In The (Immortal) Words of John Lennon
Title: In the (Immortal) Words of John Lennon
Pairing/character: Steve/Tony
Rating: PG13
Summary: A kind of through-the-ages reflection thing. And I went and got all...mystical again.
Notes/Warnings: Gay demon-ness, as per usual. Mostly implied because I kind of suck like that. *sigh* And yes, I did in fact write what is technically a songfic, and in second person. Dear lord, what was I thinking? Thanks to tessykins for the prompt (The fall from grace), as it...gave me a chance to write this, and...I don't really hate how it turned out.
Spoilers: Kind of for a really minor point in Cancun, but other than that...not so much.
Imagine there’s no heaven.
It’s all you can do, sometimes.
When you’ve gotten yourself kicked out of it, for one.
When all that’s left to do is think and there’s no crying because what good does that do now but the distance, the cold (and there aren’t fires, yet; there’s only absence, reflections of yourself and what was so important before and what didn’t mean anything at all, frozen in the ice).
And there’s him; still there.
Always there.
And every time he touches you (or you touch him, because who are you kidding, you still want to, still do), every bite (kisses aren’t a possibility anymore), every stroke, every suck, every time he’s inside of you or you‘re inside of him (you don’t keep track and it really doesn’t matter; you’re both alone anyway), every time you cling and screw and try and forget…it’s like the ice shatters a little.
Shatters, and rips you both apart.
Can’t do it anymore, shouldn’t have done it in the first place.
It’s his fault.
You’re the one who leaves.
It makes heaven easier to forget.
No hell below us.
Which is a joke.
Because you’re in it, deep, and there’s really no getting out, now.
Loyal follower (and that’s all you’ve ever been, all you’ll ever be), lost so much and He understands that (not that you’d realize, with that constant smile of His, but he does), deserving of a reward, inner circle, for what its worth (nothing, really).
But you do it; it’s another barrier and heaven’s all the more distant for it, almost invisible.
Unspeakable acts become unspeakable more out of boredom than anything; everyone does it and nobody cares.
And you’re not His, you tell yourself, which is hard to do, when you’re with Him (without more than within).
Because He’s definitely not yours, not like he was (not like he still…not like he was).
And it’s before time and it’s before reason, but something passes and you can’t do it anymore.
It’s only when you stop looking over your shoulder and expecting him to be there, that you realize that.
Imagine there's no countries
There aren’t, then.
There aren’t even really people, then.
Just tiny little souls and their tiny little lives, gone in an instant, before you learn how to watch them properly.
Killing and dying like it’s nothing, like it’s not what you and yours fought and lost everything to keep them from doing.
Well. Keep them from existing. Supposedly. You don’t even really remember why anymore (you mostly don’t try to, because it’s easy enough to do, and that somehow just makes it worse).
But…they’re there, living, loving, being, between the killing and the dying, and you’re not.
Seems fair, though. Seems right.
You lost, They won.
You suffer and They rejoice.
But They aren’t here right now, and you are.
Because this isn’t Heaven and that’s where They’d rather be (where anyone would rather be, right?).
But while this may not be Heaven, it’s a far cry from where you’ve been and they, in the moments between forced brutality and the hours before dawn, seem to see it in a way you don’t anymore.
You’re not sure if you want to.
You’re not sure if you can.
It’s not until you find him again that you realize you’ve been looking all along.
And no religion too
That’s not exactly true; they’ve got one, full of gods with too many heads and snakes with feathers and you wonder, sometimes, why.
Why they are allowed to be wrong.
You ask him about it once, because he seems to know them better, and he looks at you, for a moment, like he did then (like you’re foolish and selfish and stupid for not seeing the obvious).
It frightens you both (him more than you, and he almost leaves).
But he doesn’t, and you can’t.
They aren’t wrong, he tells you, days or weeks or years or seconds later (you haven’t quite gotten a handle on time yet). They just understand differently than we do.
You mean wrongly. You can’t help but say, and you’re surprised to see him quirk an eyebrow and smirk (such human expressions that you’re only now figuring out, only now really needing to) as he points out the obvious.
We’re fallen angels, babe, as he stares up at the stars. And they’re rising apes.
Imagine no possessions
You don’t really need to, at first.
Everything is yours and nothing is.
The heat, the sun, the beaches and the ocean and the music (and you think you maybe love music; you think you might even love it more than food, and food is pretty darn good), are anyone’s, anyone’s to touch and smell and feel and see.
The tragedies, too; the babies lost and the homes destroyed, the warriors killed in battles, everything is yours and theirs, together, shared, even what you don’t want.
Except for him.
He is yours, just yours, and always has been (and he has no qualms about reminding you).
You are his, just his, and always will be (and you’re not ashamed to admit it anymore).
And you are together, here, and you think, just maybe, you’ve found it again, or as close as you can get.
It’s what you tell yourselves, anyway.
A brotherhood of man
Not that there aren’t doubts.
Not that he doesn’t have to tell you, as things fall apart, that whatever mistakes they make…well, neither of you are ones to talk about mistakes.
Not that you don’t still wonder sometimes, no matter what he says, if maybe He wasn’t right all along, if maybe they don’t deserve it, what they have.
They live in cities now, sing in churches, feast in palaces and tame the seas.
And they burn those cities, kill in the name of those churches, mortar those palaces with the blood of innocents, litter those seas with corpses and sickness.
Brotherhood of man indeed.
You may say I'm a dreamer / But I'm not the only one
You wonder if he doubts (you hope that he doesn’t).
But there are days, when he rests his head on your shoulder, and smells of sweat and blood and despair, and shakes in your arms…there really isn’t any doubt, that he does.
Except that he’ll kiss you, soft and quiet and sure, fingers light and trembling but real, tender slide of bodies against each other, love in every touch, and be able to smile again.
And you realize, what both of you once did to forget, he now does to remember (and so do you).
He doesn’t call them rising apes anymore.
The only falling you do is in love.
Pairing/character: Steve/Tony
Rating: PG13
Summary: A kind of through-the-ages reflection thing. And I went and got all...mystical again.
Notes/Warnings: Gay demon-ness, as per usual. Mostly implied because I kind of suck like that. *sigh* And yes, I did in fact write what is technically a songfic, and in second person. Dear lord, what was I thinking? Thanks to tessykins for the prompt (The fall from grace), as it...gave me a chance to write this, and...I don't really hate how it turned out.
Spoilers: Kind of for a really minor point in Cancun, but other than that...not so much.
Imagine there’s no heaven.
It’s all you can do, sometimes.
When you’ve gotten yourself kicked out of it, for one.
When all that’s left to do is think and there’s no crying because what good does that do now but the distance, the cold (and there aren’t fires, yet; there’s only absence, reflections of yourself and what was so important before and what didn’t mean anything at all, frozen in the ice).
And there’s him; still there.
Always there.
And every time he touches you (or you touch him, because who are you kidding, you still want to, still do), every bite (kisses aren’t a possibility anymore), every stroke, every suck, every time he’s inside of you or you‘re inside of him (you don’t keep track and it really doesn’t matter; you’re both alone anyway), every time you cling and screw and try and forget…it’s like the ice shatters a little.
Shatters, and rips you both apart.
Can’t do it anymore, shouldn’t have done it in the first place.
It’s his fault.
You’re the one who leaves.
It makes heaven easier to forget.
No hell below us.
Which is a joke.
Because you’re in it, deep, and there’s really no getting out, now.
Loyal follower (and that’s all you’ve ever been, all you’ll ever be), lost so much and He understands that (not that you’d realize, with that constant smile of His, but he does), deserving of a reward, inner circle, for what its worth (nothing, really).
But you do it; it’s another barrier and heaven’s all the more distant for it, almost invisible.
Unspeakable acts become unspeakable more out of boredom than anything; everyone does it and nobody cares.
And you’re not His, you tell yourself, which is hard to do, when you’re with Him (without more than within).
Because He’s definitely not yours, not like he was (not like he still…not like he was).
And it’s before time and it’s before reason, but something passes and you can’t do it anymore.
It’s only when you stop looking over your shoulder and expecting him to be there, that you realize that.
Imagine there's no countries
There aren’t, then.
There aren’t even really people, then.
Just tiny little souls and their tiny little lives, gone in an instant, before you learn how to watch them properly.
Killing and dying like it’s nothing, like it’s not what you and yours fought and lost everything to keep them from doing.
Well. Keep them from existing. Supposedly. You don’t even really remember why anymore (you mostly don’t try to, because it’s easy enough to do, and that somehow just makes it worse).
But…they’re there, living, loving, being, between the killing and the dying, and you’re not.
Seems fair, though. Seems right.
You lost, They won.
You suffer and They rejoice.
But They aren’t here right now, and you are.
Because this isn’t Heaven and that’s where They’d rather be (where anyone would rather be, right?).
But while this may not be Heaven, it’s a far cry from where you’ve been and they, in the moments between forced brutality and the hours before dawn, seem to see it in a way you don’t anymore.
You’re not sure if you want to.
You’re not sure if you can.
It’s not until you find him again that you realize you’ve been looking all along.
And no religion too
That’s not exactly true; they’ve got one, full of gods with too many heads and snakes with feathers and you wonder, sometimes, why.
Why they are allowed to be wrong.
You ask him about it once, because he seems to know them better, and he looks at you, for a moment, like he did then (like you’re foolish and selfish and stupid for not seeing the obvious).
It frightens you both (him more than you, and he almost leaves).
But he doesn’t, and you can’t.
They aren’t wrong, he tells you, days or weeks or years or seconds later (you haven’t quite gotten a handle on time yet). They just understand differently than we do.
You mean wrongly. You can’t help but say, and you’re surprised to see him quirk an eyebrow and smirk (such human expressions that you’re only now figuring out, only now really needing to) as he points out the obvious.
We’re fallen angels, babe, as he stares up at the stars. And they’re rising apes.
Imagine no possessions
You don’t really need to, at first.
Everything is yours and nothing is.
The heat, the sun, the beaches and the ocean and the music (and you think you maybe love music; you think you might even love it more than food, and food is pretty darn good), are anyone’s, anyone’s to touch and smell and feel and see.
The tragedies, too; the babies lost and the homes destroyed, the warriors killed in battles, everything is yours and theirs, together, shared, even what you don’t want.
Except for him.
He is yours, just yours, and always has been (and he has no qualms about reminding you).
You are his, just his, and always will be (and you’re not ashamed to admit it anymore).
And you are together, here, and you think, just maybe, you’ve found it again, or as close as you can get.
It’s what you tell yourselves, anyway.
A brotherhood of man
Not that there aren’t doubts.
Not that he doesn’t have to tell you, as things fall apart, that whatever mistakes they make…well, neither of you are ones to talk about mistakes.
Not that you don’t still wonder sometimes, no matter what he says, if maybe He wasn’t right all along, if maybe they don’t deserve it, what they have.
They live in cities now, sing in churches, feast in palaces and tame the seas.
And they burn those cities, kill in the name of those churches, mortar those palaces with the blood of innocents, litter those seas with corpses and sickness.
Brotherhood of man indeed.
You may say I'm a dreamer / But I'm not the only one
You wonder if he doubts (you hope that he doesn’t).
But there are days, when he rests his head on your shoulder, and smells of sweat and blood and despair, and shakes in your arms…there really isn’t any doubt, that he does.
Except that he’ll kiss you, soft and quiet and sure, fingers light and trembling but real, tender slide of bodies against each other, love in every touch, and be able to smile again.
And you realize, what both of you once did to forget, he now does to remember (and so do you).
He doesn’t call them rising apes anymore.
The only falling you do is in love.