Constantine The Art of Breathing

I do not own Constantine.

The DVD on my shelf, however, would beg to differ.

The Art of Breathing

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Breathing had become an art for John Constantine. A finely honed craft developed over years and years of dedicated and willful practice.

Resolutely dragging life-sustaining air into blackened, desperate, failing lungs laid low by tar and nicotine. Arsenic and formaldehyde. Hydrogen cyanide and ammonia.

A delicate balancing act between providing his starving, screaming cells with a minimal amount of required oxygen. While at the same time remaining upright and adamantly ignoring the pulsating red dots throbbing on the edges of his vision.

He trained himself not to feel, not to care.

Because if he cared, all his carefully constructed stoicism would fall apart.

And there was no room for weakness in his bizarre existence. Not one single ounce.

But there was always room for another demon banished back to Hell.

And another cigarette.

Because when you are eternally damned, everything's pointless.

Beyond drawing the next wheezing, burning breath into your perishing lungs.

And not dying.

Not for a little while longer.

Ignoring the crushing elephant standing forever on his sternum, ignoring the erratically beating organ in his chest cavity.

Such headstrong deeds take dedicated practice.

The poison he constantly sucked down every day, every hour. Not only destroying his lungs but his heart as well. Tricking his struggling organs into believing the noxious gases were in actuality needed sustenance.

Because he knew, in the end, what was in store for him.

That was why he smoked. Inhaled the putrid, deathly mist. In preparation, as a precursor to an eternity inhaling the foul, vile air of Hell.

And being ripped apart over and over by those he had banished there.

If he allowed himself, he could almost smell that acrid, ashy stench all over again. Hear the hollow, rasping wind and the inhumane screams of the fallen and damned. Taste the searing embers in the desolate air, that poisonous, sulfuric rot. See the hissing, slinking half-forms lurking in the shadows, nipping at his heels. Feel the creeping, clutching tendrils of those waiting to tear his flesh, lap his blood.

And if he allowed himself to sense that, he would crumble and go insane.

But that was not John Constantine.

He would not allow them the dark pleasure of seeing him swirm and writhe and flinch.

So he stalwartly ignored it all.

And had another cigarette.

And another. And another.

And sent back another demon.

And another. And another.

But there was an upside to smoking and lung cancer, if one could believe.

The veneer of poisonous residues coating every inch of his inward self did afford certain freedoms. Pulling in and keeping constant poison in his ailing body for years and years had significantly dampened his ability to taste and smell.

So even if the food he got from the vendor was oversalted and subpar, he couldn't really tell the difference. Hell, took loads of hot sauce to barely register anything anyway.

The woman. The beautiful one. The good one. The scared one. The determined one.

He knew she probably smelled great. Even if she was simply dressed and groomed. She would have that natural musk that would call to his senses.

Just as well he couldn't smell much.

A distraction like that wasn't something he could afford.

Just her eyes were trouble enough.

And so John Constantine concentrated on breathing. And living.

Even if it tasted like crap.

It was one of the reasons he never attempted to kiss her.

She had tentatively wanted him to on several occasions. He wasn't so dead inside he couldn't tell that.

But he hadn't. Wouldn't.

He wouldn't touch his flesh to hers any more than he had to.

To press his lips to hers would be to present some of his poisonous self to her.

_You're beautiful and vulnerable and strong and stubborn. All the things I could admire and desire. Care for a taste of my death?_

No, he wouldn't soil her with his blackness.

And he wouldn't allow himself to feel.

Because that would make him weak.

And make her a target

And then she would die faster.

So he never did. And he never explained. And she never asked.

And then everything changed

Lucifer. Satan. The first fallen angel himself had changed everything.

Pulled him back down from the Heaven and the God that finally had forgiven and accepted him.

Dug his slithery, flesh-rending hands deep into his chest and pulled the steaming piles of blackened sickness and death out of him.

So that he could live.

And truly damn himself all over again.

But all John Constantine could comprehend in those first few seconds was that he could finally _breathe_.

Really, completely, fully, easily breathe.

To be absolved and forgiven are priceless treasures within themselves. Especially considering the alternative.

Add to that a simple, clean intake of breath, the most precious thing in the entire world.

Heady and invigorating. Almost orgasmic in its simple pleasure.

And it was all his.

Breathing.

Just breathing.

No pain. No misery. No strain or struggle.

Just breathing.

And so now he stood up on high, above the dirty, grimy city he had mired himself in for so many long years.

Looked out into the darkness.

Nothing else much had changed. Still half breeds. Still death and pain and misery. Still demons needing to be sent by to Hell.

He still couldn't touch her or care for her.

Or be touched by or cared for by her.

The rules still held.

His. Theirs.

But he could _breathe_.

And so John Constantine overrode his irrational physical craving for a smoke.

With a stick of gum.

* * *

**I love this movie. The characters and symbolism behind it. Everything.**

**And Keanu Reeves isn't half bad either.**

**Thanks to HardFacedQueenofMisadventure, Voodoo-Mutant-Child, and pharlan25 for your very gracious reviews. :)**

**Thanks to ChiefPam for reading and reviewing even though you've never seen it. Very kind of you.**

**Thanks to Kitty Rae Dignin, Ghysu, icydistraction, and Bunny's daughter for adding your support to this tale. **

**Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


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Constantine, Angst, Hurt-Comfort