above a sleeping Larry, his quiet little breathy snores fanning sweetly up into Adam’s face.
In reality, it is easier to ignore the feelings and tell himself they are only because of the war and loneliness. It’s easier to think of Larry as just Larry, not some desert angel kneeling in front of him, open and willing to give the world while conveying love with his eyes.
This night, he finds it harder to go back to sleep. He doesn’t know if he’ll want to wake up again if he does.
Eventually, Adam does fall asleep, and when he wakes up, Larry is kneeling in front of him, hand poised just above his shoulder.
I was just going to wake you, Larry says.
Adam blinks, the sun filtering in through the tent flap.
Right, he fakes a yawn. We have work to do.
And Larry nods. Adam doesn’t know, but Larry has good dreams too.
And at the end of the day, Adam still can’t figure out what the damn dream *means*.
The desert winds are hot, stifling in their sheer intensity, but when night comes, a cool, unobtrusive hand settles on the heat, bathing the air with nice, delicate sheets of wind. Here Adam dreams beside his friend.
He thinks that maybe the dreams are metaphorical, because otherwise, why dream the same dream over and over again? Why pound something into your subconscious repeatedly, if it wasn’t important? He dreams of the desert salt, opening his mouth and tasting the dry crystals saturating his tongue, and opening his eyes to see the barren land, the sun rising like a red giant from beyond the dunes of sand.
He walks along, alone, bare feet wriggling into the grains beneath his toes. He is always barefoot, and he always seems to have lost his shirt, and the only article of clothing he has on are the jeans hanging on his too thin hips. He feels old, and fragile, like he might break or be swept away if the wind blew too hard. He wouldn’t be surprised if one day he did.
He’ll look to his right, always, always to his right, just after he’s passed the third great mound of desert sand, and crouched behind there will be Larry, golden and glistening from the torch of the sun. In reality, he knows that Larry is actually sleeping to his right, that if he were to reach out in his sleep, he would touch both the Larry in his dreams and the Larry beside him.
When he passes the third dune, Larry is still there. There, like always, bending on one knee with his head bowed, and some inner reason knows that there’s no way Adam could see Larry’s lashes fluttering with every shallow breath Larry took, but he *could*. Because this was a *dream*.
The next part only reinforces that it is a dream, and Adam always wishes with a bright flare of need in his stomach that it isn’t, because anything so perfect could not happen in real life. No matter how much he wants it, and represses the feeling.
There’s a slight shift in temperature here, in the heat that makes Adam’s palms sweaty – and he tells himself it is only the heat, not some foolish emotion that speeds up his heart and makes his palms slick – when Larry looks up.
Everything is just so crystal clear.
Larry’s eyes are violet. And that’s odd, because they were never violet before. And this time, when Larry smiles, a hidden light lights up his face, and Larry’s lips are bruised indigo. Golden and violet and indigo and lashes fluttering with every shaky breath, he reminds Adam of a wilting flower in the desert.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. Because this dream isn’t real, because Larry would freak if Adam were to look at him with such beauty in his eyes in reality, and this is all about metaphors and what they mean, isn’t it?
In real life, there’s a war going on. In real life, Adam can’t even so much as touch Larry tenderly without being looked at with contempt.
So in the dream, Adam reaches out like he always does, and touches what he can’t in reality. And in reality, he always reaches out, as he does in the dream, but he never really touches the Larry of flesh and bone. Only the dream.
Only the dream.
Those lashes flutter, but not womanly like. On Larry, and to Adam’s eyes, it is always so masculine, a sign of vulnerability that makes Adam want to protect him even more than he already does.
And here Adam kneels in front of his friend, eye to eye, and reaches out and kisses him with his hands. He touches Larry’s golden eyebrows, watches the violet orbs of his eyes flicker and feels an actual physical pull to want to reach out and *touch* those eyes, never mind the perverseness of the act. Anywhere, anyway, he touches Larry, it is only intimate.
When Adam leans in to kiss Larry’s soft mouth, he always wakes up. And he wakes up hovering above a sleeping Larry, his quiet little breathy snores fanning sweetly up into Adam’s face.
In reality, it is easier to ignore the feelings and tell himself they are only because of the war and loneliness. It’s easier to think of Larry as just Larry, not some desert angel kneeling in front of him, open and willing to give the world while conveying love with his eyes.
This night, he finds it harder to go back to sleep. He doesn’t know if he’ll want to wake up again if he does.
Eventually, Adam does fall asleep, and when he wakes up, Larry is kneeling in front of him, hand poised just above his shoulder.
I was just going to wake you, Larry says.
Adam blinks, the sun filtering in through the tent flap.
Right, he fakes a yawn. We have work to do.
And Larry nods. Adam doesn’t know, but Larry has good dreams too.
And at the end of the day, Adam still can’t figure out what the damn dream *means*.