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crack_van2006-11-21 10:16 pm
lydia-petze.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2006-11-21 10:16 pm
Entry tags:
Konstantine by Kate (NC-17)
Fandom: U2
Pairing: Bono/The Edge
Author on LJ: Unknown
Author Website: Love Is Blindness
Why this must be read:
I guess you could call this a series of vignettes that, taken overall, coalesce into a full narrative. It's taken from both men's POVs, and skips back and forward in time, from early '80s Boy era up '00s Elevation era. One of the things I like about this one is the matter-of-factness of the sexual component - so much slash sex is of the earth-shattering variety that it's kind of nice to see that the "meh" sex happens sometimes! It adds an element of hominess, domesticity and comfortable well-wornness to the relationship which, given the way these two often act around one another, is very in-character. Being set in a bunch of different time periods, it also follows the ups and downs of the relationship, the contrasts in maturity between young Bono and Edge and older Bono and Edge, and the development of both of them as individuals and as a couple.
“Just...tell me, Reg, tell me this isn’t about, you know,” I give a long pause before looking up from the floor, “us.”
The word seems so out of place right now. And that, finally, elicited a reaction from you, but not the one I had expected: a laugh, short, bark-like. You roll your neck and lean your head against the backboard of the bed, looking at the ceiling.
“No,” you say with something resembling a sneer, “no, B, this is not about you, all right?” Suddenly, you’re standing and pulling on your boxers, that half-finished cigarette still out of place in your mouth. You turn and face me, your hand out flat and gesturing to the wall, the bed, whatever. I’m not sure you know or care.
“Things are not always about you, Bono, okay? And do I know what happened? Do I know what fucking happened? I have no idea, Bono!”
Now I’m definitely trembling.
“If I had any idea,” you say as your voice trails off and your shoulders straighten, turning your head to the side a bit. “I thought that…” A sigh escapes you, and you sink back down onto the bed, the springs in the mattress creaking. You lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs, head in hands, refusing to meet my gaze.
“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore what I thought, now, does it?”
You’re so fragile. You’re my fallen angel with broken wings.
I wish…I wish I could make things right again.
But I guess it doesn’t matter what I wish, now, does it?
And as you walk towards the window and stare out on this corpse of a city, I’m not sure if it’s you or me who is more afraid right now.
You've gotta get out You can't stand to see me shaking
But we both have every reason to be afraid, don’t we? I mean, shit, Reg, this is marriage, this is fidelity, this is your life and your kids we’re talking about now, this goes far beyond this cheap Berlin hotel, this -- this is real.
And I’m haunted by the sudden memory of the look of total trust in me that flashed across your eyes that night, years ago in England, when I told you to fuck the consequences: how young and afraid you were, how young and afraid I was.
No*
“I’ve…Adam said I can move in with him for a little while, so I don’t have to worry about finding somewhere else while we’re in the middle of recording.” Your voice is higher than it should be, and I begin to wonder your real reasons for showing me your back. I stand up, put out my cigarette and throw a robe around me, tying it closed loosely as I walk over to you. You are motionless, your arms folded firmly on your chest, your breathing too hard to be healthy. My hands find your shoulders, my lips find your neck, and I offer a gentle kiss as something resembling a whimper crawls out of your mouth.
“We’ll get through this,” I whisper to you, resting my chin on your shoulder. You swallow, and I wrap my arms around your waist, locking my fingers in the front. You feel so cold.
“God, it just…it just hurts so much, you know?” you confess, stifling a sniffle.
“I know,” I lie.
Your left hand breaks from its position and finds my head, rubbing me behind the ears.
Could you let me go?
“I’m sorry I yelled at you like that,” you say, clearly, as another fire truck roars down the street below us, flashing red light over your skin.
I didn't think so.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Konstantine
Pairing: Bono/The Edge
Author on LJ: Unknown
Author Website: Love Is Blindness
Why this must be read:
I guess you could call this a series of vignettes that, taken overall, coalesce into a full narrative. It's taken from both men's POVs, and skips back and forward in time, from early '80s Boy era up '00s Elevation era. One of the things I like about this one is the matter-of-factness of the sexual component - so much slash sex is of the earth-shattering variety that it's kind of nice to see that the "meh" sex happens sometimes! It adds an element of hominess, domesticity and comfortable well-wornness to the relationship which, given the way these two often act around one another, is very in-character. Being set in a bunch of different time periods, it also follows the ups and downs of the relationship, the contrasts in maturity between young Bono and Edge and older Bono and Edge, and the development of both of them as individuals and as a couple.
“Just...tell me, Reg, tell me this isn’t about, you know,” I give a long pause before looking up from the floor, “us.”
The word seems so out of place right now. And that, finally, elicited a reaction from you, but not the one I had expected: a laugh, short, bark-like. You roll your neck and lean your head against the backboard of the bed, looking at the ceiling.
“No,” you say with something resembling a sneer, “no, B, this is not about you, all right?” Suddenly, you’re standing and pulling on your boxers, that half-finished cigarette still out of place in your mouth. You turn and face me, your hand out flat and gesturing to the wall, the bed, whatever. I’m not sure you know or care.
“Things are not always about you, Bono, okay? And do I know what happened? Do I know what fucking happened? I have no idea, Bono!”
Now I’m definitely trembling.
“If I had any idea,” you say as your voice trails off and your shoulders straighten, turning your head to the side a bit. “I thought that…” A sigh escapes you, and you sink back down onto the bed, the springs in the mattress creaking. You lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs, head in hands, refusing to meet my gaze.
“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore what I thought, now, does it?”
You’re so fragile. You’re my fallen angel with broken wings.
I wish…I wish I could make things right again.
But I guess it doesn’t matter what I wish, now, does it?
And as you walk towards the window and stare out on this corpse of a city, I’m not sure if it’s you or me who is more afraid right now.
You've gotta get out You can't stand to see me shaking
But we both have every reason to be afraid, don’t we? I mean, shit, Reg, this is marriage, this is fidelity, this is your life and your kids we’re talking about now, this goes far beyond this cheap Berlin hotel, this -- this is real.
And I’m haunted by the sudden memory of the look of total trust in me that flashed across your eyes that night, years ago in England, when I told you to fuck the consequences: how young and afraid you were, how young and afraid I was.
No*
“I’ve…Adam said I can move in with him for a little while, so I don’t have to worry about finding somewhere else while we’re in the middle of recording.” Your voice is higher than it should be, and I begin to wonder your real reasons for showing me your back. I stand up, put out my cigarette and throw a robe around me, tying it closed loosely as I walk over to you. You are motionless, your arms folded firmly on your chest, your breathing too hard to be healthy. My hands find your shoulders, my lips find your neck, and I offer a gentle kiss as something resembling a whimper crawls out of your mouth.
“We’ll get through this,” I whisper to you, resting my chin on your shoulder. You swallow, and I wrap my arms around your waist, locking my fingers in the front. You feel so cold.
“God, it just…it just hurts so much, you know?” you confess, stifling a sniffle.
“I know,” I lie.
Your left hand breaks from its position and finds my head, rubbing me behind the ears.
Could you let me go?
“I’m sorry I yelled at you like that,” you say, clearly, as another fire truck roars down the street below us, flashing red light over your skin.
I didn't think so.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Konstantine