Sophistication

SOPHISTICATION

By D.M.P.

She stood in the shadows, leaning against the cracked brick wall. The hazy streetlight highlighted the right side of her face -- the better side, he supposed. Bright patches fell across the alabaster forehead, the high cheekbone, the brown eye frosted with silvery powder, the small, rouged lips that puckered around the glowing cigarette. She peered at him hollowly, her eyes glazed with heroin or cocaine or whatever substance she was riding on at the moment. And she asked him whether he wanted a ride on her too.

Her body was both hard and delicate in the contrasting light. Tights stretched themselves into runs along her legs, a red skirt barely covered her thighs, a thin jacket of black vinyl wrapped around her shapely torso. Two fingers, painted a flaming orange, played with the jacket zipper. Her cleavage heaved up and down underneath.

"Not a ride. Not tonight."

His palms were sweaty; he had them shoved in his pockets, counting the crumpled bills by blind touch. His eyes were absorbed in those two fingers hooked about the zipper. She kept pulling it down, inch by inch, lower and lower...

"A hand job, perhaps? A good hard blow?"

"The last one sounds good. Something else, if we have time."

"Darling, for you, I have all the time in the world."

He kept glancing out into the street, alert, checking. A car passed, but nothing else.

His eye returned to her, so ready and so willing. He felt his face flush, not with embarrassment, but with desire and curiosity. Was it supposed to feel like this? Is this what he was looking for, the solution to his soul's restlessness? Was this it?

She reveled under his gaze and pressed her back up against the brick wall. Her faded eye glanced him over. Jauntily, she thrust a shoulder forward and trailed the jacket zipper down further.

In the slanted light he saw that she wore nothing beneath the jacket.

"Like the merchandise?"

This excitement of looking at her charged his heart and his body.

If there was ever another half to him, as some people thought, this half was stirring. And this other half kept saying, Yes, yes, yes, you damn fool, this is what you want to experience. Always wanted to experience. When James had Lily, you always wondered, always wondered and now here you are, standing in the cold night, and you have the money...

Her fingers dragged the zipper lower and lower-

With a quick flourish, she sealed up her jacket again. Her head threw back and she laughed, a high, scratchy cackle. The burning cigarette dropped onto the asphalt and she snuffed it with the heel of her shoe.

"So this is what you want, love?"

This is what his other half wanted; its excitement struck him dumb. He nodded slowly.

"Then let's go."

He graciously extended his elbow toward her. Casually, she slipped her arm in his. He placed a hand on her shoulder, an act of politeness and possession. For she was his as long as he paid.

"Now, you're the gentleman-ly type, aren't you? I haven't had a gentleman in awhile."

Together they slipped into the night.

Opening his eyes, Remus let him go. Sirius, still caught in the sensation, began trailing little kisses down his neck, gently pushing his lover against the headboard. Arms entwined, his body hard and hot, he murmured throatily, "Remus, my Remus," over and over again.

Remus straightened himself up against the headboard and slowly pushed Sirius away.

"What's wrong, love?" Sirius asked. An undercurrent of concern showed in his face, a face so flushed with fire and need. Remus shook his head and turned his gaze away.

He didn't know why he suddenly remembered that night, at this moment. Two years was a long time. Since then he stopped visiting the painted girls. He never felt the need since Sirius said he cared and that he loved him and Remus had thought the same. Now they were in bed, and the sensation was running through them, wild and strong.

Sirius brushed his fingers against his cheek, not saying a word.

What this it? Was this the feeling James had with Lily? Was this the feeling he now had with Sirius? Would this satisfy the restlessness he had inside, this feeling that had led him through the night streets, paying prostitutes for one-night stands?

Yes, yes, yes, you damn fool,his body cried, you blind, damn fool. Stop the stupid questions! His body yearned to thrust and to grab, to take and to hold, to scream and moan and react. And when it was over, his body longed to do it again.

Remus swallowed hard, looking into Sirius's eyes. In turn, Sirius opened his mouth as if to ask a question.

A pang of sorrow went through Remus. Did Sirius know this restlessness, this empty, wandering feeling? This disconnection?

He reached out with his hand, and - slowly, very slowly - trailed his finger down Sirius's cheekbone, and froze, lingering, on his lips. Sirius took his hand and turned his palm upwards. Remus watched silently as Sirius began kissing the inside of his wrist. Trailing downward along the inside of his arm, licking, eagerly, the hollow of his elbow.

Yes, yes, yes! his body cried. Remus could feel Sirius's palms touch his body again with hard, quick rubs. Across his belly, against his thighs, stroking, harder, faster-

The touch heated his flesh.

The fire was rising up like a wave and Remus gasped. His eyes rolled back, then drooped, half-lidded - his lips parted slightly - and Sirius's hands - yes, please - a sharp intake of breath - but - no -

Lying flat on the bed with the prostitute pulling off his trousers-

But this was different-

-it should be-

A strangled whisper. "Sirius-"

But how can it be? The sensations were the same; his body felt the same with Sirius as it did with her-

Yes, yes, yes!

Was there a difference? What if there wasn't-?

"Sirius-"

Pushing against him, pushing away from him, Remus removed himself from Sirius's grasp. "Please-"

Their eyes met. He couldn't finish his sentence. He became separate from this moment, from the heat coming from his lover, from the heat coming from himself-

And if Remus was asking himself these questions now, now when they were in bed and the memory of the painted girl in the alleyway still fresh in his mind - oh, was his feeling with Sirius real? Or was it still his body directing and responding like a programmed machine?

Was that the answer? Was it only a physical calculation?

And if it was, could it then be made counterfeit? What went on here could be the same as a night in the street-

Sirius never broke his gaze. The contours of his face deepened in the half-light. And Remus felt the same passion for him as he did for her while staring at him, feeling him. And he felt very separate and very alone and very frightened because of that.

The seconds ticked away as if measured by teaspoons.

If a question was about to be asked, it never came. Instead, Remus could feel Sirius's arms wrap around him and pull him closer. Remus embraced him in return. Their flames collided and crested...

...and waned...

...and died...

...and stilled...

But they did not let each other go.

Together they lay, their bodies pressed against one another, but not in a way that two creatures, caught in the orgasmic sense of action and reaction, grabbed at each other with moans and thrusts. No -- they held each other with a sense of mutual realization.

Sirius didn't try to ask again because he knew. And, finally, both of them understood. What went on between them, and what will keep them together will not be a dozen fleeting moments of contact but a lifetime of connection. A higher sophistication.

Remus turned his head and kissed Sirius with a certain significance. Their mouths opened to each other and grasped and held and melded, but no touch, no wrestle came with it. Hands froze and held; bodies touched and held; everything came together but there was no carnal urge driving it. There was something very scared, almost religious, occurring that neither could describe. In the dark, they saw each other with a newfound respect.

This was it. This was always it.