Adam Clayton. A/E. 073 Light
Title: Light
Fandom: U2
Characters: Adam Clayton, The Edge
Prompt: 073 Light
Word Count: 975
Rating: PG-13/language
Author's Notes: Beta’d by Amy. I owe her much for improving this substantially. Comments always welcome. Thanks for reading.
Not that long ago, Adam would have been thrilled with having his own flat, such as it was - not lovely, but his. Now, though, he was indifferent. Mornings he lay on his old, narrow bed from his parents’ house. Afternoons he lay on the secondhand sofa. Nights he went out.
I can’t believe this is happening. I’m losing everything I thought I had.
If only he’d never known. If only Edge had never come into his life and shown him how sacred it could be. That was the only accurate word for it, even though Adam, by this point, was developing a special hatred for all things sacred. Even their first hesitant kisses had been something beautiful, and the acts and experiences that had followed had been clean, pure deeds that shone a fresh light onto Adam, and into his heart.
But that was the past, and Adam was trying to make himself forget that past, to turn from the possibilities of that light. Fuck the light. The light was a trap, a lie. Adam didn’t care anymore. That’s what he kept telling himself, even though hope stubbornly refused to die in his heart.
Fuck him. Fuck them all, but fuck him especially. How could he do this? I thought - I thought -
He didn’t want to think the word “love,” but he felt it, breathed it, knew it. He’d loved Edge, though he hadn’t found the courage to say it, and he’d felt sure that Edge loved him.
Fuck him. Fuck God. What kind of God requires such a thing? Even thinking about giving up music is half killing him.
In rare moments of fairness, Adam knew how much it had hurt Edge to break it off, how difficult it had been for him to initiate their heartfelt little talk.
What kind of God asks him to gut himself? What kind of God asks him to throw me away like so much rubbish?
The worst was when Adam caught himself with involuntary tears on his face. That was … well, it was scary. All of it was scary, everything, but the crying most of all.
He felt as though something terrible was going to happen to him. He hoped so. What had already happened was so terrible that only something worse could eradicate it. That was what he was looking for. Something worse. When they cut him off at one pub, he staggered to another. He couldn’t bring himself to pick a fight, but he hoped someone belligerent would take exception to him. He dressed as outrageously as he could, hoping to provoke. He affected a limp-wristed manner, hoping to offend.
There were entire nights he couldn’t remember. Once he’d woken in his parents’ back garden; he must’ve got there on autopilot. Sometimes he was sore or bruised. He was always running out of money. He never felt well; he didn’t eat enough, and he was half poisoning himself with drink.
This particular evening - he’d lost track of what day it was - he went down the stairs and out, as usual. He’d gone half a block, eyes on his feet, when something made him look up.
He saw him across the street, looking small at one end of a bench. Edge, freshly shaven, plainly dressed, hair grown a bit longer. Edge, slim and unhappy and so beautiful that Adam’s heart took a startling surge even as he froze where he stood.
Fuck, I can’t, I can’t.
But of course he could, could make himself cross and sit on the opposite end. He tried to be invulnerable, unreadable. It took a minute to gather the strength, to make the effort to ask. “Made your final decision?”
Edge nodded. “I think I have,” he said softly.
Fuck this, I won’t cry.
Edge went on, and Adam had to make an effort to hear his words, he was so starved for the sound of Edge’s voice, the sight of his lips. “You asked me what kind of God would ask me to throw my talent away,” he said. “What kind of God would torture me.” He turned his face toward Adam. “Not the God I believe in.” Those eyes, the eyes Adam had fallen in love with, were luminous and weary.
“What?”
“I was wrong.”
There was more, Adam thought. He thought he heard Edge’s soft voice continue, but his heart had stopped, he was cold, and for a minute he didn’t really hear or see anything. His head was spinning, but Edge’s hand was on his forearm. “Adam, are you all right?”
He couldn’t speak, but he tried to nod.
“I don’t blame you if you’re angry,” Edge was saying. “I know how much I’ve hurt you. What I’ve done … it was horrid. I’ve felt so confused, but I’ve made up my mind about what I want.”
“The band,” Adam managed. Me?
“The band and you, if you can forgive me.”
Adam’s stopped heart began to race; he felt his cold face turn hot, and for a moment he was sure that he was fainting. “Me,” he whispered, and a dark world brightened.
“Don’t cry, Adam. Don’t cry.”
Am I? I’m not, am I?
“We should go inside,” Edge said very gently. “Come on, let’s go in and talk about it, okay?”
Adam pulled himself together enough to speak. “Are you sure? Do you mean it?”
Edge nodded in that shy way of his. “I don’t believe it could all be … a trap, you know? It makes God a kind of monster, and … He’s not.”
“I kept wishing I’d at least told you how I felt,” Adam blurted, bursting with pain and relief.
“Let’s go inside. And tell each other.”
Fandom: U2
Characters: Adam Clayton, The Edge
Prompt: 073 Light
Word Count: 975
Rating: PG-13/language
Author's Notes: Beta’d by Amy. I owe her much for improving this substantially. Comments always welcome. Thanks for reading.
Not that long ago, Adam would have been thrilled with having his own flat, such as it was - not lovely, but his. Now, though, he was indifferent. Mornings he lay on his old, narrow bed from his parents’ house. Afternoons he lay on the secondhand sofa. Nights he went out.
I can’t believe this is happening. I’m losing everything I thought I had.
If only he’d never known. If only Edge had never come into his life and shown him how sacred it could be. That was the only accurate word for it, even though Adam, by this point, was developing a special hatred for all things sacred. Even their first hesitant kisses had been something beautiful, and the acts and experiences that had followed had been clean, pure deeds that shone a fresh light onto Adam, and into his heart.
But that was the past, and Adam was trying to make himself forget that past, to turn from the possibilities of that light. Fuck the light. The light was a trap, a lie. Adam didn’t care anymore. That’s what he kept telling himself, even though hope stubbornly refused to die in his heart.
Fuck him. Fuck them all, but fuck him especially. How could he do this? I thought - I thought -
He didn’t want to think the word “love,” but he felt it, breathed it, knew it. He’d loved Edge, though he hadn’t found the courage to say it, and he’d felt sure that Edge loved him.
Fuck him. Fuck God. What kind of God requires such a thing? Even thinking about giving up music is half killing him.
In rare moments of fairness, Adam knew how much it had hurt Edge to break it off, how difficult it had been for him to initiate their heartfelt little talk.
What kind of God asks him to gut himself? What kind of God asks him to throw me away like so much rubbish?
The worst was when Adam caught himself with involuntary tears on his face. That was … well, it was scary. All of it was scary, everything, but the crying most of all.
He felt as though something terrible was going to happen to him. He hoped so. What had already happened was so terrible that only something worse could eradicate it. That was what he was looking for. Something worse. When they cut him off at one pub, he staggered to another. He couldn’t bring himself to pick a fight, but he hoped someone belligerent would take exception to him. He dressed as outrageously as he could, hoping to provoke. He affected a limp-wristed manner, hoping to offend.
There were entire nights he couldn’t remember. Once he’d woken in his parents’ back garden; he must’ve got there on autopilot. Sometimes he was sore or bruised. He was always running out of money. He never felt well; he didn’t eat enough, and he was half poisoning himself with drink.
This particular evening - he’d lost track of what day it was - he went down the stairs and out, as usual. He’d gone half a block, eyes on his feet, when something made him look up.
He saw him across the street, looking small at one end of a bench. Edge, freshly shaven, plainly dressed, hair grown a bit longer. Edge, slim and unhappy and so beautiful that Adam’s heart took a startling surge even as he froze where he stood.
Fuck, I can’t, I can’t.
But of course he could, could make himself cross and sit on the opposite end. He tried to be invulnerable, unreadable. It took a minute to gather the strength, to make the effort to ask. “Made your final decision?”
Edge nodded. “I think I have,” he said softly.
Fuck this, I won’t cry.
Edge went on, and Adam had to make an effort to hear his words, he was so starved for the sound of Edge’s voice, the sight of his lips. “You asked me what kind of God would ask me to throw my talent away,” he said. “What kind of God would torture me.” He turned his face toward Adam. “Not the God I believe in.” Those eyes, the eyes Adam had fallen in love with, were luminous and weary.
“What?”
“I was wrong.”
There was more, Adam thought. He thought he heard Edge’s soft voice continue, but his heart had stopped, he was cold, and for a minute he didn’t really hear or see anything. His head was spinning, but Edge’s hand was on his forearm. “Adam, are you all right?”
He couldn’t speak, but he tried to nod.
“I don’t blame you if you’re angry,” Edge was saying. “I know how much I’ve hurt you. What I’ve done … it was horrid. I’ve felt so confused, but I’ve made up my mind about what I want.”
“The band,” Adam managed. Me?
“The band and you, if you can forgive me.”
Adam’s stopped heart began to race; he felt his cold face turn hot, and for a moment he was sure that he was fainting. “Me,” he whispered, and a dark world brightened.
“Don’t cry, Adam. Don’t cry.”
Am I? I’m not, am I?
“We should go inside,” Edge said very gently. “Come on, let’s go in and talk about it, okay?”
Adam pulled himself together enough to speak. “Are you sure? Do you mean it?”
Edge nodded in that shy way of his. “I don’t believe it could all be … a trap, you know? It makes God a kind of monster, and … He’s not.”
“I kept wishing I’d at least told you how I felt,” Adam blurted, bursting with pain and relief.
“Let’s go inside. And tell each other.”