A/N: Watching Howl with the always-lovely James Franco as Allen Ginsberg inspired me. Throughout the film, he would recite portions of his poems from the "Howl" collection. One line in particular spawned this. I don't really ship Remus/Sirius (I see them having more of a bromance), but I really liked exploring a darker side to that "relationship."
Standard disclaimers apply.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness…
…who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy…
- Allen Ginsberg
Incarnate Gaps
It's nothing more than passing classes, passing human, passing glances in empty corridors that whisper deep magic.
It's when He laughs at a snide comment he made and he thinks he might be able to fit in (this school, this house, this group of beautiful boys with souls that shine through the growing darkness of Time and Current Events).
And then he remembers who, what he is and he withdraws from the conversation.
They don't notice.
/
The body tries to reject being a conduit, nerves and cells burning and freezing and tearing apart, breaking, trying to contain the monster within. The moon draws it out and he hopes for one month when it won't happen.
He cries into the night and tries to keep his insides from spilling out, but he gives himself more scars, more reminders of his personal Mr. Hyde.
Cries turn to howls and he remembers zéro.
/
Books and parchment and syntax are intimate and his mind relishes the warm embraces, the dusty aromas more ensnaring than anything else.
And then He joins him at the table and he begins to wonder.
His smile is blinding and His hair falls in His eyes, His inner clock knowing the perfect time to execute miniscule body moments that make him tremble and question and yearn, yearn so.
But.
He doesn't know what or why or how.
It's a feeling that unites and binds, squeezes the human and monster within him, working together to express.
He doesn't want to know what that is.
He leaves Him with his most precious lovers and creates a bullshit excuse to create a gap that writhes and gasps, so much unsaid and unexplored.
(But will be?)
/
He's overwhelmed every month, hates every second of it, and yet He causes petits moments of devastation in between the madness that leave him hiding grins and blushes behind calloused hands and books.
He is devilish in all the most angelic ways.
His laughter shakes (his) world.
/
A moment of revelation. Exposing. Naked. He scrapes at the clock and wants to turn back Time; they can't know about the other half, the half that's so embedded that sometimes he can't tell the difference between the sane and insane.
He's already planning his future – the next sixty years from this moment and how he will live them.
But of course He has to fuck it all up, embracing it all.
And then He looks at him with a spark in his eyes and he realizes.
There's a sort of camaraderie in the works. It doesn't quite exist yet, but it will
with
time.
/
The distance aches. Still. Years go by and he's more awkward than ever.
He's still fucking flawless, more so, and he's pulled painfully between jealousy and desire.
Labels can't pertain and his mind malfunctions with internal conflicts and His barking laugh and his external influences of friendship and the monde réel blowing against the back of their necks.
Death, which lies beyond safe walls.
It echoes within the eyes of those left behind. Students walk the corridors with a sluggishness that scares him. His friends balance it out with elaborate jokes and loud laughter.
Soon it won't be enough.
Or maybe Death will claim them early like everyone else.
/
Responsibilities. Rule-breaking, law breaking. Conflictions occurring simultaneously in the course of a single year and everything is always double-sided.
There's a continual balance in this life, so he believes. But how He continually disrupts everything and tilts the scales too far to one side without consequences is strangely beautiful.
His passion, joie de vivre infects his soul and he wonders when he started saying I love them with such reverence.
He prays for the slowing of Time and the change of Current Events because the Future looks so unbearably bleak that it hurts and constricts breathing.
He recoils in dreams and wakes in cold sweats, half-hard, sneaking glances at the figure in the bed across from his.
The distance between is a symbol of something stupid and beyond human comprehension of intellect.
With that final conclusion, he passes out headfirst into oblivion.
/
He runs.
Les quatre d'entre eux.
Vive la liberté.
Long
live.
/
Change comes in and stays and seems to go but doesn't. It sinks in between the quiet moments where he gazes onward, seething, hot, jealous, needing.
Blood boils, patience is tested and he tries to blame to waxing and waning of the moon that control his body so, a marionette cruelly pulling the strings.
He wonders what freedom tastes like and feels Him.
/
Période de transition.
That's it.
/
French summer wind skims over his skin and everything is perfection and gold.
Four parts of a whole, one reprieve.
Enjoy it while it lasts.
Dark thoughts pushed back so he can properly enjoy the lightness and infinite beauty of the sun reflecting off the Mediterranean and sometimes this world is fucking gorgeous.
But he's known that for years, he realizes as he stares at His lithe form, glistening in the rays of the sun, wanting too desperately to be the tiny sparks of liquid suns on His skin.
Every breath
is
stolen.
/
Scrape of teeth. Growl, suck, whimper. Blood rush. Dizzy nausea. Release.
It's the first time he's felt alive on a new moon.
He's human with Him.
It's the most beautiful moment he half-forgets in the morning of retching, hangovers, and awkward gaze aversions.
/
Everything's the same but unfamiliar. They talk but nothing is said. Laughter is the façade for sobbing because summer used to mean freedom and light and everything good and it still is, but marred and enhanced with the unforgettable feel and smell of His skin.
Alcohol is the devil's juice, so people say.
Alcohol is the devil's juice of heavenly and evil intentions, he knows.
/
It's the biggest secret kept between friends and it's just as well.
Nothing's perfect except disaster and the graceful curve of His jaw line.
/
It's three in the morning and they're alone in the common room, everything and nothing that happened over the summer (over their lives), immediately a spill in the room that always has to exist (except that one night) because otherwise the world will collapse and burn.
He feels like he's been burning since the day he met Him.
/
There's this space between need and want, which can't be properly defined, but it aches and it's just so carnal and heavenly that he wonders if He notices it too. He thinks about asking Him sometimes.
Or if it was really just drunken debauchery at it's fucking finest.
/
Summer's approaching again and bonjour, les garçons, Time is running out.
Or maybe Time's up. He thinks (believes, wishes, hopes) it's the former while He just assumes that the rules of Time can't apply because He's immortal and a god (and he can't blame Him for believing that because he does as well).
/
But He's not. And Time punishes him for it.
him
Both of them.
/
The stars continue to shine and he thinks about Cosmic Love every once in a while during the stretch of time that is his perpetual solitude. He should've expected this since he was young, but it still comes as a surprise every once in a while, hitting him between the eyes and through his heart with sharp pain; this is his life.
And he hates every waking, sleeping, everything-in-between moment of it.
(He tries to forget the days when he actually didn't, once upon a time).
/
And the moral of the story is this:
Finding, grasping, embellishing "Eternity outside of Time" is unachievable, even though there's a false implication that it can be tasted, caressed.
They will always claim that they did and maybe that's why they don't (can't) get a happy ending.
A/N: I hope this wasn't too much of a hot mess...
Please review!
MissGoalie