mechanical_dream

They end up in the solarium. They almost always do. And there, while he is still trying to catch up to what is happening, Dowling turns, catching his other hand, holding both of them as if they are the most precious things in all the world, as if they might disappear at any moment. Isander stares at him, blinking, uncertain, and Dowling shakes his head, his mind reaching out, more fully than Isander thinks he has ever reached before, and before he knows quite what is happening the heart and mind and soul of his beloved are pouring into his, swamping them both.

They sink.

{Isander ...} Anger and helplessness, all intermingled, and Dowling doesn't even really have the words. Isander aches for him, but he doesn't understand.

{Beloved, what is it?} Confusion, love, gentle ache, everything he can do to soothe, to comfort. Dowling shakes in fury, and a depth of love that no-one who has been fooled by his amiable exterior would ever believe.

{'sander, how can you ... how can you doubt me? That I love you?} And the word 'love' has so deep a meaning, impossibly complex, so bound with his soul that Isander nearly cannot bear it, could never do anything else. He cries out, wrapping himself around that soul, and the terrible pain he feels there.

{Not you!} he cries, desperate. {Not you, beloved! Never you. Love and love and ever-love, always feeling ... never doubt you/love/everything.}

{Why?} Soft as soft. {Why afraid, then?} And Isander falters, doesn't know what to say, how to explain.

{Hurt you,} he whispered softly, aching so deep, so very deep. {Make you hurt yourself. Love me so deep, beloved, so deep, and why? Why love that much? Hurts you so bad. Breaks you. Broke you.}

{You.} Simple, complex, unassailable. {Love me. Only one. Love me and hold me and hold back the light for me, stand by my side, fight for my freedom, come back no matter what I do. Love me.} And Isander is crying, not outside, not metal tears, but in his soul, crying in his soul.

{Not enough, beloved. Not enough to be worth what you did, what was done because of it.} He shakes his head, thinking of the hate he has felt out there, out beyond their little moon, and all of it for his beloved. So much hate, because this brave and foolish man -so foolish- loves him that deep. {My love not worth galaxy hate.}

{Bah! Worth anything. Worth everything. Don't care about them. Stupid anyway.} And he doesn't. He truly doesn't. It hurts him, a little, to be hated that way, but against the love he feels it really doesn't matter to him. Isander can only stare, can only hold, shaking, as Dowling turns gentle, brushing over his own pain with all the tenderness in his heart. {Hurts you worse, beloved. Hurts you so much worse.} Sadness, deep waves of it. {They hate you because of me.} Wonder. {And still you love me, still stay with me. 'sander, love to hell and back, because of that. Do anything at all.}

Isander stares, unable to speak. Loving ... so impossible much, so impossibly deep. His whole being, loving this man. Ache and tenderness and love. {Dowling.} Whispered. {Don't care, Dowling. Don't care that they hate me.} Flicker in his mind, glimmer of his old intent, and Dowling stares at him in utter shock.

{You ... you heckle me so they'll ... you act so hard ... so they'll hate you instead of me!?!} Completely aghast, completely stunned. {You ... act like seducer ... make them think you made me ... Isander! What were you thinking?}

Bemused, flicker of memory, madmen screamed as they beat at him, try to hurt because they hurt, and all he can do is let them, all he can give. {So they won't hate you.} He doesn't understand. That's always been the reason, always been why. Fun, yes, but he would sooner embrace Dowling than strike him, ever and always. Love too deep for else. Why confusing?

And Dowling can't speak. He can't speak, and Isander has never seen him so utterly stunned, so utterly without words. And then there is only love, passion, pain, adoration, wrapping around him, pulsing and singing and salty-sweet, and back in their bodies Dowling is wrapped around him, shaking so hard, and he holds him, body and soul, holds tight, bewildered but loving, giving on pure instinct, because he can do nothing else. With this man, love has always ever been instinct, simply what was right.

{How could not love you?} Broken whisper, and Isander looks down at him, wet eyes and vivid soul, aching and confused. {How could anyone not love you?} Stronger. {Not give anything for you? 'sander. Beloved. Beloved mine.} Whispered, echoing through everything they were ... {Love you.}

And there is nothing to say, nothing to do. He has to echo it, helpless, passionate, adoring. This man. His beloved. How could he not love, not live, not give anything and everything? How can he not return what is given with such incredible abandon? He cannot. It is that simple. He cannot do other than love with all his being, love as he is loved, give as he is given, treasure as he is treasured. He has no words for this, this simple fact of his being, nothing he can say except the simple truth.

{Love you,} he whispers. {Love you.}

And it is all that has ever mattered, and all that ever will.