[ The Big Bang is a misnomer. People hear 'bang' and think of an explosion occurring instantaneously; let there be light. The truth is that the event precipitating the outward expansion of the universe occurred over the course of billions of years.
On the cosmic scale, of course, this is instantaneous.
Alice feels the outward expansion of the universe within himself, its nuclear core in the vicinity of his heart (thundering a slow, hard rhythm all through his body, echoing in his ears, shuddering his hands; there are centrifuges and pistons and stars born and stars dying under his skin.) He feels the incorruptible pace of the inevitable, the promise of the future rushing toward him (slowly, oh, terrifyingly slowly, and yet on the scale of stars and planets and spinning galaxies, full of violent collision and culmination.)
An inward gasp and an outward momentum.
The breath he gives.
(His soul goes with it.)
((He never contemplated matters of the soul, or of having a soul, beyond the constructed tenets of the church. Beyond what is lost by the deviants, the depraved, the sinners, in succumbing to base urges and oh, this is a base urge.
This is also.)
This is also.)
Why poets exist. Why there are songs. Why the universe began expanding: so one sunny, spring day, Alice could lean over Treavor and share a breath of smoke and oxygen and his own soul.
Alice thinks, because he has time to think in this slow-moving moment: if I can just have this. If everything could just stop here, and nothing else had to follow. If there could be no more law firms or court rooms or bottles of alcohol, nothing dogging their steps. Nowhere to go and nothing to do but lie here, breathing with one another, in and out, him and his binary star. If I can just have this, it'll be enough.
Maybe that's the thought that undoes him. Maybe it's the sound Treavor makes, as though he's caught in the same perfect rapture, and when has Alice ever managed to give another person anything nearing rapture? (And breathing back in, that sound becomes his own, that sound settles in him and propels wanting like madness; someday, someday, maybe he'll know how to call it moment by moment, and leave this man in shambles.)
Or maybe it's his own shuddered moan, excited and skittish, and the electric feel of his mouth brushing Treavor's.
Or all of it comes together, a perfect mix for an outward slow-rush: his eyes burn to a blur and his hand at some point has traded off the joint to the other hand because there's something so much better here to touch, this cheek and beautiful jaw and his thumb intervenes before he can move in any closer.
A light tease against a perfect lower lip, and his own mouth only a ragged breath away. ]
Can I kiss you, Darling?
[ It's not right to offer breath, and take kisses.
He should. Always.
Always ask.
(And live in this moment, if Treavor says 'yes'. He should. He should be soft. It should be soft. Even in the sluggish recesses of his mind, he tells himself this: he knows Treavor deserves sweetness.
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On the cosmic scale, of course, this is instantaneous.
Alice feels the outward expansion of the universe within himself, its nuclear core in the vicinity of his heart (thundering a slow, hard rhythm all through his body, echoing in his ears, shuddering his hands; there are centrifuges and pistons and stars born and stars dying under his skin.) He feels the incorruptible pace of the inevitable, the promise of the future rushing toward him (slowly, oh, terrifyingly slowly, and yet on the scale of stars and planets and spinning galaxies, full of violent collision and culmination.)
An inward gasp and an outward momentum.
The breath he gives.
(His soul goes with it.)
((He never contemplated matters of the soul, or of having a soul, beyond the constructed tenets of the church. Beyond what is lost by the deviants, the depraved, the sinners, in succumbing to base urges and oh, this is a base urge.
This is also.)
This is also.)
Why poets exist. Why there are songs. Why the universe began expanding: so one sunny, spring day, Alice could lean over Treavor and share a breath of smoke and oxygen and his own soul.
Alice thinks, because he has time to think in this slow-moving moment: if I can just have this. If everything could just stop here, and nothing else had to follow. If there could be no more law firms or court rooms or bottles of alcohol, nothing dogging their steps. Nowhere to go and nothing to do but lie here, breathing with one another, in and out, him and his binary star. If I can just have this, it'll be enough.
Maybe that's the thought that undoes him. Maybe it's the sound Treavor makes, as though he's caught in the same perfect rapture, and when has Alice ever managed to give another person anything nearing rapture? (And breathing back in, that sound becomes his own, that sound settles in him and propels wanting like madness; someday, someday, maybe he'll know how to call it moment by moment, and leave this man in shambles.)
Or maybe it's his own shuddered moan, excited and skittish, and the electric feel of his mouth brushing Treavor's.
Or all of it comes together, a perfect mix for an outward slow-rush: his eyes burn to a blur and his hand at some point has traded off the joint to the other hand because there's something so much better here to touch, this cheek and beautiful jaw and his thumb intervenes before he can move in any closer.
A light tease against a perfect lower lip, and his own mouth only a ragged breath away. ]
Can I kiss you, Darling?
[ It's not right to offer breath, and take kisses.
He should. Always.
Always ask.
(And live in this moment, if Treavor says 'yes'. He should. He should be soft. It should be soft. Even in the sluggish recesses of his mind, he tells himself this: he knows Treavor deserves sweetness.
(Maybe he does, too.)) ]