journeys end in lovers meeting, were the world mine, timothy/jonathan, 800 words
gigantic wrote me Evan/Johnny, so I wrote 800 words of Were The World Mine fic for her. Probably this won't make sense if you haven't seen the movie, and probably it won't be that great, it's just sort of idle indulgence. It's only 800 words and it's like pg-13-ish? It's indulgent!
Some days, Timothy wakes up and thinks he dreamed everything. It was all a dream, some crazy, stupid dream, and he's going to get out of bed and get dressed and go to school and deal with the stupid fucking assholes that he deals with every day, and come home, and shower, and go to sleep, and do it all over again.
Some days, though, he wakes up and he knows everything was real. Implausibly, impossibly real, and his body hurts to prove it, muscles aching in a happy, sore way, hands that are still holding the shape of Jonathan's shoulders between them. His mouth still tastes like Jonathan's mouth. He knows how that tastes, he could describe it in iambic pentameter if he had to, a sonnet, a couplet, something that rhymes and matches and sounds beautiful tripping off the tongue. Now that he knows what it looks like on other people, he could go into rhapsodies about what swells in his chest when Jonathan reaches for him, what it feels like when Jonathan's body is cradled between his hips. He never thought he could have this here, in this suffocating town, and he's still not planning to stay, but now he's planning on taking something with him.
"Will you come?" he asks Jonathan one night, when they're sweaty and fitting into each others' hollows like hands in gloves. Jonathan's breath is still evening out - he gets so worked up, Timothy loves it - and his palm is resting comfortably against Timothy's neck. "Come with me, I mean."
"Where are you going?" Jonathan asks easily. His eyes don't even open.
"Wherever. I don't care. Somewhere exciting."
Jonathan smiles and shifts his leg, pressing up high between Timothy's thighs. "This isn't exciting enough for you?"
"Stop," Timothy says, but there's no sting in it. "I know you've heard it before, just, just stop."
Jonathan sighs. His fingers curl into Timothy's hair. "You want to go. You want me to come with you."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No."
Timothy opens his mouth, and then closes it again. The light from the lamp on his nightstand makes the post-orgasm flush on Jonathan's cheeks seem so red. Timothy remembers their first time in his bed, his fumbling, Jonathan's patience, like it had been the other way around and Jonathan had just been waiting for some boy to fall in love with him so he could do this as expertly as he does everything else.
"You're looking at me," Jonathan says.
Timothy's always looking at Jonathan. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No."
"So then come with me."
Jonathan sighs again. He opens his eyes this time, and Timothy's breath catches a bit in his throat because Jonathan's so, so close to him. He's naked and pressed against him, and his forehead tips against Timothy's and his eyes are stupidly blue.
"I don't even know why you're talking about this again," Jonathan says, and tucks a kiss into the corner of Timothy's mouth. Timothy's heart freezes for just a second, the way it does every time Jonathan kisses him. "You don't need to be afraid, Timothy."
"I'm not," Timothy replies, but he is, he always is, he still is. A dream-like day can only fix so much.
He doesn't know when Jonathan came to know him, but he is so grateful for the sure way Jonathan rolls them over, pinning Timothy's body under his, propping himself up on his golden forearms and letting his lips brush the sensitive underside of Timothy's jaw when he tells him "don't be afraid that I won't come with you." He kisses a chain across Timothy's throat; Timothy arches against the weight of Jonathan's thigh, growing hard again when Jonathan tells him "I'll follow thee, my love, throughout the world."
"Don't quote at me," Timothy manages, his helpless knees parting and his fists digging into the solid flesh of Jonathan's chest. "Don't tease - "
"I don't tease," Jonathan says. His hips roll down and Timothy inhales sharply at the sudden hot pressure. "One half of me is yours, the other half yours. What will you do with me, Timothy? If you could do anything."
Timothy says nothing, hides his face against Jonathan's arm; he could have done anything and he did anything, and if Jonathan won't come with him out of this place to find a city that has nothing to do with them, then what was it all for? What was it all for, if it wasn't for real? If he woke up right now, alone in bed with a headache and a dream, could he live with that?
Jonathan seeks him out, his mouth wet and red and ready, his tongue stroking into Timothy's mouth like it was made to fit there. Timothy's done with the chase anyway; he's content to be caught and kept, in this way, at least.
"I will follow thee," Jonathan murmurs into Timothy's mouth, "throughout the world."
Los Angeles, Timothy thinks, and closes his eyes with Jonathan's breath between his lips.
Some days, Timothy wakes up and thinks he dreamed everything. It was all a dream, some crazy, stupid dream, and he's going to get out of bed and get dressed and go to school and deal with the stupid fucking assholes that he deals with every day, and come home, and shower, and go to sleep, and do it all over again.
Some days, though, he wakes up and he knows everything was real. Implausibly, impossibly real, and his body hurts to prove it, muscles aching in a happy, sore way, hands that are still holding the shape of Jonathan's shoulders between them. His mouth still tastes like Jonathan's mouth. He knows how that tastes, he could describe it in iambic pentameter if he had to, a sonnet, a couplet, something that rhymes and matches and sounds beautiful tripping off the tongue. Now that he knows what it looks like on other people, he could go into rhapsodies about what swells in his chest when Jonathan reaches for him, what it feels like when Jonathan's body is cradled between his hips. He never thought he could have this here, in this suffocating town, and he's still not planning to stay, but now he's planning on taking something with him.
"Will you come?" he asks Jonathan one night, when they're sweaty and fitting into each others' hollows like hands in gloves. Jonathan's breath is still evening out - he gets so worked up, Timothy loves it - and his palm is resting comfortably against Timothy's neck. "Come with me, I mean."
"Where are you going?" Jonathan asks easily. His eyes don't even open.
"Wherever. I don't care. Somewhere exciting."
Jonathan smiles and shifts his leg, pressing up high between Timothy's thighs. "This isn't exciting enough for you?"
"Stop," Timothy says, but there's no sting in it. "I know you've heard it before, just, just stop."
Jonathan sighs. His fingers curl into Timothy's hair. "You want to go. You want me to come with you."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No."
Timothy opens his mouth, and then closes it again. The light from the lamp on his nightstand makes the post-orgasm flush on Jonathan's cheeks seem so red. Timothy remembers their first time in his bed, his fumbling, Jonathan's patience, like it had been the other way around and Jonathan had just been waiting for some boy to fall in love with him so he could do this as expertly as he does everything else.
"You're looking at me," Jonathan says.
Timothy's always looking at Jonathan. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No."
"So then come with me."
Jonathan sighs again. He opens his eyes this time, and Timothy's breath catches a bit in his throat because Jonathan's so, so close to him. He's naked and pressed against him, and his forehead tips against Timothy's and his eyes are stupidly blue.
"I don't even know why you're talking about this again," Jonathan says, and tucks a kiss into the corner of Timothy's mouth. Timothy's heart freezes for just a second, the way it does every time Jonathan kisses him. "You don't need to be afraid, Timothy."
"I'm not," Timothy replies, but he is, he always is, he still is. A dream-like day can only fix so much.
He doesn't know when Jonathan came to know him, but he is so grateful for the sure way Jonathan rolls them over, pinning Timothy's body under his, propping himself up on his golden forearms and letting his lips brush the sensitive underside of Timothy's jaw when he tells him "don't be afraid that I won't come with you." He kisses a chain across Timothy's throat; Timothy arches against the weight of Jonathan's thigh, growing hard again when Jonathan tells him "I'll follow thee, my love, throughout the world."
"Don't quote at me," Timothy manages, his helpless knees parting and his fists digging into the solid flesh of Jonathan's chest. "Don't tease - "
"I don't tease," Jonathan says. His hips roll down and Timothy inhales sharply at the sudden hot pressure. "One half of me is yours, the other half yours. What will you do with me, Timothy? If you could do anything."
Timothy says nothing, hides his face against Jonathan's arm; he could have done anything and he did anything, and if Jonathan won't come with him out of this place to find a city that has nothing to do with them, then what was it all for? What was it all for, if it wasn't for real? If he woke up right now, alone in bed with a headache and a dream, could he live with that?
Jonathan seeks him out, his mouth wet and red and ready, his tongue stroking into Timothy's mouth like it was made to fit there. Timothy's done with the chase anyway; he's content to be caught and kept, in this way, at least.
"I will follow thee," Jonathan murmurs into Timothy's mouth, "throughout the world."
Los Angeles, Timothy thinks, and closes his eyes with Jonathan's breath between his lips.