Konstantine


Chapter 1 – Edge, April 2001

I can't imagine all the people that you know
And the places that you go
When the lights are turned down low
And I don't understand all the things you've seen
But I'm slipping in between
You and your big dreams
It's always you
In my big dreams

What’s that quote? “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curve of your lips rewrites history.”

My vantage point on the world from here is simply astounding. Each night I get to stand here, fingers and arms performing practiced, memorized, automatic movements that produce something akin to noise – but I get to watch you. I get to watch you rise and fall, watch you bleed your soul out through your mouth, watch you jump into an audience hungry for blood or love or something real. I get to watch as you beg for forgiveness on your knees, flick off the crowd, and kiss a crying girl in your arms.

And tonight, when you come to me dizzy and starry-eyed, I will put a gentle kiss on your forehead and brush the hair out of your eyes in the half hour it takes for you to become yourself again. Your beauty is breathtaking.

There’s no more rushing, there’s no more whispered nothings in empty hallways, there’s no more catching our lumpy pain in our throats and trying to ignore the lingering glances. When I will kiss you tonight, it will be simple, pure. Your lips are soft – I know that now. I never noticed that before. I was been too caught up in the fact that I was kissing you—not just another woman, not just another man, but you. My heart felt like it would explode in my chest. But now, I know how the curve of your chin fits mine, what the silence sounds like around us, and the sweet taste of you when you haven’t been drinking or smoking – or even if you have.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever really come to terms with all of this. But I just push on everyday, one day at a time. All I know is that I love you, I want you, and when I’m not with you I’m unhappy.

Christ, how clichéd is that? We wrote poems that bad even before we were at Mount Temple.

But it’s true.

Every word.

I know that my contradictions will always be a part of me, whether I like it or not. You taught me that by wearing a pair of horns and sparkly platform shoes and calling your house in front of thousands of people to be greeted by the voice of your youngest daughter. By admitting to that, I’m admitting that you are a part of me that I’ve not yet accepted. And yet, you feel so right in my arms. This all feels so right.

“Edge, love, did you hear me tonight? My voice is better.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“I swear, I felt so alone out there.”

“Why?”

“Except when you were out on the tip with me. In the spotlights. I really wanted to touch you then.”

“I did, too.”

“Did I hurt your guitar tonight?”

“Dallas said it was fine.”

“Do you ever think about all this, Edge? I mean, really just stop and think about who you’ve become and where you are? Do you ever think about all that we’ve been through, and all that is still in store for us?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“It’s so…” you pause for a word that you already know, “…extraordinary.” A beat. “Nowadays, the world is lit by lightning.”

I had bought you an old, faded, and marked-up copy of The Glass Menagerie the other day in a used bookshop.

There is nothing I love more than watching your eyes slowly move about the room with each of your wild, hushed thoughts muttered in half-phrases, Bible verses and expletives.

These moments, sitting with you after a concert, are perfect. There’s the post-show rush all about us: techies streaming in for a night’s work of dismantling the stage and packing it away again, B-list stars trying to pry into our dressing rooms, press looking for a quick snapshot. The relative euphoria of it all makes it run almost in slow motion, like the world is revolving around us. All right – maybe just around you.

But as shapes and colors flash across the doorframe of the room, I can’t help but think that you are right. There are so many things and so many people that have gotten us here, and where we are right now is simply incredible. You like to muse that you are the luckiest man on earth. I think that puts me in a pretty good position for second-best.

Why couldn’t it have always been this easy?

Why did we have to spend years upon years agonizing over this, this pure and simple love that we have for each other? Why couldn’t we get our heads out of our asses sooner? Why did we ever think this was not meant to be?

The band right now is all about emotional baggage. That’s what the whole album was about, wasn’t it? In mine, I have so many memories of nights without you, nights where I would wake up sweating and frightened, nights where I couldn’t fall asleep because of how hot my skin was where you had touched me. It falls heavy at my feet with every hotel stop, missed flight, mediocre show. It falls heavy at my feet with every night spent staring at the ceiling in a cold bed.

But now, simply sitting here with you, I can’t imagine anything more perfect.

My mind flashes back to a concert a few days ago, specifically how much the audience had sung along to the harmony of “Stay.” The tune finds my throat and I hum it oh so quietly, as not to wake you from your dream-like state. I find my fingers moving along to the chords even through there is not a guitar in my hand. You notice and begin to tap out the drum beat on the back of my hand, mumbling something akin to the lyrics.

“It's much better now,” you murmur, your fingers up, down, up, down. “Here. Now. When I can touch you. Where I can be with you.” They stop, feeling the skin of my palm.

“You’re always with me,” I whisper back to you, only half-conscious that I had actually spoken. You are coming back down to earth; you snort and smirk at my last comment, writing it off as silly. “What?” I ask, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“Nothing, nothing,” you smile, running your hands through your hair and sitting up straight. I retort with a sly glare, lips turned slightly upward to elicit some kind of response. My attack works, and you place one hand on your heart and another on your forehead, looking towards the ceiling and trilling in a melodramatic voice.

“Oh, Bono, my dearest! How could I ever leave you? You’re always with me!”

Laughing, I throw a pillow from the couch in your general direction, causing you to cover yourself in defense.

“Fuck off,” I grin.

“Wouldn’t you just love that?” you muse, throwing the pillow back at me.

Our laughter calms down and our grins fade to soft smiles. We’re both staring at each other and neither of us care.

There comes a soft knock on the open door, and Larry is standing there, smelling of soap and shampoo instead of sweat and beer. I look over at him, but notice how your eyes don’t leave me.

“Adam has a God-awful craving for lemon meringue,” he pronounces, “so we’re headed to an all-night diner a few miles from the hotel. You guys up for some coffee?”

“No, I’m all right. Thanks though,” I reply.

“You, B?”

You’re still staring at me, and I can suddenly feel hints of color test my cheeks as your eyes burn into my body, imprinting me, claiming me. I fold my tongue over in my mouth and stay fixed on Larry, who rubbing one of his ears.

“I’m pretty tired, actually,” you smile, “so I think I’ll turn in early tonight.”

You liar. You couldn’t be further from the truth.

“All right,” he says, satisfied with our excuses, “I’m off to get some key lime. Wish me luck. See you guys back at the hotel.”

“Night, Lar,” I manage to say without laughing.

“Sweet dreams, Lardence,” you grin.

“Be careful on the way out,” he says, grabbing the doorframe and looking back at us, “There’s a lightning storm outside.”

I look back at you, and now I can’t help but smile.

“We will be.”


*


Chapter 2 – Edge, December 1980

And you tell me that it's over

…Oh, God, just please tell me that I’m a sick bastard, please tell me to get the fuck away from you, please, oh God please tell me this is all my fault and you never intended it to mean anything, just please don’t stand there with that look in your eyes of “I understand.”

Because I don’t want to it be over, because I don’t want to be the one to end this, just, please, yell at me! Make me realize I had this all wrong, that it could never work, that it’s twisted and perverted and you never want to do it again. Tell me I’m wrong to think that what happened meant anything. Tell me you haven’t thought about since then. Just – Just don’t tell me you feel the same way!

Dammit, stop doing that! Stop looking at me like I’m right about this! Stop going along with me! Because if you’re agreeing with me, you’re admitting that that night last month was more than amazing, was more than either of us could handle, was beautiful, was sincere, was frightening as all fuck, was -- was right. Oh, God, Bono, please don’t make me right here.

And you’re walking away from me.

And I’m left here, shivering under a flickering streetlight, about to break in two.

Alone.


*


Chapter 3 – Bono, February 1991

And you’re restless, and I'm naked

“I need a cigarette.”

“Since when do you smoke after sex?” I ask as you stand up and walk over to your coat that was hastily thrown over a chair. Neither of us have even caught our breath from the past half-hour’s festivities, and you’re already up and about, digging through your coat pockets looking for a lighter, an unlit cigarette poking out of your mouth. But you offer no reply, just light up and blow the smoke quickly into the air. I roll my eyes, and, not to be left out, throw the covers off my legs and stand up next to you, grabbing one from your pack and flicking my thumb over the lighter, reveling in the slow nicotine poison.

You retreat back to bed, leaving me standing there completely naked. I raise an eyebrow but don’t think much about it as you sit up against the backboard and throw a sheet over your lower half. You raise your legs so that the dull, grey Berlin moonlight shines through the cheap hotel sheet, and I give a small laugh, sinking into a chair.

“Modesty, Reg, at a time like this?” I muse, taking a long drag of my cigarette. No reply from you, as you prop an arm on a knee, a cigarette hanging loosely between your fingers, staring at the cold night.

Suddenly, I feel a little used, like a one-night-stand who has overstayed her welcome. Not that the sex was bad, which would explain your odd behavior – well, I wouldn’t say it was fantastic, either, just sort of ordinary, like everything else in our lives has been lately. But the silence that now fills this room, save the sounds of traffic and sirens from outside, is much more awkward than the confused expressions and too-fast, too-mechanical movements we went through tonight. But I guess that everyone gets like this once in a while, no? And this city! Fuck, Berlin might as well not exist – making an album in the arctic would be more fruitful than what we’re going through now. And talk about cold, this place –

“Aislinn asked me to move out.”

I blink a few times, automatically.

“What?”

“She asked me to move out,” you say, evenly, not moving your gaze from the window.

Perhaps if my mind chose to work, I would do something, offer some reaction, but I’m not sure I can move my mouth right now. I feel frozen, numb, and I’m suddenly more naked than I was a second ago. I’m ashamed of being like this in front of you. It’s shameful that I should show you myself when – when such things are going on. I falter, my tongue trying to find words that seem awkward and dumb.

“I…Christ, Reg, I’m sorry.” Again, you give no reaction and put your cigarette to your lips. I’m sorry if I’m staring at you, but that was sure one hell of a bombshell to drop two minutes after you screamed my name.

“What happened?” I ask, softly, carefully. “I mean, I knew things were a bit troubled, but –“

Even though you’re not looking at me, I can see the insult rake across your face. I offer a quick apology.

“I’m sorry, I don’t need to know that,” I mutter, finding great interest in the pattern of the carpet and the circles of smoke that rise from my cigarette. I swallow, throat dry, heart racing. Is that me, or is the cig shaking by itself?

“Just...tell me, Reg, tell me this isn’t about, you know,” I give a long pause before looking up from the floor, “us.”

The word seems so out of place right now. And that, finally, elicited a reaction from you, but not the one I had expected: a laugh, short, bark-like. You roll your neck and lean your head against the backboard of the bed, looking at the ceiling.

“No,” you say with something resembling a sneer, “no, B, this is not about you, all right?” Suddenly, you’re standing and pulling on your boxers, that half-finished cigarette still out of place in your mouth. You turn and face me, your hand out flat and gesturing to the wall, the bed, whatever. I’m not sure you know or care.

“Things are not always about you, Bono, okay? And do I know what happened? Do I know what fucking happened? I have no idea, Bono!”

Now I’m definitely trembling.

“If I had any idea,” you say as your voice trails off and your shoulders straighten, turning your head to the side a bit. “I thought that…” A sigh escapes you, and you sink back down onto the bed, the springs in the mattress creaking. You lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs, head in hands, refusing to meet my gaze.

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore what I thought, now, does it?”

You’re so fragile. You’re my fallen angel with broken wings.

I wish…I wish I could make things right again.



But I guess it doesn’t matter what I wish, now, does it? And as you walk towards the window and stare out on this corpse of a city, I’m not sure if it’s you or me who is more afraid right now.

You've gotta get out
You can't stand to see me shaking

But we both have every reason to be afraid, don’t we? I mean, shit, Reg, this is marriage, this is fidelity, this is your life and your kids we’re talking about now, this goes far beyond this cheap Berlin hotel, this -- this is real.

And I’m haunted by the sudden memory of the look of total trust in me that flashed across your eyes that night, years ago in England, when I told you to fuck the consequences: how young and afraid you were, how young and afraid I was.

No

“I’ve…Adam said I can move in with him for a little while, so I don’t have to worry about finding somewhere else while we’re in the middle of recording.” Your voice is higher than it should be, and I begin to wonder your real reasons for showing me your back. I stand up, put out my cigarette and throw a robe around me, tying it closed loosely as I walk over to you. You are motionless, your arms folded firmly on your chest, your breathing too hard to be healthy. My hands find your shoulders, my lips find your neck, and I offer a gentle kiss as something resembling a whimper crawls out of your mouth.

“We’ll get through this,” I whisper to you, resting my chin on your shoulder. You swallow, and I wrap my arms around your waist, locking my fingers in the front. You feel so cold.

“God, it just…it just hurts so much, you know?” you confess, stifling a sniffle.

“I know,” I lie.

Your left hand breaks from its position and finds my head, rubbing me behind the ears.

Could you let me go?

“I’m sorry I yelled at you like that,” you say, clearly, as another fire truck roars down the street below us, flashing red light over your skin.

I didn't think so.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


*


Chapter 4 – Bono, 1986

And you don't want to be here in the future
So you say the present's just a pleasant interruption to the past

I’ve been good to you. We’ve been good to each other. And there haven’t been any of those “happenings” in the past few years. We’re both married now, anyway, and family life along with the band leaves little time for me to get caught up in you. Little, but not none.

And I’ve honored your request ever since that night in England when you asked me to stop. Under that pale streetlight, I locked my heart in a glass box.

I have try not to think about that part of myself since then. I’ve kept my mind on other things, thrown myself in to the band – well, perhaps not working as hard as you have been, but still.

But still, there are nights when I regret ever kissing you, ever taking advantage of you like I did.

But still, there are nights when that one kiss is all I can think about. I replay the scene over and over in my head. By now, all the lines are fuzzy, and the memories, not as sharp. That image of you beneath me, frightened and awake, your breathing matching mine – it’s slowly slipping from my mind. It hurts to not remember exactly how it felt to have you pressed against the wall. Like some broken record, I just relive those few moments again and again and again, straining to remember ever detail, loosing one or two every time. Some nights, I just can’t get it off my mind.

And you don't want to look much closer

I’m loosing my grip. Sometimes, I think I catch you staring at me. But I know it’s all fantasy, all fucked-up, alcohol-induced, lustful fantasy that only rears its ugly head when I’m drunk and lonely.

‘Cause you’re afraid to find out all this hope
You had sent into the sky by now had

You’re married. I’m married. You’re a father, now. I need to get it into my thick head somehow that it will never happen again.

Crashed.

I need to fucking move on.

And it did.

…But there still are those nights when it really, really hurts.

Because of me.


*


Chapter 5 – Bono. November 1980.

I had these dreams
In them, I learn to play guitar
Maybe cross the country
Become a rock star

I know that we’re going to be something one day. You know that feeling you get when everything just feels right? That’s it. Well, that feeling isn’t quite there yet – Adam still needs more practice, I could use another note at the bottom of my range – but you and Larry, you are right on. And, Christ, Reg, these things you’ve been doing lately with your sound? Big things are happening. I can feel it in my bones, as my old man would say. We’re headed somewhere, somewhere important.

But it’s funny how no matter where I see myself in future, you’re there. No matter what the daydream is, you’re always there.

It was always going to be called Boy – that’s what we will tell them in ten years when we’re famous and looking back on our roots: that from day one, the album was going to be called Boy. What we’ve created is all about the emotions of coming-of-age, the sense of loss, the desperation, the frantic search for identity, you know? The angst, the rage, the exploration, the sex, the confusion…

Especially the confusion.

I’m sure lucky that I have you, Gavin, Guggi, Larry, Adam, and the rest of the Village to help me through this whole adolescence thing.

Especially you.

Our world is pretty fucked-up right now, isn’t it?

Remember that day when Guggi told us, matter-of-factly, that we virile boys could get a hard-on from anything at our age? Then Adam made that snide comment about what Guggi gets hard over, which got him kicked in the shins with all of us covering our mouths to stop from laughing so hard.

So I'm sure it’s completely normal for us, to just, you know, want something when you see it.

…Especially you.

I'm sure its completely normal that I find myself grinning when I think of you, I'm sure it's completely normal that I find myself staring at the curve of your lips, I'm sure its completely normal that I find your face flashing through my mind when I get myself off alone in my bed at night...isn't it?

Something, Reg, something tells me that it isn’t normal.

When we’re onstage, I think that we’re at the height of experience. So many emotions are running wild all over the place: blood pounding in our ears, audience scream-singing in unison with my words, our words, singing along to our notes, our songs. It’s getting to the point where the covers aren’t the only thing they’ll sing along to. You have no idea what that does for me as a singer. I’m giving them my soul and they’re giving a few notes right back to me.

When we're onstage, though, it's at its worst. With that blood pounding in my ears, with that audience screaming at our feet, I’ve never wanted to kiss you more.

-- Shit. Think of Guggi, Bono. It’s just part of this whole coming-of-age deal. This won’t last.

And yet, when I occasionally find you walking towards me onstage with a look in your eyes that says more than “Watch your time,” I…

I want.

I want you like that. I want to see your eyes that intense off stage, I want to see your body dive and move under the red lights, the shadows catching your cheekbones and eyelashes, your muscles shifting and moving with the rhythm behind us…

I want you.

But I’m sure it’s just a teenage thing.

…Right? Right. Yeah.

Yeah.

I’m looking forward to tonight’s concert. We need it as a break from all this studio work we’ve been doing, and it’ll give us a chance to get our fires rekindled.

“We’re on in two, B. The other band is just moving their amps off,” Larry says, popping his head into the green room without knocking.

“Right,” I say, snapping out of my daydream and rubbing my eyes with the bottoms of my palms. I manage to turn and give Larry a smile, despite these terrible thoughts that are running rampant through my mind. Walking out of the green room behind him, I stand and watch as the three of you get onstage and tune your instruments. I wait in the shadows, watching you and your intense face. You concentrate just like always, with your eyes moving back and forth from your tuner to your guitar, trying to get the pitch just right. Adam takes about three seconds to finish this process, while Larry focuses on his levels and the man behind the soundboard, beating single notes on each different drum.

Something must be wrong with your gear; you keep looking back at me -- but it’s not meaningful, eye-to-eye communication. You’re stealing little glances at me, your thin fingertips moving from fret to fret in memorized patterns and automatic chords. It’s too late to think any more of it, though. Larry is beginning the opening pattern of the Electric Co., which is my cue to haul my ass onstage. I do, and the crowd roars louder than they had for the rest of the band combined. I begin to sing, trying to ignore how hot your eyes feel on my skin.

The audience is nothing extraordinary tonight, but then again, neither is our playing. We haven’t fucked up anything major yet, but we’re not playing our best show, either. Everything is perfectly normal.

…Except for the fact that you’re staring at me, and trying to get closer to me, and walking towards me, and looking like something I can’t describe whenever I get near to you. Something about it makes me uncomfortable, and something about it makes me want this more.

At one point, I walk over to you and my hand finds your shoulder, pressing firmly. You kept your eyes on your guitar, and something in me felt jealous. Notice me, Edge, look at me.

I force to you see me.

I kissed you.

Nothing big, nothing fancy, just a peck on the cheek that lasted for maybe a moment too long. People roared. Under those red lights, I saw color creeping onto your pale cheeks. You grinned for the audience, sheepishly, but when you turned and looked back at me, I saw something light up in your eyes. You almost looked…grateful.

…This was it, this was what you had been waiting for, and for the rest of the concert, you hardly left my side. The energy passing between us was electrifying. When I moved close and sang into your mic, when I felt the heat pouring off your body, when I found my mouth hanging open to taste your sweat….This, this was it.

For the end of the song, I just watched you sing, watched your eyes flutter with the notes. When it had ended, you looked at me…

…And I knew.

I saw it in you for that one fleeting second before the lights went to sudden blackout, before we made our way backstage, before…

Before I could check your eyes again to see that it was still there, before we moved our fear off stage, before I could be close to you and your smell your sweat on your clothes, before you looked at me with this expression of total need and desire on your face…

I grab your wrist loosely between my fingers, and you ask no questions as I lead you away from the green room, the both of us silently thankful that these dingy little clubs are full of dark hallways, nooks and crannies. I turn to face you, and even in the darkness I can see the starlight in your eyes. My other hand finds your other wrist, and I draw you into me, opening my palms against yours and interlocking our fingers, slowly, gently backing you up against the wall. Once you can go no further, I continue, moving our arms down to our sides. Over the dull roar of the audience and the metical twinge of the next band that took the stage after us, I can hear your breathing and mine fall into rhythm. I keep moving bit by bit, and soon we are nose to nose, drinking each other in our heat and musk and breath, shuddering electricity dancing between us for tortured seconds. Intoxicated, you limply let your hands fall from mine.

And there was hope in me that I could take you there,
But dammit, you're so young,

And suddenly, your fingers are up against my open mouth, and my hands find your hips, thumbs crawling around to the softer flesh on your taut belly, bringing you into me. My eyes devour you: the sharp corners of your cheeks, how wide your eyes are, the curve of your lips. Your breath is fast, heavy, and smooth; I know you want this as much as I do. But you stop, your red tongue darting over your coral lips.

“Bono, we…” you pause, swallowing, teasing my eyes with another lick. “We have to consider what we’re getting into, the consequences…” Your eyes droop, lowering to my mouth.

Well I don't think I care.

I can barely whisper. “Reg, fuck the consequences…”

Something flashes across your starlit eyes, and I crush my mouth into yours. You whimper-moan, going limp against me, sandwiched between my body and the cold cement. You’re so warm…

We fumble through this mad ecstasy, our tongues against each other, in each other, desperate, rough, pleading, oh god yes, just please let me…

I break first, the soft sound of lips parting echoing the gasping, shuddering breaths that both us exhale. My eyes find yours and I frown.

And if I hurt you

“Look, Edge,” I pause, our noses knocking together as you glance at me, “if you don’t want to do this, we can stop right now before things,” I remember to breathe, “go any further.”

Then I’m sorry

“No,” you shake your head, casting your prismatic eyes to the floor. “I…” You look up, meeting my gaze.

Please don't think that this was easy

“I liked it.”

And then you bring me home
‘Cause we both know what it's like to be alone
And I’m dreaming in your living room
But we don't have much room to live


*


Chapter 6 – Edge, 1997

And I was thinking…
What was I thinking…
We've been drinking, and it doesn't get me anywhere

What really hurts is that I caused you pain. Forget about me, forget about this crushing weight that makes it hard for my heart to beat right now. I hurt you. And I still don’t fucking know if I was right or not in doing what I did. I just don’t fucking know.

And I’ve been thinking
It hurts me thinking that these nights
When we were drinking no they never got us anywhere
No

I stare at the glass of whiskey on the table, watching it sit and sweat as the ice melts. I had poured it as soon as I got back to my room, and yet I haven’t touched it since then.

That’d be too easy.

It’d be much too easy to just drown my sorrows for the night and drink alone, to enjoy the light burn that would run down my chest as punishment for my actions, punishment for our actions. It’d be easy for me to just pass out and forget everything for a few hours, but I know that I’d still have to face you in the morning. And I know you’d be able to tell by the bloodshot eyes and bitter breath that I was hung over. It would hurt you. Again.

It might hurt me, too.

And that glass of whiskey is still sitting there, testimony to my problems.

This is because I can spell “confusion” with a “k”
And I can like it

I thought I had it all worked out, you know? But now, I just don’t know anymore. God has a funny way of doing that. Just when you think things are safe, He pulls the rug out from under you like a magician removing a tablecloth without touching the flatware -- you’re left standing there, wondering what to do.

That was the night when it all came crashing down around me.

That was the night when you had grabbed my arm after the encore, before we were even off the stage, and growled in my ear that you needed me, now. That was the night when I nonchalantly followed you into your dressing room and closed the door behind me, and you had immediately grasped my shoulders and shoved me against the wall, your eyes flashing over my body for a lingering instant before your attacked my mouth with yours, biting and sucking and murmuring how much you needed me, how much you loved me. You moved your lips down to my neck, sucking on my adam’s apple as it moved when I swallowed, pressing your lips to where you could feel my pulse, biting me there, pulling my skin through your teeth and then sucking the indentations you made. You told me I was beautiful. Your hand found my crotch, and you palm pressed into me, cupping me, trying to convince me that I wanted this and that it felt good. You told me I was so hot on stage tonight, that I was glowing. Your lips went to my collarbones, licking the dip where they meet, and your hand undid the fly on my jeans, reaching in under the elastic of my boxers and again palming me. You told me you wanted me. The inevitable physical reaction began to occur, and I sighed and leaned my head against the wall, running a hand through your hair as you sank to your knees.

This was nice, I told myself, idly massaging your scalp with my fingertips as you took my cock in your mouth, humming to yourself as you became satisfied, sucking and licking, hitting all the spots that I like to have hit. Soon, you began to bob your head up and down, but never being able to keep a rhythm for too long before you changed and wanted to try something else. You squeezed my shaft with one of your hands as the other pulled out your dick (I shouldn’t have been surprised it was nearly twitching you were so hard) and began to jerk yourself off. I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the wall, and allowed myself to enjoy the physical sensations, focusing on the warm and wet. Between your licks, you loosed you tongue, asking me if I liked it when you suck my cock, if I liked how much of a little whore you were, asking me if I wanted this…

Soon, you broke, grabbing my ass in your hands firmly and licking my belly and hipbones with long, flat strokes, nipping me where the bone rose out of the skin.

“Do you want to fuck me, Reg?” you asked, looking up at me with clouded blue eyes.

“What?”

“Do you want to fuck me?” you said again, as if I hadn’t heard you the first time.

I looked around, as if there was someone else in the room.

“Here? Now?”

“Yes, here, yes, now…Please, please fuck me, Reg…you have no idea how much I need it.”

I pushed the air out of my lungs laboriously.

“Couldn’t you just finish? I was enjoying it,” I said, apologetically.

“Come on, Reg, please? No one will try to find us for another hour or so, and we can lock the door…”

“I don’t know, B…”

“Reg, I need it,” you whined as you stood up, pulling me by the hips over to the couch. The both of us stepped out of trousers as we walked. You pulled my shirt off over my head.

I gave you a small smirk as you pulled off your own as well. With a sigh, I asked, “How do you want it?”

“Just gently,” you replied, grabbing a bottle of lube out of your bag and throwing yourself onto the couch. You opened the bottle and poured some into your fingers, reaching back and preparing yourself as you tossed the bottle to me, no instructions necessary. I put some into my hands, lubing up my cock and kneeling on the couch over you, straddling your ass.

“Ready?” I asked.

"Yes," you whimpered.

I took the head of my cock into my hand and pushed. After a few seconds, you gave, groaning as I sank into you. This was nice, I told myself; you were warm and soft and willing. I went gently, just as you had asked, inching myself in to you. I got just far enough and your whole body tensed up, toes curling and the small of your back arching upwards.

“Ah, shit, Reg…yes, fuck me,” you cooed.

Yes, this is nice, this is good. I am enjoying this, I told myself: you writhing below me and how tight you were, and what am I doing here?

I blinked at myself and shook my head. The beat missed, I began to hump you – gently, as you had asked.

No, why am I here?

What an odd thought to have during sex, I thought, but it soon left my mind as I felt your ass clench around me. Your movement and sounds signified your orgasm, and I sighed, closing my eyes and holding my breath, speeding up. My nerves soon took over and warm heat washed over my body as I emptied myself into, silently. A moment later you pulled yourself off of me and rolled over, and I leaned back so that you were able to pull your legs out from under me.

“That was wonderful,” you purred. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You took a deep breath and stood up.

“You’ll want to get showered and dressed,” you said, “Ali is here for a conference and she’s going out with us tonight.”

It's to dying in another's arms

I think it was at that point when my mouth actually fell open.

“What?”

“Ali’s going out with us tonight,” you said as if I had not heard you, again. You wiped your ass of cum and lube (and, from the looks of it, a smidgen of blood – so much for gentle) with a paper towel and pulled on your boxers.

I scoffed with a look of disbelief on my face, throwing my arms in the air and standing up, walking over to my jeans and pulling them back on.

“What?” you asked, for one time sounding if you were listening, looking at me with your eyebrows furrowed.

“I can’t believe you,” I snapped. “I just can’t fucking believe you!”

“What?” you said. I think you sounded desperate.

“You were just on your knees, begging me to fuck you, and now you’re going to go kiss your wife like you didn’t just make love to me? If you could even call it that,” I sneered.

“Edge, what are you talking about?”

My heart was racing in my chest. I think it was going even faster than it had been when I was on top of you.

“I am talking about the fact that you’re leading two lives here.”

“What?” you asked, naïve.

I could feel the anger building up under my throat.

“Bono, you just can’t do that to her. She’s worth more than that. I’m worth more than that. You’re – you’re fucking using me, Bono!”

“Edge, what the fuck are you talking about? You’re doing the same damn thing!”

“Fuck you, I’m different” I growled.

“No, fucking listen to me. You’re being absurd. I’ve never one raised one peep about you and Aislinn or you and Morliegh, but the fact that I’m married and have been since day one now suddenly changes everything? I’m using you? What the hell are you on about?”

“You’re right,” I huffed. “Maybe this has always been wrong.”

The expression fell off your face and the color drained out of your cheeks. The next time you talked, it was barely above a whisper, cautious, careful.

“Edge, I thought we had worked that -- “

“Maybe,” I pressed on, my voice twice as loud as yours, “maybe this isn’t right anymore. Maybe it never was right. We’re – we’re both older now, we have responsibilities to other people -- our wives, our kids, the band. We can’t just keep indulging these -- these impulses of ours. We can’t live like that forever. We’re not bloody teenagers anymore, Bono. We can’t just keep doing whatever the fuck we want.”

But at that point, I had to turn my eyes down to the floor, because --

Because all my words to you began to hurt.

My voice dropped, softening, weakening.

“Bono, I think this -- I mean, I think us…”

I sighed with a tremble from anger and fear.

Fuck. I’m right, aren’t I?

How could we have been so blind? How it can be so simple?

This is wrong. This must be wrong. It doesn’t feel right. Not anymore, at least.

Fuck. I’m right. I know I’m right. But why do I have to be?

“Maybe -- maybe we need to end this.”

Then why does being right suddenly hurt so much?

And why I had to try it


*


Chapter 7 – Edge, 1989

I can hear the metal door swing open behind me with a clang as you come chasing after me, so I stuff my hands in my pockets against the chilly New York air and square my shoulders, walking at a quick clip even though I know you’re going to catch up with me in a matter of seconds.

“Edge, wait up!” you yell, your footsteps betraying your running pace.

I don’t turn around to look, I just yell over the rough wind back at you.

“Bono, I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Well, at least that’s partly true. Let’s not now, let’s not tomorrow, how about let’s not talk about this ever again? Does that work? That will suit me just fine.

I think it would be best for both of us if we both just forgot the past few minutes of our lives, just pretend that they never happened at all. Let’s imagine that your hand had not brushed across my thighs when you had reached for that pen on the table, and let’s pretend that my eyes did not go three shades glassier when it did, and most of all, let’s act like your fingers had felt nothing happening between my legs when you pulled your hand back again.

It’d be so much easier than going through all this. I really don’t want to have to dig up all that emotional baggage and face all those years of my own self-fucking-torment. Just let a wounded dog die on its own, all right?

“No, Edge, now. This has been going on for way too long. You. Me. Talking. Now. No more bullshit.”

And if this is what it takes
Just to lie in my mistakes

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. You’ve been found out, you idiot. He knows. He knows, he knows, oh God, he knows. This ruins everything. You’ve ruined everything, Edge. Now what?

No matter what I did to you
All the hell I put you through

You’ve caught up with me and your hand catches my shoulder. With the force of the three motions between us, I wheel around and take a few steps backwards, face to face with your flushed, red cheeks.

…And your eyes are much more frightened than they should be for someone in your shoes. This is the point where you tell me to take some time away from the band, right? This is where I sheepishly nod and say that things have been hard at home, that you’re right, I should take some time off? And then you’ll take me out for a pint where I’ll get drunk to drown the knot that’s rising in my throat and bitch about everything, and you’ll make sure I get home to my wife and kids okay, and then pretty much desert me, right? This is the point where you push me out of your life in any intimate way because I’m so stupid that when I get close to someone I fall in love with them, right? This is where I’m supposed to stop hurting both you and myself, right?

This silence has been going on much too long for that routine.

And suddenly, I’m very, very scared. My heart is beating so fast that I can feel it within my chest. You open your mouth, slowly.

“Listen…I know this is probably not a good idea, so if the answer is no I just want you to forget this ever happened, okay? But, even now, there are times when…when I just feel something for you.”

You scan my face for a reaction, and, finding none, you press on.

“And I don’t know what it is, exactly, and I don’t know what I really want to do about it…but just, tell me, Reg…when I kissed you, and you told me – you told me you enjoyed it – when you talked to me and said that it was too much, too dangerous – when, when I swallowed everything you told me -- did you ever think that just maybe, instead, you…”

You’re too afraid to finish your thought and I’m too shocked to do anything but shake my head in disbelief. You…you still want this?

You still want me?

I can’t talk. All I can manage is a murmured, disbelieving “no.”

That’s not how it meant to sound, I quickly think, but soon that thought is pushed out of the way when I see your throat tighten and something resembling a shiver shake your shoulders. Something dies in your eyes. And you begin to slowly walk away, stepping backwards, nodding, mouth straight, and a look of utter defeat painted across your face. A few steps later and you turn, picking up pace and walking away from me. I blink and decide I have to do something; I can’t let you walk away from this if you really still feel that way. Because…

Well, because I do too.

“Wait, Bono!”

I catch up to you and you turn around. Now it’s my turn to say something. I can’t take that look of utter pain that floods your face for a moment longer. The back of my throat throws something to my lips.

“I…but, I thought you didn’t…”

Your expression melts as you slowly shake your head. If I touch you, I might just explode. I’m shaking so hard.

“Oh, Edge…”

How wonderful it is to hear you say my name like that. I can feel it in your voice.

We move to each other so slowly, our movement cautious and reserved, almost like we’re approaching a frightened, wounded animal that might run away at any sudden move. I can’t think, I can’t see, I can’t hear anything you’re saying, all I can do is feel, feel your cold hands move and grasp my forearms, feel your fingers rub the smooth flesh there, feel my chin find your shoulder and yours find mine. Your words are whispers, lingering breaths upon my ears.

It's not hard to dream
You'll always be my Konstantine

“I’m so sorry. I never knew that you…”

“I -- I think I do. I think I want. I don’t know if I can.”

I pull back and look at you intently. I’m so afraid.

“Then let me…”

It’s too late for you to even begin to raise a protest; my lips are at yours.

And even though it’s been years since we were last here, you’re still exactly how I remember you. All those little details I had forgotten come rushing back to me, drowning me in sensation and memory. It lasts too long, it’s over too soon, and before I know it, I’m mustering up the courage to look you in the eye, which is no small feat in my present position. We’re so close to each other that the biting wind can’t break through. All I can feel is how hot your skin is under your clothing. Without looking at me, you move into to me so that we’re standing cheek to cheek, our hands barely holding onto each other, afraid to grasp too tightly.

They’ll never hurt you like I do

“How long have --” you whisper.

“Since forever.” There’s a pause, and for a moment, I can feel something warm and wet touch the side of my neck.

“Christ, Edge. If I had only known…I’m so sorry.”

No, they'll never hurt you like I do

I find heat filling my cheeks. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, B,” I say, closing my eyes.

And here we are.

“Edge?”

“Yes?”

“What do we do now?” you ask, and I catch myself smiling through the pain in my throat.

“I don’t know,” I admit, not needing to see you to feel you smile.

“Bono?”

“Yes?”

“Can we stay here for a while?”


*


Chapter 8 – Edge, 1984

Hey
You know
You keep me up in bed

And reality hits me. And I’m alone. And it’s the middle of the night. And I’m not in your arms, and you’re not writhing below me, and you’re not licking off the cold sweat that runs down my back. And those thoughts that tempted me in my dreams aren’t real. They’re not real, Edge. They’re not real.

But…but they were real. Once.

But no. Not anymore. Not since you don’t want it. Not since you don’t want me. I could never do that to you again. God, how could I be so stupid…

Let me just roll over and grasp my pillow with both hands, shut my eyes and curl up, try to ignore the undeniable heat between my legs, and hope I don’t wake her up.

It’s all in your head, Reg.

It’s not real.


*


Chapter 9 – Bono, 1983

Hey
Maybe
Baby
You could keep me up in bed

Did you know how beautiful you are when you sleep?

I know I’m not the only one who finds it hilarious how easy it is for you to fall asleep on a train or a bus or a boat, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who thinks it’s wonderful. The rocking motions of transportation, you say, lull you to sleep. And there are so many nights when I have enjoyed finding a spot on the bus away from you and watch as your eyelids fight (and loose) against gravity. You’re often in the middle of a book when it’s happening, or just sometimes staring off into the horizon. Your head will make a few dips, and you will catch yourself, shaking the sleep off your shoulders, only to drift back into the head-bobbing a few moments later. Once your restless body finally gives up, your head always leans back a bit into your seat.

I love watching you like that. You almost look like an unconscious angel, your lips open in the slightest, your eyes twitching with your subconscious.

I wonder what you’re dreaming about.

And something inside of me wants to just go over there and curl up against your shoulder, something deep within me wants to feel your chest rise and fall with your slow rhythm, wants to just fall in and never…never…

…fuck.


*


Chapter 10 – Bono, 2000

My Konstantine

Shivering – that’s what I’ve been doing a lot of lately. We’re back on tour now, and all these memories are just choosing the worst times to appear in my mind. I’m shivering myself to sleep trying to think of something else. And these luxury blankets and comforters don’t do the least bit to help. Sometimes, I’m so cold.

It’s not so terrible when we’re back at home, really, between the tours and studio work. I get pushed back into my schedule of sucking up to world leaders and calling back home to Ali and the kids, and I don’t get to see you that often. You’ve got your own life now, one apart from me, with Morleigh and your new, beautiful children.

It just really hurts that I’m not a part of it.

But I’ll get over it, someday. I’m sure.

But being on tour with you reminds me of everything. And sometimes, it’s hard. These littler breaks we have in the tour are the hardest. Two weeks is not long enough to go home, for me at least, but just long enough to where you begin to get lonely without the rest of the crew around. So I’m stuck here in a hotel in Dublin, trying to catch up on sleep, failing miserably, and finding myself drinking alone every night instead of –

Shit.

Instead of being with you.

I’ve got to stop thinking like that.

Maybe there will be something worthwhile on the telly tonight, I tell myself, reaching for the remote with one hand (the other is occupied by a glass of vodka, surprisingly my first drink tonight) and turning on the TV. The bright light hurts my eyes. Was I really sitting here in total darkness? The sun must’ve set without me noticing.

But it seems tonight is not much better. It’s all the same shit and reruns. But why does this second-rate American sitcom keep having the door bell ring?

Unless…I mute the TV, and sure enough, that’s my own doorbell. But who got past the front desk? Must be Paul with some things for me to sign. But who is calling at this hour? I glance at the clock. Is it really only 8:30? I must be on the wrong time zone…

“Bono?”

Electricity runs down my spine. That’s not Paul’s voice.

“Are you in there?”

I swallow and can still taste the alcohol in my dry throat. I’m not sure I can handle you tonight, Edge…

“Bono, open up, I want to talk.”

Why, so you can rub how happy you are without me in my face? God, I’m not even clothed properly, just in a robe. But you keep on knocking. I lick my lips and set down my glass. The first time I open my mouth to speak my voice cracks, so I clear my throat.

“Hang on a sec, Edge,” I say, unlocking and opening the door. I don’t look at your face. The light would hurt my eyes. I just walk away with the line of white that pours in from behind you.

“Come in, I just need to make myself like half decent,” I say, walking into the bedroom and pulling on a pair of jeans and a t shirt from off the floor. I don’t dare look in the mirror – I know how bloodshot my eyes must be – and with a swig of water to get the stale alcohol taste out of my mouth, I walk out to meet you.

I should’ve realized that this would take a lot more courage than I thought it would.

Spin around me like a dream we played out on this movie screen

You’re sitting at the bar counter, face down, twirling a drink between your palms that you must’ve mixed while I was changing.

…

…well, don’t think that I’m going to start a conversation; you’re the one who came over here. I don’t even know how you got my room number, unless – unless you asked for it, of course .

Silence just hangs in the air for some of the longest seconds of my life before you take a sip of whatever it is that’s in your glass and begin to talk, still looking at the counter.

And I said

“Bono, do you remember that night in Berlin when I told you I was leaving Aislinn?”

Of course I remember. That was moments after some pretty rough sex. I could tell you were desperate for something then.

“Yes,” I reply, leaving out what might offend you now.

“Do you remember a few months later, when you held me all night when I couldn’t stop crying?”

I conjure up the memory. “Yes.”

You barely wait for my response. “That night, that night when I just couldn’t stop crying, I made a promise to myself. I told myself that I was the luckiest guy in the world to have a mate like you, that I would never let anything get in the way of our relationship, but most of all, that I would never let myself hurt you like Aislinn hurt me.”

I feel like a ten pound bowling ball has just been shoved into my stomach, and you’re still talking, twirling your glass between your hands.

“And I don’t know why, but in the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking about us a lot.”

I smirk. “Edge, there is no us anymore. Remember, Edge? That was wrong.”

Wow. That was harsh. Did I really say that? I should apologize.

You wince and bite your lips. “I deserved that.”

No, you didn’t.

“All right,” you continue after a beat, “there really is no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to put it out. I don’t think that, overall, I’ve been as happy in the past few years as I was when I … well, when you and I were, you know.”

Despite all the courage I thought this would take, nothing could prepare me for what you were about to say.

“And I think I want to go back.”

I stare. It’s about all I can do right now.

“I think that…that I want to try this again.”

I’ve got to get out. You’ve cornered me in here; I’m suffocating. You can’t just walk right back in here and lay our sordid past out in front of me and ask me to ignore how much it hurt when you decided that you couldn’t love me like that anymore. You’re smothering me, Edge. I can’t breathe without it hurting.

I don’t even answer you, I just turn and walk, walking somewhere, nowhere, just anywhere but here. I reach the door, which I open and begin to step out into the too-brightly lit hallway, with you right behind me.

“Bono, wait, listen to me,”

“No, Edge, I don’t want to hear this. You can’t fuck with me like this.”

“Bono –“

“Not here, Reg, not now, not –“

Did you know I missed you?

“Just shut up and listen to me!” you yell, turning me around. “I miss you. I’ve missed you, all right? I miss not being able to talk to you without this awkward shit, I miss how your hair feels when I run it through my fingers, I miss being able to watch you while you sing and not feel terrible about it, I miss being able to just go to you and have everything be perfect like it used to be!”

You...no.

No, this can't be right. This is all a lie. You don't want this anymore. You thought it was wrong, remember? You thought that this was all wrong. You told me…

Did you know I missed you?

"And I'm sorry," you continue, the tone of your voice this time repentant and low. "I'm sorry that it took me so long to figure this out, but…it's my own fault. And the truth is," you pause, swallowing, "I've spent the last two years trying to figure out how I could tell you this. And if you would listen, and what you would do."

My heart just fell to my feet.

Did you know I missed you?

And you’ve moved towards me and taken my hands in yours, looking at the floor. I can feel your pulse trough your palms. Then again, you can feel mine.

“And I know,” you waver, “I know that I’ve been shit to you, and I feel horrible about it. Not only because I threw away everything we had together when I got in over my head, but that I hurt you.” You pause and your face tenses up. “God, it hurts me so much to know that I did that to you. And I kept on wanting to tell you, but I never knew how. I always figured it would get better, but it never did, Bono, it never did. I’m so sorry.”

And I don’t know why, and I don’ t know how, but here with your hands in mine, with this brokenness and destruction between us, right here, right now…this just feels so right, Edge. This feels so right.

Did you know I missed you?

I pull myself closer to you and whisper an answer. The only one I can give: “Yes.”

“Yes?” you ask, sounding like you’re trying to believe.

“Yes. Yes. The answer is yes. It’s always yes, Reg, it’s always yes…”

Did you know I missed you?

And you kiss me. Hard.

Did you know I missed you?

And it’s everything that I remember, it’s nothing like anything before, it’s more, it’s too much, it’s -- it’s over too soon. Again.

Did you know I missed you?

You break from me, your breath ragged, and look at me intently.

“Maybe,” you say, catching your breath, “maybe we should take this elsewhere.”

I look back at the door, locked with my keys inside the room.

“It’ll have to be your house.”

“I have no problem with that, no one’s home.”

Oh God, I miss you.

In the car, I can’t keep my hands off you…how does it feel when I touch you there? Or there? God, I better stop. You’re driving.

…but what about here? You shiver. Oh, God…how long until we’re home, Edge, how long until we’re home…

And then you bring me home
And we'll go to sleep, but this time, not alone, no no no
And you'll kiss me in your living room

Doors open, keys thrown on the table, coats pushed off each others shoulders, and your mouth…Jesus, your mouth. On mine, pressed together, so close, so warm…

And it’s you, it’s you, just you, always, always…

You.


*


Chapter 11 – Edge, 2000

I know
You'll miss me in your living room
‘Cause these nights I think maybe that I’ll miss you in my living room.

We don't have much room.
I said, does anybody need that room?
Because we all need a little more room

And this night lasts forever, and it’s just not long enough.

I don’t know how long we slept in today. I’m sure you have dozens of places you need to be, but you had dropped your concerns with your mobile in the car. The image of it ringing over and over on the empty leather seat makes me smile. With a contented grin, I turn over and look at your body, which has sprawled itself over a good two-thirds of the bed, face down, and entangled itself in the sheets more ways than I thought humanly possible. Your chest expands with your slow, paced breaths and your eyelids shift with your dreams.

I…I wish you could see this, Bono. I wish you could see where we are right now. I wish you could look outside to see the fog that’s beginning to roll out over the hills, I wish you could see just how damn lucky we are to be here, I wish you could see all that we’ve done and how open the rest of our lives are.

I wish…

I wish you could see how much I’ve always loved you, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

And, as I watch the sunlight creep over your skin, I just know…

To live

…that you, my love, you are made of ivory and gold.

My Konstantine.


*


(c) Kate 2003-2004

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