𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖎𝖆
【 (noun.) the place where one's strength is drawn from; where one feels at home; the place where one is their most authentic self. its verb, "queer" means to desire.】
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ｈｉｄｄｌｅｓｗｏｒｔｈ ｆａｎｆｉｃ
summary: A drunken Tom recalls his time w...
"@chrishemsworth: This year marks the 10th anniversary of THOR when two unknown lads were given the keys to the kingdom. It's been a hell of a ride and we clearly haven't aged a day @twhiddleston @marvelstudios"
Love had the Milky Way tasting like berries and rum. But love takes two (at least). When only one is tethered to love, sorrow pulls love off gravity's axis.
Some moments you want to rage against the waves of reality, it was balled fists, sore voices, ragged breaths. Sometimes life is drained out of you, it was drooping muscles, sunken eyes, numbed pain.
When Tom compromised with reality, he was tired of the unmet gazes, unrequited feelings.
Reality was a jar with its lid unsecured on his shelf of life, its contents seeping out, weaving with dreams from the jar marked "the unreal".
Its union appealed to him, of the world as he saw it and the world as he imagined it to be. It was but another expression of the eternal ideal of blunt truth and beauty.
He wanted Chris bluntly. He wanted Chris's face to be marked in his dreams, Chris's smile carved on his eyelids, existing with Tom as the moon orbited earth, not as strange resemblances of a dream, not as a ghost from Tom's past. He craved Chris, he ached for him, he called for his name.
As I drew nearer to the end of all desire, I brought my longing's ardor to a final height, Just as I ought. My vision, becoming pure,
Tom closed his eyes, his eyelids shielding himself from the world.
Chris was the sun. Tom dared to look up and Chris was imprinted in his gaze, he looked away and there Chris was, his glow carved under Tom's eyelids, a lamp in the dark.
Entered more and more the beam of that high light That shines on its own truth. From then, my seeing Became too large for speech, which fails at a sight
Whenever Tom opened his eyes, reached for him, Chris escaped in the beams of streetlights, in the reflections of storefronts, in the gleam of cobbles, in every swirl of wine, dissipating in the pungent air of alcohol.
Tom closed his eyes again, relishing in the imagination of Chris's presence.
Beyond all boundaries, at memory's undoing— As when the dreamer sees and after the dream The passion endures, imprinted on his being
One decade, since the first page of their journey was written, since they first introduced themselves to each other, since they first looked at each other and decided, "would be fun working with him".
Though he can't recall the rest. I am the same: Inside my heart, although my vision is almost Entirely faded, droplets of its sweetness come
Why would love end? How do you not love anymore?
Now and the many more years to come, are all dependent on the scripture of their "bromance". A flower that bloomed. It lives on, basking in the light of fame, but its petals are stretched to its limits, and behind that are boundaries that cannot be passed.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the truth. Tom thought to himself anyway, he led one life before Chris, before fame, before maturity; another during Chris, plus a life unlived of what-ifs with Chris.
A life unlived was a life lost. No past, no present, no future.
When he missed it, Tom was not sure. Maybe it was when Tom looked into his coffee as Chris said he was married, maybe it was when Tom was told Loki was dying in The Dark World and thought the brothers on the silver screen (and the actors behind them) were not to reunite, maybe it was when Tom sighed when Chris didn't meet his gaze.
A live unlived seemed way too important, yet in truth, too casual, like a train that leaves the station at nine; too vulnerable, like dandelions a breath could blow away. It was perhaps in all these absurd, hectic, subtle details of daily life, that Tom missed what his heart yearned for the most and had his heart crumpled ruthlessly, as unnoticeable as ever like withering flowers.
Heartbreak seemed way too important, yet summer still came and winter still went. Tom's heart still beat, life still ran its course and Tom's imaginary life still had the milkyway tasting of berries and rum.
The way the sun dissolves the snow's crust— The way, in the wind that stirred the light leaves, The oracle that the Sibyl wrote was lost.
All the way, as Tom danced around with short relationships and enthusiastic lovers, throbbing in his ribs was a hollow heart, stories untold, words unsaid.
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Even as I cleave the flesh of wanting from the bone,
