Author: Regala Electra
Rating: NC 17
Summary: There is no darkness that cannot be breached by this fantastic light.
Author’s Notes: For anniesj. Enjoy your p0rn! I'm really sorry, as this is a bit late, but I am battling the worst freakin' cough evah.
A thousand lights that dance and bend. The stars themselves swaying overhead, unable to deny what is here, what is now, what cannot be held to their timeless, impassive view, the stars themselves see and would crash from the sky if asked.
Whatever he wishes. Anything he wants, for magic itself will unfold, barriers will not matter, the distances will not be crossed, and nothing, nothing shall be safe.
Madness, energy loosed from the framed structure of humdrum life. He brings the madness in shriveled claws that he is sure were once strong, sturdy hands, hands that stretched out and took a hold of life itself, shaking it about with the divine surety he knows he once possessed. But is gone and he no longer seeks it.
There is not solace to be found here. For *he* is here. Those eyes are calmly staring back at him, waiting with a patience that crushes them both, a long, sweet smothering better than that first insufferable contact of their bodies entwined. Just looking at each other captures what was lost and brings it back to life.
This is no game, no pretense, but is not real either. It lacks definition that which *is* is perhaps not. Either they are mad or they are lost, or they are remembering, or they act in this way to forget. There is no answer, nor a desire for an answer. Such things cannot be explained.
It is as rare as this mere accident of light and shadow, a creation of an eclipse. The temporary promise of a reprieve and of course it has to be now. Only when they can be hidden from the weight of the vicious moon can they rise together in this stolen moment.
They unburden nothing to the other, and if he says but a word, they would vanish under open sky, and across the universe. It would be neither ending nor a beginning, it would merely be.
He watches the shirt slowly pull off, so carefully with all the years lost between them making it all the more unbearable. He wants to rip, to tear, to sink doggish teeth into the clothing and pull it apart, wag his tail and enjoy the pure and uncomplicated love in his other form, but he restrains himself, sinking fingertips into the palm of his hand, the pain allowing him the pretense of civilized restraints. To tackle, to claim will be for another time, a better time, and he aches to watch it unfold, this slow, meticulous reveal of skin.
A long smear of blood, somewhat fresh, against a scarred expanse of skin, paler than milk, nothing like moonlight (no, not that, the skin wouldn’t dare allow a mere second of irony to pass here), scars bent silvery like the faintest wisps of a Patronus cloud, others red and raw, like fresh meat, newly torn from aching flesh. Beauty itself. Such a thing that cannot be seen, but must be tasted, experienced. Conquered. It is unconquerable. It is his alone to see. He is sure of it when he spies the slight tremble of flesh, not a reaction to the cold outdoors, but to the exposure of a body long hidden, this body, this heart, laid bare for him.
If time itself would stop, it would be here, if all of his memories should be eroded, if he will forget everything, this is all he asks: to always see him like this - exposed, pure, and a such a sight that can never be seen by anyone save him. It is a selfish wish, a desperate wish, yet he makes it all the same, to keep it wrapped so tightly in his heart that the words will not last and only the sight shall exist, never altered or corroded by time.
He begins to remove his own ruined, torn clothing, shameful things, evidence of the time which is now, that which is no longer his proud evidence of handsomeness. Now he is a wasted being, and yet, when his own skin, tattooed darkly, the flesh strikingly bruised by a rough escape, and starved a waxy color, bones too clear beneath the shiny veneer of skin, when all this is revealed in *his* eyes, there is appreciation mixed with sorrow. It is a balance in which he would perhaps once find disgust - for how can anyone take such pity on him - but it does not matter, because he is seen. He is seen and freed, out in the open, exposed to anyone and to everyone, and yet it is *him* who watches so assuredly, with a grim sort of expression that he now understands to be the greatest vindication.
Even in the lingering remnants of madness, there is nothing that is saner than this. It is the acceptance that he lost so many years ago, and with it, there is a peace he never expected to receive.
The cold pricks at the both of them, but just looking at each other, with such rare freedom, is a marvel and he aches just for the touch and is the pause, before coming closer and closer that is the better of temptation. When his hands reach out to the scarred, beautiful skin, awkward and lined, aged and mutilated, is only then when he finds the word, sharp on his tongue, a splinter of a sound passing out in a fractured whisper, “Remus.”
And thus named, Remus embraces, with a slowness defined in the carefulness of weary limbs wrapping around his thin, wasted skin, and perhaps he shall never let go, flesh sliding against flesh, eternal, fleeting, and fantastic.
Such a marvel this, this first taste of lips against lips, pressing insistently, each seeking more beyond the long held secrets of mouths, the way bodies remember and ache for the return. Their tongues tasting, remembering, unburdening each other’s secrets to the other, in silence that is never soundless, but is without words and without clear memories, only sensations bursting with the finest expression.
To die in a kiss, in the first embrace, if only, but the light itself will not allow his foolish thought to linger, for when he opens his eyes, they are bathed in the strange colors, awash in the eclipse, fleeting yet enduring for such a precious moment.
“My name,” he implores, pushing back greying locks, tracing his tongue against the scars marring his face, “my name, Remus.”
“Sirius,” he whispers, some secret smile playing at the corner of his lips.
There is a power to the old words and to the sacred words, and to the forgotten words. Yes, Sirius, his name, who he is and ever shall be, and Sirius splays his hand against Remus’s chest, barely touching where he wants to, but is enough. If he doesn’t move, perhaps gravity will forget itself, the sky will collapse and all that shall survive is this, the staccato stutter of hurried breathes as Remus waits, aching to learn what is next and the pressure between them shall create a timeless universe solely for them.
If asked, he would push Remus into the earth, into the dank wet suck of life, rocking endlessly as the waves of an ocean, while their skin lay awash in the brightest and purest of lights.
But this is the eclipse and Sirius has lost years and time itself will not allow him to wait for begging. The begging, that will come later.
He sinks to his knees, mouth at the ready, taste of clear, cool skin, and the dull coppery tang, blood itself can never be staved, and it tempers him, brings him back to the fragility of this moment. His tongue makes slow, studied movements, forcing memories back to the forefront of his mind, enjoying temptation, knowing that Remus will scream for him to go faster, to suck him down will all his force, and that by slowing, the pressure will only increase until Remus loses sense that there is anything beyond this.
And when he sucks him, so deep and hard, it is the loud, sudden roar, the sonorous cry that he had wished for most of all.
Remus comes, his long fingers tangled in the matted mess of his own hair, shaking fiercely. As Sirius carefully releases him, he can feel Remus still shaking and Remus falls to his knees, long arms loosely falling around his body, not daring to let go.
His cock is hard and he presses against Remus. He rocks against Remus’s soft cock, longing to get closer to Remus, as close as possible.
Remus sucks in a deep breath, a dark, welcome laugh rising from his throat. He tosses his head back, pale throat exposed for only a moment, but Sirius does not ignore this gift, sinking teeth so carefully into the skin, running his tongue against the imperceptible markings.
Remus falls back, fiercely, and with a sharp tug, he follows, sinking into the ground, legs knocking into each other, and Sirius’s cock sliding in between Remus’s legs.
There is nowhere else he could imagine being.
Spells and words have no meaning, but Remus reaches out, fingers stretching in the dark green of the grass, seeking out something and finding with a triumph evident in his face, and Sirius sees the wand wave between them. Remus shifts his hips and Sirius slides against him, flesh molding so perfectly even though time has ruined each of their bodies, they still fit, they still belong. They could waste to nothingness and still, they would find themselves united in the divide.
Propping himself up on his elbows, he carefully brings cock against hole, encouraging their bodies to remember, and as he sinks deeper, harder, he cannot keep himself from making a sound but the moment does not end, and the spell is not broken. Nothing can break it.
And he moves, faster, and steadier, finding with purchase the climb and the ache of muscles, the pressure and yearn for explosion, for everything to press against them, for it to be tighter, and harder and now, and there, yes, it must be here. All the secrets, all the lies, all the betrayals, it is between them, it is inside them, aching to shoot out with sudden finality, but never ceasing, never ending, waves rolling with boundless energy and it still exists, still sparks, vibrant as ever.
He does not need make a claim, to possess, for it is his, and shall always be his, this, this, this, is his. His Remus, his cock, his body, their bodies, shuddering, stilling, picking up speed, and he trembles for a fraction of a second, and he comes, with a halted choke, lips a mere fraction away from Remus’s, and Remus tilts his mouth slightly open, tongue tracing his lips as he falls against Remus, beyond exhausted.
Pushing away his hair from his face, Sirius stretches above Remus, knowing a lazy, content smile has spread across his face. As he slowly moves off of him, chuckling as Remus draws him closer with an arm locked around his shoulders, Sirius says, “Look at that.”
Remus looks at the sky and Sirius stares at the reflection of the light on Remus’s face. “Look at what, Sirius?”
“The light.” He entwines his fingers with Remus’s, enjoying the faint traces of sweat, cool and wet between their hands.
The traces of light dance across their flesh and Sirius laughs, fully and openly now. Madness, sweet, sweet madness.
He breathes in the secret fragrances of earth and the airy coolness of the night, their scents mixed somewhere in between.
Here is his wish, his one desire, for a thousand more nights, even though such a night, under the eclipse of the full moon, shall never be again, he wishes, fuller and deeper than he ever has, and it shall be granted, no matter what. There is no impossibility that they cannot surpass and as Remus reaches over, with a slow, patient kiss, there is no darkness that cannot be breached by this fantastic light.