Fic: The Book of Love: Volume II (1/1)
Title: The Book of Love: Volume II
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 1,255
Summary: The sun sets. They don’t. For weepingnaiad on her birthday. Sequel to The Book of Love: Volume I. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to The Magnetic Fields.
Author’s Notes: For the wonderful weepingnaiad, on her birthday; when you said you wanted a drabble with a theme of “sunset,” I got really excited, because I had this going, and it fit rather perfectly with your request :) It was intended as a sequel to this, but it fits if you want another part of it - if not, just take the context of Jim and Bones being kinda-sorta newly weds at the point of this story, still adjusting, still schmoopily in love :D It’s heavily introspective and very, very fluffy and romantic; apologies if it’s over the top - hopefully you’ll like it anyway. Also: here's the particular cover of this song that inspired this part, by Nataly Dawn: The Book of Love. Anyway: Happy Birthday love - hope it’s just as wonderful as you are <3
The Book of Love: Volume I
The Book of Love: Volume II
It’s in his nature, sometimes, to shield himself, to shy away from the things he loves the most. Part of it’s self-protection; most of it’s common sense. The bright and beautiful things his heart latches on to, that his soul gets tangled up inside; they burn like the ending of time and the center of space and it’s painful, blinding: it demands a surrender that Leonard’s long since lost the folly, the abandon to give himself wholly to. And sometimes that’s harder, he thinks -- harder than the pain that might come if he’d give in -- the knowledge that there are pieces of himself that he holds close, holds back even now; sometimes that hurts more than any betrayal he can imagine, any loss he can fathom.
But he wants this, wants this more than he wants air in his lungs or blood in his veins; needs it more than a man needs anything, than a man knows how to need. This is the call of the universe as it draws against the very depths of him; this is the stars in the sky and the salt of the sea -- this is his world, now, and he’s grateful in ways he’ll never fully understand, in ways he doesn’t deserve, in ways he only knows because of the warmth, the tight ache that fills him in moments like these, when he breathes deep of the musk, the sweat and sunshine clinging to Jim’s hair, and realizes that Jesus -- this thing they have, that he has, is something that no one else will ever know, that every other soul in existence has to find a way to live without.
And it’s heavy, perfect in its own mournful sort of way; and sometimes, just sometimes, it still puts the fear of God in him -- shakes him hard, down to his core.
He’s sprawled slow, languid against the grass, laid bare beneath the skies that bore him, sheltered him, gave him life and would take it back just as graciously, would lay him to rest one day beneath their churning currents, their endless reach. They’d take him now, he thinks, except that Jim is there, draped across him, and somehow Leonard knows that he’s safe, protected from whatever the whole of existence wants to demand of him, wants to throw his way; because Jim -- for reasons Leonard still doesn’t comprehend, reasons he’d doubt if he didn’t mirror them himself, didn’t hold them closer than his next breath -- for some reason, Jim loves him, and Jim won’t ever leave him to face the world alone again. And in that instant -- that very moment where he knows that simple, impossible truth with a certainty that could swallow the whole of the world with its gravity, its force -- his chest shudders, shakes against this, all that this is, shivers with the weight of it, with strength of it, aches in the hollow of his heart where Jim’s head fits, rests just so.
And it’s terrifying in the very same moment that it’s beautiful, to know that Jim feels the way his pulse races, intimately knows the rush of Leonard’s blood against the shell of his ear; it’s overwhelming, silent and still, to see him press closer, deeper against him, falling further into the dips of his ribs as the beat pounds harder, slower, louder, betraying the careful, measured calm of the rise and fall, the stretch of his lungs pulling up against his skin.
The ring on his finger is new enough still to surprise him, sometimes; familiar enough already that it feels wrong in its absence; he figures it’s fitting, because Jim’s like that, too. He thinks that maybe, Jim always will be: that thing that’s never predictable, except in the fact that it’s always there. And it’s a simple thing, really; simple, yet profound, that Leonard trusts in that, in him -- trusts that the band below his knuckle is infinite, unending, and that Jim will stand as strong. Because for all the doubts, all the reasons he has to question, to waver -- when he looks into the sky that lies beyond those eyes, he sees his own soul reflected back at him, see his own heart disturbing the depths, rippling out; and there are no questions, no doubts. And most days, that’s the only thing keeping this from swallowing him whole.
His mind floats in and out of thought, of time, as he draws lazy circles around Jim’s elbow, presses unprovoked kisses to the crown of his head; loses himself in the gentle exhalations, little whirlwinds where Jim’s breath stirs at the hairs on his bare chest. His fingers thread against the fringe that hangs at the nape of Jim’s neck, and somehow he can feel it in the flesh beneath his touch as Jim responds, reacts, long before Jim leans physically into him -- moments before, eternity like the phases of the moon, the spinning round the sun.
And Jim pulls back, straightens suddenly, smiles at him in that childish, goofy way he has: quirked at corners, front teeth bit far across his lower lip, eyes dancing with a kind of effervescent mirth, a subtle joy that never ceases to amaze him, never ceases to prickle behind his eyes because against all odds, Jim Kirk is happy; and against all odds, he’s taught Leonard how to know happiness again, too -- real happiness -- how to find it in a glance, a touch, a quirky grin; a stolen breath.
He leans forward, and when they kiss, it isn’t earth-shattering, doesn’t steal the ground from beneath him; no, kissing Jim is like finding his footing, like knowing where the shore is when he’s been treading water, lost at sea.
Kissing Jim is like remembering where home is, and knowing that it’s never far away.
And this -- this thing that exists between them and them alone; this isn’t something he needs to shy away from, he realizes suddenly as he lets his fingers settle into the gaps between Jim’s, as he lets their hands rise and fall with the breath in Jim’s lungs, the most precious thing that Leonard’s ever known; he doesn’t have to shield himself from this, because this is what shields him.
He pulls Jim closer against him, closer to everything he fears, everything he treasures, everything that threatens to consume him, burn him alive, to decimate him with a single touch; he pulls Jim into it, and holds on tight, presses Jim close against those hidden parts of his heart that were never hidden at all, not really -- somehow, he thinks that Jim’s always known them, has always seen the things that Leonard hated most, feared the most; he’d just never recognized them staring back at him, because to Jim, they weren’t ugly, weren’t weak. To Jim, they were beautiful. He was beautiful. Good and bad. Better or worse.
Till death did they part.
And Leonard, he smiles into the part of Jim’s hair, and feels the joy returned as it curls against his chest, seeps beneath the surface as Jim presses smiling lips against his skin. Dusk comes, creeps upon them out of the ether, but the truth remains that he’s never felt warmer. Because the sun beyond them, around them sets; the sun between them -- within them -- never does.
Never will.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 1,255
Summary: The sun sets. They don’t. For weepingnaiad on her birthday. Sequel to The Book of Love: Volume I. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to The Magnetic Fields.
Author’s Notes: For the wonderful weepingnaiad, on her birthday; when you said you wanted a drabble with a theme of “sunset,” I got really excited, because I had this going, and it fit rather perfectly with your request :) It was intended as a sequel to this, but it fits if you want another part of it - if not, just take the context of Jim and Bones being kinda-sorta newly weds at the point of this story, still adjusting, still schmoopily in love :D It’s heavily introspective and very, very fluffy and romantic; apologies if it’s over the top - hopefully you’ll like it anyway. Also: here's the particular cover of this song that inspired this part, by Nataly Dawn: The Book of Love. Anyway: Happy Birthday love - hope it’s just as wonderful as you are <3
The Book of Love: Volume I
The Book of Love: Volume II
It’s in his nature, sometimes, to shield himself, to shy away from the things he loves the most. Part of it’s self-protection; most of it’s common sense. The bright and beautiful things his heart latches on to, that his soul gets tangled up inside; they burn like the ending of time and the center of space and it’s painful, blinding: it demands a surrender that Leonard’s long since lost the folly, the abandon to give himself wholly to. And sometimes that’s harder, he thinks -- harder than the pain that might come if he’d give in -- the knowledge that there are pieces of himself that he holds close, holds back even now; sometimes that hurts more than any betrayal he can imagine, any loss he can fathom.
But he wants this, wants this more than he wants air in his lungs or blood in his veins; needs it more than a man needs anything, than a man knows how to need. This is the call of the universe as it draws against the very depths of him; this is the stars in the sky and the salt of the sea -- this is his world, now, and he’s grateful in ways he’ll never fully understand, in ways he doesn’t deserve, in ways he only knows because of the warmth, the tight ache that fills him in moments like these, when he breathes deep of the musk, the sweat and sunshine clinging to Jim’s hair, and realizes that Jesus -- this thing they have, that he has, is something that no one else will ever know, that every other soul in existence has to find a way to live without.
And it’s heavy, perfect in its own mournful sort of way; and sometimes, just sometimes, it still puts the fear of God in him -- shakes him hard, down to his core.
He’s sprawled slow, languid against the grass, laid bare beneath the skies that bore him, sheltered him, gave him life and would take it back just as graciously, would lay him to rest one day beneath their churning currents, their endless reach. They’d take him now, he thinks, except that Jim is there, draped across him, and somehow Leonard knows that he’s safe, protected from whatever the whole of existence wants to demand of him, wants to throw his way; because Jim -- for reasons Leonard still doesn’t comprehend, reasons he’d doubt if he didn’t mirror them himself, didn’t hold them closer than his next breath -- for some reason, Jim loves him, and Jim won’t ever leave him to face the world alone again. And in that instant -- that very moment where he knows that simple, impossible truth with a certainty that could swallow the whole of the world with its gravity, its force -- his chest shudders, shakes against this, all that this is, shivers with the weight of it, with strength of it, aches in the hollow of his heart where Jim’s head fits, rests just so.
And it’s terrifying in the very same moment that it’s beautiful, to know that Jim feels the way his pulse races, intimately knows the rush of Leonard’s blood against the shell of his ear; it’s overwhelming, silent and still, to see him press closer, deeper against him, falling further into the dips of his ribs as the beat pounds harder, slower, louder, betraying the careful, measured calm of the rise and fall, the stretch of his lungs pulling up against his skin.
The ring on his finger is new enough still to surprise him, sometimes; familiar enough already that it feels wrong in its absence; he figures it’s fitting, because Jim’s like that, too. He thinks that maybe, Jim always will be: that thing that’s never predictable, except in the fact that it’s always there. And it’s a simple thing, really; simple, yet profound, that Leonard trusts in that, in him -- trusts that the band below his knuckle is infinite, unending, and that Jim will stand as strong. Because for all the doubts, all the reasons he has to question, to waver -- when he looks into the sky that lies beyond those eyes, he sees his own soul reflected back at him, see his own heart disturbing the depths, rippling out; and there are no questions, no doubts. And most days, that’s the only thing keeping this from swallowing him whole.
His mind floats in and out of thought, of time, as he draws lazy circles around Jim’s elbow, presses unprovoked kisses to the crown of his head; loses himself in the gentle exhalations, little whirlwinds where Jim’s breath stirs at the hairs on his bare chest. His fingers thread against the fringe that hangs at the nape of Jim’s neck, and somehow he can feel it in the flesh beneath his touch as Jim responds, reacts, long before Jim leans physically into him -- moments before, eternity like the phases of the moon, the spinning round the sun.
And Jim pulls back, straightens suddenly, smiles at him in that childish, goofy way he has: quirked at corners, front teeth bit far across his lower lip, eyes dancing with a kind of effervescent mirth, a subtle joy that never ceases to amaze him, never ceases to prickle behind his eyes because against all odds, Jim Kirk is happy; and against all odds, he’s taught Leonard how to know happiness again, too -- real happiness -- how to find it in a glance, a touch, a quirky grin; a stolen breath.
He leans forward, and when they kiss, it isn’t earth-shattering, doesn’t steal the ground from beneath him; no, kissing Jim is like finding his footing, like knowing where the shore is when he’s been treading water, lost at sea.
Kissing Jim is like remembering where home is, and knowing that it’s never far away.
And this -- this thing that exists between them and them alone; this isn’t something he needs to shy away from, he realizes suddenly as he lets his fingers settle into the gaps between Jim’s, as he lets their hands rise and fall with the breath in Jim’s lungs, the most precious thing that Leonard’s ever known; he doesn’t have to shield himself from this, because this is what shields him.
He pulls Jim closer against him, closer to everything he fears, everything he treasures, everything that threatens to consume him, burn him alive, to decimate him with a single touch; he pulls Jim into it, and holds on tight, presses Jim close against those hidden parts of his heart that were never hidden at all, not really -- somehow, he thinks that Jim’s always known them, has always seen the things that Leonard hated most, feared the most; he’d just never recognized them staring back at him, because to Jim, they weren’t ugly, weren’t weak. To Jim, they were beautiful. He was beautiful. Good and bad. Better or worse.
Till death did they part.
And Leonard, he smiles into the part of Jim’s hair, and feels the joy returned as it curls against his chest, seeps beneath the surface as Jim presses smiling lips against his skin. Dusk comes, creeps upon them out of the ether, but the truth remains that he’s never felt warmer. Because the sun beyond them, around them sets; the sun between them -- within them -- never does.
Never will.