LoveandLogic
Refugee
This a Bono fic I'm working on. For those of you reading Slowly Love, I'm still working on that one as well. It's just that this story has been in my head for awhile, begging to come out. So bear with me, both stories will be updated as soon as they can. It's hard writing two at the same time. 
lol. Anyways, I have treats for both Bonogirls and Edgegirls. 
Disclaimer: I own the stories--not the characters.
A Tender Trap-Chapter One
How did it ever come to this, he wondered, sitting on the porch swing of his Dublin home, embracing himself to block out the cool chill that etched from the southwestern atmosphere. How on earth did they manage grow apart so quickly and in such distaste? Whatever happened to the days when they fell asleep in one another’s arms, completely and utterly happy, satisfied and careless? Would she ever look at him again in the same way? Was she willing to look past all the mistakes they have made; past the promises they broke along the way? It wasn’t all him as much as it wasn’t all her. Didn’t she tell him, only weeks ago, “It takes two to tango but it takes only one to let go?”
Only one…but which one was the first to let go? Was it him and his lack of communication with her while on tour? Or could possibly be her light grasp from lack of sleep due to endless hours upon hours of drawing and tattooing? Or, perhaps, did he just not listen enough? Cared enough? Partied too much and left her in the dark with details of where he was or what he was doing?
Nothing but a lengthy list of countless possibilities…
But the outcome was the same, nonetheless.
Mercy, does he love her. Cherishes her, breathes her in like some sugary, intoxicating oxygen that he could never function without. He loved the way she gazed upon him from across distances with those deep, brown iris’s--like he was the only man in the entire universe. He craved her free spirit, artistic creativity and her thrive for the search of uniqueness. That was what drew him to her in the first place.
Now it only seemed as if she stared at him to figure him out, to put the jigsaw back together only to be left with an unfinished puzzle missing one too many pieces to create a full image.
Asking his mind once again: how did this happen? After five years of marriage, love and commitment, how did it all fall apart so sudden? He thought back, trying to remember details, if he said something--something to push her away. Details? There were no details; only a large, empty canvas of…well, nothing, really. Their relationship was nothing--a hollow shoebox in which lacked memories.
Sighing deeply, he lit a cigarette and inhaled, watching as the smoke twirled about him in a hazy hue. Lost in thought, he almost didn’t hear her slide the door open. It was her scent that caught his attention--that luxurious hint of vanilla and clover. Peaking out from the corner of his eye, he gave her a miserable attempt to smile. In return, she frowned.
“Join me?” He dared to ask, scooting over to allow her room.
Without any sign of emotion, she dragged herself over to the swing and sat down lightly, hands on either side of her, gripping the cushion until her knuckles turned pale. The air was thick enough to suffocate although the breeze felt refreshing against her tear-struck face. Had he noticed her red eyes and dark circles, she guessed while grabbing a cigarette from her husband’s pack. Shit, did he notice anything anymore? Did he note her loss of weight and sunken eyes? When she spent all her hours in the art studio did he feel the urge to knock? And when he was on tour, flirting with the ladies, did he ever once visualize her face?
In reality, it wasn’t the flirting that got to her--it was the motive that could happen when the flirtations weren’t enough. Her husband was a flirtatious man, she was aware, and naturally it never used to bother her. It was his job to swoon the crowd, especially the female bunch. Nevertheless, did that give him the right to flaunt about it? Were her feelings ever taken into consideration? Or was she simply being selfish? She couldn’t help it, she wanted him all to herself. Always did.
Finding her voice, she asked. “How are you feeling, Bono?”
He shrugged. “Ok, I suppose. Tired. How about yourself?”
“Fine, thank you.”
He nodded. This is how it was now: idle conversation. Like a teenage girl talking to her father, conversing only because it’s proper to do so. Cigarette crumbs fell onto his blue jeans and he swashed them away with a shaky hand, a hand that yearned to touch her soft, long black hair, to feel the strands between the webs of his fingers.
“Raven,” His voice was a tone above audible. “Do we need to talk?”
She sighed heavily. “What’s to talk about anymore, Bono. Haven’t we said all the things we’ve been wanting to say already?”
“I don’t feel like we have. What’s happening to us? We were never like this.”
“You’re right, yes.”
“Are you homesick?”
She chuckled. “I’ve been away from America for the last fifteen years. I think I’m alright in that department.”
“Sure, sure. I guess you’re right. Are things at the shop going good?”
“Yeah. Work is never an issue. I just have a lot of clients lined up. It’s been non stop for me for months now.”
“That’s good,” He looked up, giving her a genuine smile, the same smile that melted her iced emotions to water in a matter of seconds. “Do you work tomorrow?”
“Of course I do.”
“Oh…”
Puzzled, she glared at him. “What? Why the gloom?”
“It’s just…I just got back from the tour, you know. And I wanted to take you out or cook something for you. Spend time with you.”
“…oh. Um, I have a client tomorrow who might back out, actually. My first appointment I have to take, she asked for me specifically.”
“It’s fine,” He proclaimed, putting out his cigarette before rising to his feet. “Whenever you’re free just let me know. I know you have work, sweetheart. I’m going to go lay down, watch a movie or listen to music. I’ll let you get back to your art.”
Walking past her, she grabbed his hand suddenly, causing him to pause in his tracks. Standing to face him, she wrapped her arms about his waist and nuzzled into his chest, his musk filling her senses, causing tears to well up in the brim of her tired eyes.
“I’m glad you’re home,” She told him honestly. “It’s not the same when you’re gone.”
Resting his cheek on the top of her head, Bono squeezed her back, bringing her chest against his, needing to feel her body warmth to remind himself that, yes, she was still here and, yes, so real.
“It’s not the same for me either, Raven.”
With that said, Raven released from his grip and watched as her husband went back into the house, glancing once more towards her as he shut the sliding door. After another cigarette was lit, smoked and crushed, she went back into her studio to continue drawing. Above her, where the bedroom would be on the second floor, the sound of the Beatles leaked softly through the cracks of the house, waltzing with Bono’s beautiful, tenor voice.
“Sing to me,” I begged the lead singer who sat at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper.
Throwing down the paper, he scrunched his beautiful eyebrows and asked, almost shockingly, “Now?”
“Yes, now! It’s what you do for a living. So sing to me. I like to listen to music while I cook.”
“Well you’re putting me on the spot, love. What would you like to hear?”
“Hm…something…fun!”
Bono thought for a long second and I flipped the eggs, the sizzling of the pan hissing throughout the kitchen. All the sudden, completely out of random, Bono began to sing.
“Oh, I need your love babe, yes you know it’s true! Hope you need my love, babe, just like I need you! Hold me, love me, hold me, love me. Ain’t got nothing but love, babe, eight days a week!”
I giggled, swaying my hips to his gorgeous, famous voice. Racing towards me and taking me into a loving embrace, he rested his forehead on mine, grinning widely, singing right into my eyes.
“Love you everyday, girl. Always on my mind. One thing I can say, girl, love you all the time. Hold me, love me, hold me, love me. Ain’t got nothing but love, babe, eight days a week!”
Covering his neck in kisses, he asked in a low voice. “How was that, Ms. Dalton?”
“Perfect,” I answered. “As always. Bono?”
“Yes, baby?”
“I love you.”
Pushing the memory back into the “Unwanted” pit in her mind, Raven went back to her sketches, trying her damnedest to ignore the musical man upstairs. It was impossible, really. She clung to that voice, needed that voice. Whenever he was on tour the house echoed silence unless Raven put in an album or turned on the radio. With Bono here, however, the house was forever full of music. He was always either humming, singing or whistling--although he wasn’t the best whistler on the planet. Edge, his friend and band man, visited often with his acoustic and they would play songs for Raven and her tattoo buddies while they held meetings in the living room. Their life, at one point, was picture perfect.
In the end, just like any other piece of art, the picture faded, turning their bright, hued memories into a Sophia tinted world with torn edges. A part of her despised him, hated him for seducing her so quickly and deeply. She wasn’t ready for such commitment, marriage was just not in the cards for her. Her whole life Raven had been independent, leaving America when she only eighteen to join her brother’s tattoo parlor in the city of Dublin. She made her own money, provided herself with her own possessions, housing and transportation.
Then she met him and everything changed. He was like an electrical drug that shocked her every bone whenever she glanced amongst his fit, gorgeous features. Bono was a beautiful man in every possible way: he opened her car door, escorted her to dinner, paid for the meals and made love to her like she were made of rare porcelain. He paid no mind to her growing amount of tattoo’s--loving them instead, tracing them with his fingertips, admiring the colors and designs. He saw her as his own personal, human art gallery--not as a freak like so many others did.
And what he loved most about her is that she didn’t treat him or label him as an everyday, cocky rock star. When they were together she never once asked about the amount of money he made or asked to hear unreleased songs or read private lyrics. After all, they were artists and both knew what it meant to live such a profession. Privacy was a huge thing to them. Still, they shared thoughts, poems, paintings and he would sing her songs as she drew on the portable light table in their bedroom. Their relationship was, at first, well, irreplaceable.
“Now look at us,” She said aloud, knowing in some way or another that Bono would hear her. “Look at us now. Fools.”
Sprawled out on the king sized bed, Bono closed his eyes and sang along to the music gently, hoping that it would drown out his aching thoughts. They were fools, alright. Fools for allowing their relationship to shatter into a million pieces and not understanding the reason why. He loved her, wasn’t that enough? Every little thing he did he did it for her, for them. She was the vocals in his throat, his reason for getting out of bed in the mornings and onto the stage at night.
When he arrived to Dublin after the last show of the Joshua Tree tour, he had expected to come home to a loving wife, open arms and excitement, tears of joy and passionate kisses, only to arrive to an empty, lifeless house. He knew she would be at the parlor so he walked there, having been only blocks away from their home. He didn’t mind the rain or the cold air. All that was irrelevant. The girl, on the other hand, was not.
Pulling open the door to the tattoo parlor, a bell rang, warning the workers that someone had entered the shop. Dan, Raven’s brother, looked up at me and instantly jumped up to his feet, greeting me with a welcoming hug and pat on the back.
“Bono, my man, how the hell are ya?” He boasted, pulling out a seat for me next to him by one of the drawing tables. “Sit, sit. Did you walk here? Damn, man, you must be freezing!”
“No, no, really, I’m fine, thank you. And I’m doing good. How are you?”
“Good, man, good, yeah. Business is going good, we hired some new artists.”
“None like your sister, of course.” I winked and smiled.
“Of course not. Speaking of Raven, she’s with a client right now.”
“I figured so,” I huffed. “I was really looking forward to seeing her when I got home.”
“Sorry about that, that would be my fault. See, I couldn’t turn down this client. It’s a thousand dollar piece and, of course, he wanted Raven.”
“It’s ok, Dan. Just as long as I can steal her from here for a day or two we’ll be on good terms.”
Dan smiled his famous Dalton smile, the similar grin that he and Raven shared: wide, sparkling and warm. In fact, you couldn’t deny those two being siblings even if you tried. Both inherited ebony, velvet hair and light olive skin and a slim built. There were only two differences: Dan was tall, six feet and some odd inches, whereas Raven stood only five feet-four inches. The second contrast? Raven had the most beautiful, honey wild eyes and Dan possessed eyes of green radiance. Both brother and sister, however, were highly attractive, full of energy, art and a welcoming presence that could make even Hitler himself feel at home.
Even their artistic abilities were similar: fully capable of being able to take one glance at a person’s face for five minutes and then sketching it out perfectly--down to the very last freckle. It was one of those things that turned me towards her in the first place--the capability of creating something out of nothing. At first she was a mystery to me, a rare star that came out every few centuries to radiate the darkened sky.
She had inspired me to be all that I could, to write to the best of my qualities and skills. When everyone else doubted me, smashed me into the ground, Raven never failed to pick me up and put me on my feet again. It‘s almost as I‘m a leaf on a wild branch, crossing all boundaries and she is the roots keeping us grounded.
Only minutes passed before a man entered the room, a large tattoo on the left side of his ribcage displaying an Irish flag bright in color, surrounded by a very cloned Berlin Wall faded into it, completed with graffiti, cracks and crumbled, grey and black stone. Raven stood behind the newly tatted man and she was pulling off her black latex gloves, glowing with full satisfaction and confidence. It truly was one of her best works--the lines clear, smooth and the colors so vivid that it was like looking at a high defined photograph.
A year of dating and five years of marriage and she never ceases to amaze me…
“Thank you so much, Raven.” Hyped the man, hugging my wife briefly after throwing on his shirt. “This has to be my favorite tattoo!”
It’s your only tattoo, you prick…
“Hey, it was no problem! It was a fun proje--Bono!” Raven exclaimed, smiling widely towards me. I stood up and raced forward, taking her small stature into my arms, kissing her wherever I could: neck, face, lips. She held me tightly, to my surprise. Lately we’ve been having so many issues that I felt as if she wouldn’t respond in this way when I got home.
I swear, sometimes I can be such a pessimist…
“When did you get in?” She asked, framing my face in her warm, tender hands.
“About an hour ago.”
“You’re early! I was hoping to get out of here by the time you got home.”
“It’s fine,” I assured. “You work, too, love. Beautiful tattoo, by the way.”
The man perked up at my compliment, his eyes glowing with envy. I wasn’t sure if he knew who I was or not and, quite frankly, I didn’t really give a shit. Guys were always putting moves on Raven and, though I don’t want to admit, I’m sure she gets tons of business just because she’s a woman--a gorgeous woman-- with the talent to tattoo. Not saying that’s the only reason why she gets business, it’s just an extra bonus.
“Thank you,” Finally he answered, putting his shirt back on.
“Take good care of that tat. You might need some re-coloring done in a few weeks. Free of charge, of course.” Raven winked and handed him a bottle of the same scent-free lotion we had stored in the bathroom cabinets of our home. “Check back with us so we can see how it healed up, alright?”
“I sure will! Thank you again. Have a nice day.”
Our shoulders collided as he walked past me and I smirked, proud of having to put another man in his place and achieving in a gentleman fashion. I’m not one to cause a scene unless I’m on stage.
Raven, on the other hand, was not as impressed. “You don’t have to get so jealous all the time, Paul.” She half-teased.
“I don’t get jealous,” I explained. “Only territorial.”
“Well, when you stop bringing girls on stage and kissing them, maybe then we can arrange a compromise.”
Shocked, my jaw dropped to my chest. Was this really my Raven? My carefree, free spirited, independent Raven? Dan hissed, chuckling under his breath as he added shading to his drawing.
“You can be so cold sometimes, sis.” Dan said.
She scrunched her eyebrows. “I’m not trying to be cold! I’m just stating a fact.”
“A fact that Bono’s job description, as the front man of U2, is to entertain?”
“And my job is to tattoo bodies of all shapes, sizes, gender, age and location.”
“Mates, really,” I interrupted the heated argument between siblings. “That’s enough. I didn’t want to come home to this. Love, why don’t we go out and get a drink?”
“Erm, well, I have so much cleaning up to do and if we have walk-in’s Dan is the only one here a-”
“I called Ben in after Bono showed up. He should be here in about five minutes. Go out, Rave. You two haven’t seen each other in months. Spend some time together.”
“O-ok,” Raven nodded. “Thanks, Dan. I have to at least clean up first.”
She inquired for me to follow her into her “office,” watching as she undid the needles from her machine and tossing them into a Hazard bucket. Eying me through long lashes, she grinned.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I answered. “I’m just admiring you. You get more and more beautiful every time I come back from a tour.”
“Thanks.”
She left it at that and threw away used ink covered paper towels and put her metal needle tubes into a sanitizing oven. In silence, I helped her stow away her bottles of ink and drawings and whip down the tattoo tables, chairs and flat beds. After we finished, she grabbed her leather jacket from the hanger behind the door. She flipped her long, black hair out from underneath the collar so that it hung like a shiny curtain down her back.
Dan and I hugged, saying our goodbyes before Raven and I left the shop and into the muggy, grayness of Dublin City. She lit a cigarette then handed me the pack so I could do the same. More silence. Why all the silence? Sure, we’ve been having our fair share of problems, but never once, in six years of knowing each other, have we ever ran out of things to say.
“How was your flight?” She asked finally.
“Smooth until we got into Ireland. It might just storm tonight.”
“When doesn’t it storm?” She flashed a smile. “That’s why I love it here. It’s always raining.”
“I know.” I smiled back at her.
She’s told me the same thing over and over again. Never have I met another person who loves the rain as much as Raven.
“You know I didn’t mean what I said back there in the shop, right?” I asked, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it lovingly, receiving no response.
“Of course, Bono.”
“Did you mean what you said?”
Avoiding my eyes and staring straight ahead, she took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled. “How’s The Edge?”
Drifting off, Bono forced himself awake, the house deathly quiet, the CD put to a stop hours ago. He was too caught up in his own twisted, maze of inner struggle to replay his favorite Beatles album. Raven was still downstairs in her studio, even though the time was turning to three a.m. Bono pushed himself up and off the bed, walking slowly down the stairs through the dark.
The door to the art room was cracked, light illuminating through the opening and he put a hand to the frame, pushing the door back.
“Raven?”
She was fast asleep on the couch, her legs curled at an angle with one arm beneath her head and the other hung over the end of the cushions. Bono walked to the drawing table, curious to see what she had been working so hard at.
Lilies. Lilies of purple, pink and yellow.
Kneeling before the sleeping woman, Bono caressed her hair, pulling some loose strands away from her face to take in her lovely features: small, delicate nose, raised cheekbones and soft, pout lips on which he planted an elusive kiss.
She shifted, fluttering her eyes ajar.
“Hey,” She said. “You alright?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Do you want me to carry you into the bedroom?”
“Mmm,” She mumbled, shutting her eyes. “I’m so exhausted.”
“Can I lay with you?”
Looking up at him, she provided room on the sofa large enough to fit his body on. Lying next to her with his back pressed against her chest, Bono flicked off the lamp and cuddled into the curves of her body. Raven rested her chin on Bono’s shoulder, her breath hot against his neck. Grabbing her hand, he laced his fingers through her and rested them at his chest.
This was normal, he thought, this is how they should be--lovers. And though the moment felt natural, Bono knew that things were not the same between them anymore. What he was not certain of, however, was the reason behind their odd distance.
Ignoring the nagging fact, he, alternatively, soaked in the tenderness, surrendering to the warmth of his wife’s artistic arms, enjoying the splendor of her scent and quiet breathing. He didn’t want to dread on their obvious tension or short conversations. Tonight he wanted them to be the husband and wife in which he were familiarized, even if it was just for tonight…
This story is actually really exhausting...Whatcha think?
lol. Anyways, I have treats for both Bonogirls and Edgegirls. Disclaimer: I own the stories--not the characters.
A Tender Trap-Chapter One
How did it ever come to this, he wondered, sitting on the porch swing of his Dublin home, embracing himself to block out the cool chill that etched from the southwestern atmosphere. How on earth did they manage grow apart so quickly and in such distaste? Whatever happened to the days when they fell asleep in one another’s arms, completely and utterly happy, satisfied and careless? Would she ever look at him again in the same way? Was she willing to look past all the mistakes they have made; past the promises they broke along the way? It wasn’t all him as much as it wasn’t all her. Didn’t she tell him, only weeks ago, “It takes two to tango but it takes only one to let go?”
Only one…but which one was the first to let go? Was it him and his lack of communication with her while on tour? Or could possibly be her light grasp from lack of sleep due to endless hours upon hours of drawing and tattooing? Or, perhaps, did he just not listen enough? Cared enough? Partied too much and left her in the dark with details of where he was or what he was doing?
Nothing but a lengthy list of countless possibilities…
But the outcome was the same, nonetheless.
Mercy, does he love her. Cherishes her, breathes her in like some sugary, intoxicating oxygen that he could never function without. He loved the way she gazed upon him from across distances with those deep, brown iris’s--like he was the only man in the entire universe. He craved her free spirit, artistic creativity and her thrive for the search of uniqueness. That was what drew him to her in the first place.
Now it only seemed as if she stared at him to figure him out, to put the jigsaw back together only to be left with an unfinished puzzle missing one too many pieces to create a full image.
Asking his mind once again: how did this happen? After five years of marriage, love and commitment, how did it all fall apart so sudden? He thought back, trying to remember details, if he said something--something to push her away. Details? There were no details; only a large, empty canvas of…well, nothing, really. Their relationship was nothing--a hollow shoebox in which lacked memories.
Sighing deeply, he lit a cigarette and inhaled, watching as the smoke twirled about him in a hazy hue. Lost in thought, he almost didn’t hear her slide the door open. It was her scent that caught his attention--that luxurious hint of vanilla and clover. Peaking out from the corner of his eye, he gave her a miserable attempt to smile. In return, she frowned.
“Join me?” He dared to ask, scooting over to allow her room.
Without any sign of emotion, she dragged herself over to the swing and sat down lightly, hands on either side of her, gripping the cushion until her knuckles turned pale. The air was thick enough to suffocate although the breeze felt refreshing against her tear-struck face. Had he noticed her red eyes and dark circles, she guessed while grabbing a cigarette from her husband’s pack. Shit, did he notice anything anymore? Did he note her loss of weight and sunken eyes? When she spent all her hours in the art studio did he feel the urge to knock? And when he was on tour, flirting with the ladies, did he ever once visualize her face?
In reality, it wasn’t the flirting that got to her--it was the motive that could happen when the flirtations weren’t enough. Her husband was a flirtatious man, she was aware, and naturally it never used to bother her. It was his job to swoon the crowd, especially the female bunch. Nevertheless, did that give him the right to flaunt about it? Were her feelings ever taken into consideration? Or was she simply being selfish? She couldn’t help it, she wanted him all to herself. Always did.
Finding her voice, she asked. “How are you feeling, Bono?”
He shrugged. “Ok, I suppose. Tired. How about yourself?”
“Fine, thank you.”
He nodded. This is how it was now: idle conversation. Like a teenage girl talking to her father, conversing only because it’s proper to do so. Cigarette crumbs fell onto his blue jeans and he swashed them away with a shaky hand, a hand that yearned to touch her soft, long black hair, to feel the strands between the webs of his fingers.
“Raven,” His voice was a tone above audible. “Do we need to talk?”
She sighed heavily. “What’s to talk about anymore, Bono. Haven’t we said all the things we’ve been wanting to say already?”
“I don’t feel like we have. What’s happening to us? We were never like this.”
“You’re right, yes.”
“Are you homesick?”
She chuckled. “I’ve been away from America for the last fifteen years. I think I’m alright in that department.”
“Sure, sure. I guess you’re right. Are things at the shop going good?”
“Yeah. Work is never an issue. I just have a lot of clients lined up. It’s been non stop for me for months now.”
“That’s good,” He looked up, giving her a genuine smile, the same smile that melted her iced emotions to water in a matter of seconds. “Do you work tomorrow?”
“Of course I do.”
“Oh…”
Puzzled, she glared at him. “What? Why the gloom?”
“It’s just…I just got back from the tour, you know. And I wanted to take you out or cook something for you. Spend time with you.”
“…oh. Um, I have a client tomorrow who might back out, actually. My first appointment I have to take, she asked for me specifically.”
“It’s fine,” He proclaimed, putting out his cigarette before rising to his feet. “Whenever you’re free just let me know. I know you have work, sweetheart. I’m going to go lay down, watch a movie or listen to music. I’ll let you get back to your art.”
Walking past her, she grabbed his hand suddenly, causing him to pause in his tracks. Standing to face him, she wrapped her arms about his waist and nuzzled into his chest, his musk filling her senses, causing tears to well up in the brim of her tired eyes.
“I’m glad you’re home,” She told him honestly. “It’s not the same when you’re gone.”
Resting his cheek on the top of her head, Bono squeezed her back, bringing her chest against his, needing to feel her body warmth to remind himself that, yes, she was still here and, yes, so real.
“It’s not the same for me either, Raven.”
With that said, Raven released from his grip and watched as her husband went back into the house, glancing once more towards her as he shut the sliding door. After another cigarette was lit, smoked and crushed, she went back into her studio to continue drawing. Above her, where the bedroom would be on the second floor, the sound of the Beatles leaked softly through the cracks of the house, waltzing with Bono’s beautiful, tenor voice.
“Sing to me,” I begged the lead singer who sat at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper.
Throwing down the paper, he scrunched his beautiful eyebrows and asked, almost shockingly, “Now?”
“Yes, now! It’s what you do for a living. So sing to me. I like to listen to music while I cook.”
“Well you’re putting me on the spot, love. What would you like to hear?”
“Hm…something…fun!”
Bono thought for a long second and I flipped the eggs, the sizzling of the pan hissing throughout the kitchen. All the sudden, completely out of random, Bono began to sing.
“Oh, I need your love babe, yes you know it’s true! Hope you need my love, babe, just like I need you! Hold me, love me, hold me, love me. Ain’t got nothing but love, babe, eight days a week!”
I giggled, swaying my hips to his gorgeous, famous voice. Racing towards me and taking me into a loving embrace, he rested his forehead on mine, grinning widely, singing right into my eyes.
“Love you everyday, girl. Always on my mind. One thing I can say, girl, love you all the time. Hold me, love me, hold me, love me. Ain’t got nothing but love, babe, eight days a week!”
Covering his neck in kisses, he asked in a low voice. “How was that, Ms. Dalton?”
“Perfect,” I answered. “As always. Bono?”
“Yes, baby?”
“I love you.”
Pushing the memory back into the “Unwanted” pit in her mind, Raven went back to her sketches, trying her damnedest to ignore the musical man upstairs. It was impossible, really. She clung to that voice, needed that voice. Whenever he was on tour the house echoed silence unless Raven put in an album or turned on the radio. With Bono here, however, the house was forever full of music. He was always either humming, singing or whistling--although he wasn’t the best whistler on the planet. Edge, his friend and band man, visited often with his acoustic and they would play songs for Raven and her tattoo buddies while they held meetings in the living room. Their life, at one point, was picture perfect.
In the end, just like any other piece of art, the picture faded, turning their bright, hued memories into a Sophia tinted world with torn edges. A part of her despised him, hated him for seducing her so quickly and deeply. She wasn’t ready for such commitment, marriage was just not in the cards for her. Her whole life Raven had been independent, leaving America when she only eighteen to join her brother’s tattoo parlor in the city of Dublin. She made her own money, provided herself with her own possessions, housing and transportation.
Then she met him and everything changed. He was like an electrical drug that shocked her every bone whenever she glanced amongst his fit, gorgeous features. Bono was a beautiful man in every possible way: he opened her car door, escorted her to dinner, paid for the meals and made love to her like she were made of rare porcelain. He paid no mind to her growing amount of tattoo’s--loving them instead, tracing them with his fingertips, admiring the colors and designs. He saw her as his own personal, human art gallery--not as a freak like so many others did.
And what he loved most about her is that she didn’t treat him or label him as an everyday, cocky rock star. When they were together she never once asked about the amount of money he made or asked to hear unreleased songs or read private lyrics. After all, they were artists and both knew what it meant to live such a profession. Privacy was a huge thing to them. Still, they shared thoughts, poems, paintings and he would sing her songs as she drew on the portable light table in their bedroom. Their relationship was, at first, well, irreplaceable.
“Now look at us,” She said aloud, knowing in some way or another that Bono would hear her. “Look at us now. Fools.”
Sprawled out on the king sized bed, Bono closed his eyes and sang along to the music gently, hoping that it would drown out his aching thoughts. They were fools, alright. Fools for allowing their relationship to shatter into a million pieces and not understanding the reason why. He loved her, wasn’t that enough? Every little thing he did he did it for her, for them. She was the vocals in his throat, his reason for getting out of bed in the mornings and onto the stage at night.
When he arrived to Dublin after the last show of the Joshua Tree tour, he had expected to come home to a loving wife, open arms and excitement, tears of joy and passionate kisses, only to arrive to an empty, lifeless house. He knew she would be at the parlor so he walked there, having been only blocks away from their home. He didn’t mind the rain or the cold air. All that was irrelevant. The girl, on the other hand, was not.
Pulling open the door to the tattoo parlor, a bell rang, warning the workers that someone had entered the shop. Dan, Raven’s brother, looked up at me and instantly jumped up to his feet, greeting me with a welcoming hug and pat on the back.
“Bono, my man, how the hell are ya?” He boasted, pulling out a seat for me next to him by one of the drawing tables. “Sit, sit. Did you walk here? Damn, man, you must be freezing!”
“No, no, really, I’m fine, thank you. And I’m doing good. How are you?”
“Good, man, good, yeah. Business is going good, we hired some new artists.”
“None like your sister, of course.” I winked and smiled.
“Of course not. Speaking of Raven, she’s with a client right now.”
“I figured so,” I huffed. “I was really looking forward to seeing her when I got home.”
“Sorry about that, that would be my fault. See, I couldn’t turn down this client. It’s a thousand dollar piece and, of course, he wanted Raven.”
“It’s ok, Dan. Just as long as I can steal her from here for a day or two we’ll be on good terms.”
Dan smiled his famous Dalton smile, the similar grin that he and Raven shared: wide, sparkling and warm. In fact, you couldn’t deny those two being siblings even if you tried. Both inherited ebony, velvet hair and light olive skin and a slim built. There were only two differences: Dan was tall, six feet and some odd inches, whereas Raven stood only five feet-four inches. The second contrast? Raven had the most beautiful, honey wild eyes and Dan possessed eyes of green radiance. Both brother and sister, however, were highly attractive, full of energy, art and a welcoming presence that could make even Hitler himself feel at home.
Even their artistic abilities were similar: fully capable of being able to take one glance at a person’s face for five minutes and then sketching it out perfectly--down to the very last freckle. It was one of those things that turned me towards her in the first place--the capability of creating something out of nothing. At first she was a mystery to me, a rare star that came out every few centuries to radiate the darkened sky.
She had inspired me to be all that I could, to write to the best of my qualities and skills. When everyone else doubted me, smashed me into the ground, Raven never failed to pick me up and put me on my feet again. It‘s almost as I‘m a leaf on a wild branch, crossing all boundaries and she is the roots keeping us grounded.
Only minutes passed before a man entered the room, a large tattoo on the left side of his ribcage displaying an Irish flag bright in color, surrounded by a very cloned Berlin Wall faded into it, completed with graffiti, cracks and crumbled, grey and black stone. Raven stood behind the newly tatted man and she was pulling off her black latex gloves, glowing with full satisfaction and confidence. It truly was one of her best works--the lines clear, smooth and the colors so vivid that it was like looking at a high defined photograph.
A year of dating and five years of marriage and she never ceases to amaze me…
“Thank you so much, Raven.” Hyped the man, hugging my wife briefly after throwing on his shirt. “This has to be my favorite tattoo!”
It’s your only tattoo, you prick…
“Hey, it was no problem! It was a fun proje--Bono!” Raven exclaimed, smiling widely towards me. I stood up and raced forward, taking her small stature into my arms, kissing her wherever I could: neck, face, lips. She held me tightly, to my surprise. Lately we’ve been having so many issues that I felt as if she wouldn’t respond in this way when I got home.
I swear, sometimes I can be such a pessimist…
“When did you get in?” She asked, framing my face in her warm, tender hands.
“About an hour ago.”
“You’re early! I was hoping to get out of here by the time you got home.”
“It’s fine,” I assured. “You work, too, love. Beautiful tattoo, by the way.”
The man perked up at my compliment, his eyes glowing with envy. I wasn’t sure if he knew who I was or not and, quite frankly, I didn’t really give a shit. Guys were always putting moves on Raven and, though I don’t want to admit, I’m sure she gets tons of business just because she’s a woman--a gorgeous woman-- with the talent to tattoo. Not saying that’s the only reason why she gets business, it’s just an extra bonus.
“Thank you,” Finally he answered, putting his shirt back on.
“Take good care of that tat. You might need some re-coloring done in a few weeks. Free of charge, of course.” Raven winked and handed him a bottle of the same scent-free lotion we had stored in the bathroom cabinets of our home. “Check back with us so we can see how it healed up, alright?”
“I sure will! Thank you again. Have a nice day.”
Our shoulders collided as he walked past me and I smirked, proud of having to put another man in his place and achieving in a gentleman fashion. I’m not one to cause a scene unless I’m on stage.
Raven, on the other hand, was not as impressed. “You don’t have to get so jealous all the time, Paul.” She half-teased.
“I don’t get jealous,” I explained. “Only territorial.”
“Well, when you stop bringing girls on stage and kissing them, maybe then we can arrange a compromise.”
Shocked, my jaw dropped to my chest. Was this really my Raven? My carefree, free spirited, independent Raven? Dan hissed, chuckling under his breath as he added shading to his drawing.
“You can be so cold sometimes, sis.” Dan said.
She scrunched her eyebrows. “I’m not trying to be cold! I’m just stating a fact.”
“A fact that Bono’s job description, as the front man of U2, is to entertain?”
“And my job is to tattoo bodies of all shapes, sizes, gender, age and location.”
“Mates, really,” I interrupted the heated argument between siblings. “That’s enough. I didn’t want to come home to this. Love, why don’t we go out and get a drink?”
“Erm, well, I have so much cleaning up to do and if we have walk-in’s Dan is the only one here a-”
“I called Ben in after Bono showed up. He should be here in about five minutes. Go out, Rave. You two haven’t seen each other in months. Spend some time together.”
“O-ok,” Raven nodded. “Thanks, Dan. I have to at least clean up first.”
She inquired for me to follow her into her “office,” watching as she undid the needles from her machine and tossing them into a Hazard bucket. Eying me through long lashes, she grinned.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I answered. “I’m just admiring you. You get more and more beautiful every time I come back from a tour.”
“Thanks.”
She left it at that and threw away used ink covered paper towels and put her metal needle tubes into a sanitizing oven. In silence, I helped her stow away her bottles of ink and drawings and whip down the tattoo tables, chairs and flat beds. After we finished, she grabbed her leather jacket from the hanger behind the door. She flipped her long, black hair out from underneath the collar so that it hung like a shiny curtain down her back.
Dan and I hugged, saying our goodbyes before Raven and I left the shop and into the muggy, grayness of Dublin City. She lit a cigarette then handed me the pack so I could do the same. More silence. Why all the silence? Sure, we’ve been having our fair share of problems, but never once, in six years of knowing each other, have we ever ran out of things to say.
“How was your flight?” She asked finally.
“Smooth until we got into Ireland. It might just storm tonight.”
“When doesn’t it storm?” She flashed a smile. “That’s why I love it here. It’s always raining.”
“I know.” I smiled back at her.
She’s told me the same thing over and over again. Never have I met another person who loves the rain as much as Raven.
“You know I didn’t mean what I said back there in the shop, right?” I asked, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it lovingly, receiving no response.
“Of course, Bono.”
“Did you mean what you said?”
Avoiding my eyes and staring straight ahead, she took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled. “How’s The Edge?”
Drifting off, Bono forced himself awake, the house deathly quiet, the CD put to a stop hours ago. He was too caught up in his own twisted, maze of inner struggle to replay his favorite Beatles album. Raven was still downstairs in her studio, even though the time was turning to three a.m. Bono pushed himself up and off the bed, walking slowly down the stairs through the dark.
The door to the art room was cracked, light illuminating through the opening and he put a hand to the frame, pushing the door back.
“Raven?”
She was fast asleep on the couch, her legs curled at an angle with one arm beneath her head and the other hung over the end of the cushions. Bono walked to the drawing table, curious to see what she had been working so hard at.
Lilies. Lilies of purple, pink and yellow.
Kneeling before the sleeping woman, Bono caressed her hair, pulling some loose strands away from her face to take in her lovely features: small, delicate nose, raised cheekbones and soft, pout lips on which he planted an elusive kiss.
She shifted, fluttering her eyes ajar.
“Hey,” She said. “You alright?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Do you want me to carry you into the bedroom?”
“Mmm,” She mumbled, shutting her eyes. “I’m so exhausted.”
“Can I lay with you?”
Looking up at him, she provided room on the sofa large enough to fit his body on. Lying next to her with his back pressed against her chest, Bono flicked off the lamp and cuddled into the curves of her body. Raven rested her chin on Bono’s shoulder, her breath hot against his neck. Grabbing her hand, he laced his fingers through her and rested them at his chest.
This was normal, he thought, this is how they should be--lovers. And though the moment felt natural, Bono knew that things were not the same between them anymore. What he was not certain of, however, was the reason behind their odd distance.
Ignoring the nagging fact, he, alternatively, soaked in the tenderness, surrendering to the warmth of his wife’s artistic arms, enjoying the splendor of her scent and quiet breathing. He didn’t want to dread on their obvious tension or short conversations. Tonight he wanted them to be the husband and wife in which he were familiarized, even if it was just for tonight…
This story is actually really exhausting...Whatcha think?
It's in my mind so I haven't noticed. It will show up, though. 
yay! i love Bono fics - this is great!
<--- the whole time writing it! 
