Is not a strike of lightning, is the crashing of a wave (a Pete/Carl fic)
When they had thought about it (obsessed about it, yearned for it, ached for it ) they never dreamed it would be like this. Their dreams were of tasting copper and salt, breathing from each other's lungs, too entranced ( afraid, afraid, afraid )to come apart, the air around them a mine field of unspoken ( shouted, hissed, sighed in barely audible resignation when they had been reduced to something almost not quite human, nothing more than a bundle of raw nerves and exhaustion and defeat ) words, teeth sinking on skin, such a pathetic, such an useless ( because they would always belong to each other, because they had never belonged to each other, because they would always belong to each other ) attempt at reclaiming, nails digging too deep, hands bruising too hard, less they betray them ( a barely touch on a cheek, the impossible softness of a wrist, everything that wasn't theirs anymore, everything that wasn't theirs anymore ), a sharp burn that was more invasion than connection, until they were finally drained ( empty, empty, empty ) and then drifting apart to ( the bare wall, the flat line, the misery that was ) their lives.
It wasn't like that. At all.
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Is not a strike of lightning, is the crashing of a wave. The realization washes over them, swells and retreats, as blue meets brown and salt meets salt, the air around them a blanket of unspoken ( whispered, sang, sighed in barely audible contentment when they had been elevated to something not quite human, a bundle of raw nerves and unlimited potential and defiant innocence ) words, soft lips that trailed softly over skin, an useless (because they would always belong to each other, because they had always belonged to each other, because they would always belong to each other ) attempt to reclaim ( because you don't reclaim what you never lost, because you don't reclaim what was always yours, because you don't reclaim that which owns you ).
Before, it had always been ( moans and pleads drowning out the voices in their heads that spoke of failure, the tenderness of fingertips erasing the sting of a needle, a trembling hand that stroked a tearful face to refrain the urge to clench into a fist ) a refuge. From the mediocrity of the world around them, from the hungry eyes that pried into their private lives. And, in the end, it was a refuge from each other, when they craved contact but feared words, when hands and tongues and nails and thighs became anchors to offer ( or to cling to, and they didn't know which one was they were doing, and they didn't know if there was a difference anymore )
Not now. Now, this doesn't have to be something else, the brushing of lips is not a replacement for the words they can't say, the stroke of a hand is not a substitute for the amends they can't make, the soft touch behind an ear is not a shared code for the forgiveness they can't word. Now, touches and kisses and moans and sighs can be touches and kisses and moans and sighs ( and their entire universe of meanings and the new meanings they will create together, each and every one of them speaking of inocence and love ).
It's not an epiphany; like everything else between them now, it's slow, peaceful, unhurried, so they don't know when it finds the words to wrap itself around it, but at some point ( at the barely touch at a cheek, at the impossible softness of a wrist, everything that was forever theirs, everything that was forever them ), they understand it.
That was escaping. This is going home.
It wasn't like that. At all.
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Is not a strike of lightning, is the crashing of a wave. The realization washes over them, swells and retreats, as blue meets brown and salt meets salt, the air around them a blanket of unspoken ( whispered, sang, sighed in barely audible contentment when they had been elevated to something not quite human, a bundle of raw nerves and unlimited potential and defiant innocence ) words, soft lips that trailed softly over skin, an useless (because they would always belong to each other, because they had always belonged to each other, because they would always belong to each other ) attempt to reclaim ( because you don't reclaim what you never lost, because you don't reclaim what was always yours, because you don't reclaim that which owns you ).
Before, it had always been ( moans and pleads drowning out the voices in their heads that spoke of failure, the tenderness of fingertips erasing the sting of a needle, a trembling hand that stroked a tearful face to refrain the urge to clench into a fist ) a refuge. From the mediocrity of the world around them, from the hungry eyes that pried into their private lives. And, in the end, it was a refuge from each other, when they craved contact but feared words, when hands and tongues and nails and thighs became anchors to offer ( or to cling to, and they didn't know which one was they were doing, and they didn't know if there was a difference anymore )
Not now. Now, this doesn't have to be something else, the brushing of lips is not a replacement for the words they can't say, the stroke of a hand is not a substitute for the amends they can't make, the soft touch behind an ear is not a shared code for the forgiveness they can't word. Now, touches and kisses and moans and sighs can be touches and kisses and moans and sighs ( and their entire universe of meanings and the new meanings they will create together, each and every one of them speaking of inocence and love ).
It's not an epiphany; like everything else between them now, it's slow, peaceful, unhurried, so they don't know when it finds the words to wrap itself around it, but at some point ( at the barely touch at a cheek, at the impossible softness of a wrist, everything that was forever theirs, everything that was forever them ), they understand it.
That was escaping. This is going home.