now, knowingly

Watchmen Jon/Adrian; R; angst/vaguesmut.

Written for the KM prompt asking for Jon and Adrian. Because they understand each other.

radishface

[#]

You know he'll be gone, just as he knows (but he knows better, more than you). For now, humanity is what brings you together, is what sticks your chests together with sweat and nudges your forehead against his as your breath mingles with his, electric-blue.

Still, you relish the cool-warm touch of his fingers upon yours, the way he moves in you like he knows--

and he does know, doesn't he? But not now. Now, he's here, even as he's everywhere, but once upon a time, as Osterman-- he didn't know.

There's a certain gravity in the way you kiss him, because you know you are pressing your lips to his across time and space, you are kissing him in your now but you might as well be kissing him into the future forever and in the past. And he knew that this would happen, and that does, in a way, make it forever.

You may not want to experience time like this, linearly and single-mindedly, but there is nothing you can do to elevate yourself to his consciousness, to see the world as he sees it.

You, implacable, idealistic, ever romantic, are only comforted by the faint thought that he won't forget, that he is still doing this now, even though he knows. That the future isn't enough to stop him now.

The word is on your lips the same time it is in your mind, the concept of the present transcending both planes and you feel something like a spark of understanding, reveling at this breach, this bridge, between the abstract patterns in your brain and the pressure of air pulsing from your throat.

He presses into you until your hips align, concurrent, consecutive, and your words fall into whispers, dead on your tongue. You gasp, knowing you will forget in time. That your mind will attempt to categorize, to packet and parse, to create the meta-information necessary to remember, that no matter how good your memory or how smart you are that eventuality is no substitute for the present. You will not be able to feel this again, his hands gripping your hips and the curve of his stomach against your spine and his dry, static-cool breath on the back of your neck-- you will not think the thoughts you are thinking now, traitorous and blasphemous and vulgar and in that order. You know that you will forget,

More, you gasp, more,

but that he won't. A circumstance of physics and fate and his own quantum composition, but he will remember you, this space, this place.

You twist your head around, seek his mouth, touch your tongue to his-- his sigh is an infinite one. For now, only you. Only this.

[#]