Dreams and What Comes After

Their limbs meet and mesh under the blankets, fingers tangling in hair and toes tangling in sheets, knees bent and legs spread and arms wrapped around each other’s necks.  An October breeze sighs through the open window of their bedroom, but it does nothing to cool them down, because their hands and lips are so hot that it may as well be summer.

Weak moonlight illuminates the ridges of collarbones and the notches in spines, the gleam of sweat along the lines of muscles, but doesn’t allow for scars or birthmarks (usually hidden away beneath the comfort of clothes and platonic relationships) to be noticed.  One day, they will take the time to seek out the other’s so-called blemishes and kiss them all away, but now, as their desperate, frenetic rhythm threatens to reach its zenith, it is not the time to be gentle.

Remus bites Sirius, not for the first time, and Sirius bites back.  They taste like salt and skin and each other, and Sirius thrusts again, deeper this time, so that Remus’s fingers dig into Sirius’s shoulders.  He’s murmuring something unintelligible, they both are — a spell, a curse, a name, it doesn’t matter.  Their bodies are speaking for them tonight.

When they are finished and panting and they feel the strain in their thighs, they start again anyway, because they are seventeen years old and standing in the face of war.  Schoolmates, parents, friends have died, will die, as the lurking terror moves to the forefront of their lives.  They are so afraid and so young, and they wanted so much more than this.  But when they touch each other and make warmth in the bitter cold, they think that perhaps it is enough.

Fin.