Disclaim: Squeenixney and Nomura, as usual.
A/N: Another drabble on LJ, this one with Gibbous. This is seriously the weirdest pairing I've ever written from and I didn't think it was going to turn out well ... but it did ... and it rules. 3
Nobody would've expected it. It was a man of so few words versus a man of such great words, a man of silence and a man who so loved to hear himself talk. They were different men, from different worlds. Men who had died under different circumstances, men who had lived under different suns.
They were different. They were possibly opposite, if one took time to calculate all the necessities and unequal distributions, all the tithes and beck-and-calls, all the experiences and experimentations.
But they were both men of revolution--revolutions of change and orbit and circumference and … and spheres.
Men of passion, if there was passion to be had. And power. There was certainly power in wake. One changed over the other, earth deteriorated and deposited anew over the grand scheme of things; the old-grandfather clock a wondrous tool to count along with thrust and pull. Gravity and dignity and earthquake.
It was hard to believe what had sparked between them, if anyone were asked. But time had the earth on a tilt, made him reconsider so many things without ever actually saying a word.
And, considerate he was, inept digits through the platinum blonde spikes, down the stern jaw and just below the whiskers, calloused digits running across lips impossibly smooth.
It was rewarded with a nip. Soft, skin plied between two ivories while he felt the faintest flick of a tongue in his fingerprint. The pad released, but not without a kiss.
It was charm. And envious, because Luxord was indeed so charming.
Gloveless hands ran down those powerful arms, arms that never strained beneath the weight of his weapon, the bending and building of earth beneath his feet. He was raw muscle and yet so … so gentle, so accepting. So worrisome of his best friend, that schemer.
Protective. And so he chose to be, too, of him. One had to protect one who was being protective. Else there would be no one left to protect.
Hands moving over the painless arc of his chest, and the older man's face contorted with could be pleasure, if he'd let it. A kiss went to those hard planes that seemed so smooth in the dim light, hands moving on his sides, to his hips, circling in his revolutions.
Earth could only bend to time, not that he had any complaints. His hands were firm--not as firm as his own--and his strength was undeniable--though not as strong as his own, still.
And as much as earth bent and bent, it was only so long until he broke, until the rocks cracked open the magma boiled within, and even his silence was ruined with a cry.
Time broke, too, the class on the face of the clock shattering, the hands that grabbed for all the numbers lost without equation, needing desperately to grip onto those statistics and not finding them--instead only left with the ground. No more chiming upon the hour.
Epochs collapsed in that one instant, parallels and dimensions caving in, the galaxies and planets and that beloved 3rd rock swallowed whole.
And all returned, and Luxord was on top of Lexeaus, rose his eyes to that elder man's knit brow.
It was awkward, in all his breathlessness, the man only staring at him. Smileless, laughless, kindless.
Timeless.
And he kissed those firm lips appreciatively.
They were men of difference. They were possibly opposite, if one took time to calculate all the necessities and unequal distributions, all the tithes and beck-and-calls, all the experiences and experimentations.
But they were both men of revolution--revolutions of change and orbit and circumference and … and spheres.
Men of passion, if there was passion to be had.
Certainly, there was passion to be had?