#celestians?

"I'm a concept. In relation to other concepts, in opposition to the enemies whom I deny and yet without whose existence I would not exist, I am defined. On my own..." He trailed off, sinking into the plush cushions. Monsoc's home was ornate, full of soft things and finely-carved statues. It felt comfortable. It felt safe. It was everything he wanted, and that terrified him to his core.

"I'm pretty sure you exist. I'd be sad if you didn't. I can see you right here, you have a pulse, you're here. With me." Monsoc held him close. Another beautiful crime. He couldn't be held.

"I may be here, physically. But am I here philosophically? There's more than one kind of existence, Monsoc, and I may very well not be here. What use is a body with no one inside?" He sighed deeply. Knowing that comfort was a sin, that the soft cushions would turn to knives in time and Monsoc's crystal eyes to the dull glare of a pistol, knowing that his future had been laid out and shattered and that all was unforgiveable, he leant into Monsoc's gentle touch. "I'm so tired." He was always tired, but it was harder to block now that he'd stopped blocking other things.

"Of course you are. You're always fighting. The war exhausts your country, and it exhausts you."

"I am the war. I can't be without it."

"Not as you are. But," Monsoc ran his fingers thorugh Ingsoc's hair, continuing, "we as humans are built with limitless possibility for change. You're set up against change, but it will still happen. We're alive. You're not made of steel, no matter how you want to be; you're blood and flesh that can heal when cut and feel everything. Humanity cannot become mechanical and heartless before losing everything. You haven't lost everything. You can heal, and you can rest."

"I can't. Not now." He shifted, facing Monsoc to cup his face with his hands. "You are worth fighting for. There is a purpose, an immediate one, that cannot be altered or slowed. I can't ignore you. I've tried."

"Having a reason won't make anything easier. You need rest, love. You're a person. You do not have to be made of metal and hatred here. Lay down, I'll guard you."

"I can't." He was already closing his eyes. "I have too many responsibilities... Who am I?"

"You're my love." Monsoc softly kissed him. He was soft and kind and perfect, everything forbidden. "Let yourself rest for once. It's safe here."

Ingsoc leaned into him. It was never easy for him to feel safe; he wasn't allowed to. Still, tonight was soft and warmly lit, tonight was apple cider warming the heart, and gentle brushes with death, and lovingly whispered reassurances until dawn. The sun, in her cruel splendor, would doubtless come the next day to purify all good and burn away the only thing worth looking at, to burn all the softness from his flesh and melt his eyes from his sockets. For tonight, the moon coldly guarded the lovers, keeping her distance, her dim luminosity leaving them in the comforting glow of solitude.

Ingsoc held Monsoc tighter. He was almost asleep, and understood about half of what he'd just thought; he knew it was bad, but that conditioning was starting to slip. The constant fear that ailed his mind lessened tonight. He knew he was mortal, but death was as temporary as life. The present future and past existed at the same time, all together, all in harmony.