awkward motion

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 23:11:45 GMT

Title: Bella is a Sadistic Sheep
Author: kaiwynn and fathomlesssky
Fandom: Twilight
Rating: PG-13 for a whole lot of... stuff
Summary: COMPLETE AND TOTAL CRACK!FIC regarding what might happen if Edward decides to turn Bella into a vampire after Eclipse. What's wrong, Bella?" "It's just..." she begins to say.”Your eyes are so golden beautiful yellow jewel-like gorgeous."
Disclaimer: We own nothing.

Edward holds Bella's hand in his, admiring the ring that he had slipped around her finger just yesterday as they sit beside one another in a blissful silence.

The twilight seeps down around them, lighting Edward's skin with a bluish glow.

As peaceful as the setting is, something seems unusual with Bella's mood. Edward, being rather used to his mind-reading ability, is helpless in this. "What's wrong, Bella?"

"It's just..." she begins to say.”Your eyes are so golden beautiful yellow jewel-like gorgeous." When Edward's baffled expression reaches her, she adds, "I don't deserve you at all, you wonderful beautiful yellow-eyed angel."

Edward is completely taken aback, as this is the first time Bella has ever mentioned anything of the sort. "But Bella," he protests, "you're pretty and beautiful and have a really nice figure and your blood smells really awesome even from here. What's not to love?"

"But I'm so ordinary and my eyes are brown, like the color of dog poop," she protests, as Edward clasps her hand tightly in his.

"No, you must not say that!" he says passionately, squeezing her hand affectionately.

There is a definite cracking noise looming in the air. "I think you may have broken my hand with your hot hot LOVE!"

She examines her broken hand critically. "My wound may be worse than what happened with Jacob, but as it was conceived in love not hate, I think I'll keep it."

Then she frowns. "You're clearly trying to distract me with your wooing."

Edward furrows his brow. "What could convince you that you are the perfect one for me?"

"Didn't we have this conversation yesterday?" For a moment she is distracted by his velvet-dreamy-chocolicious voice, until he continues, "You said you wanted to wait!"

"I changed my mind."

"Really?"

"So, you're saying...that you want to make beautiful sweet love, right now?" Edward's voice may sound a little hopeful, although that can also just be Bella's imagination. "You know we can't do that unless you're a vampire, my little lamb. I wouldn't want to break your body in twenty places."

"How many bones are in the human hand?"

"Regardless, you would have to be changed first. And I don't want you to be changed until we're married."

"You are very demanding, my love," she whispers tenderly into his ear.

"No I'm not," he snaps, though his beautiful eyes are fiery in their annoyance.

"You're right." She blushes as he kisses the top of her head playfully.

“And anyway," Bella continues, "I think I can make you change your mind."

"Oh? And how is that?" His mood is curious -- changing like a light switch, or like a quick-change between comedy acts, or like something else that changes really fast.

"I can make a really mean hamburger," she says, beaming in triumph and resting her battered hand on Edward's broad, manly shoulders. "And I know you like it raw." She winks to emphasize her suggestion.

"What kind of sexual innuendo is that?!" There is a strange, shadowy figure leaping up from behind a bush.

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn," Edward says.

"Oh my, it is Jacob, my werewolf love!"

"Love?" says Edward.

"Love." This is from Jacob.

Bella is slightly agitated. "Jacob, we were talking about hot sex. Unless you want to join in, go elsewhere."

"No, you were talking about raw hamburgers. And uh, vampire man, I happen to know that you're going to break at least twenty bones in her body if you have sex with her. What's your plan?"

Deep down beneath his muscular chest and inside his (literally) cold unbeating heart, Edward knows that the number of bones he will break is closer to a hundred and twenty. "My father is a doctor, you know," he answers, indignantly.

"Oh yes, he looks rather like a model," Bella says, emitting a wistful sigh.

Edward is suddenly struck with an image of his father and his fiancée in bed together. His first instinct is to scream. "Okay. Bella. I'm going to change you. Definitely not Carlisle. We're going. Right now."

"NOOOOOOOO," cries poor Jacob, foiled once again. His tan muscular arms flail dramatically like he has as many arms as an octopus. "Then you'll--" he pauses to sniff loudly, "--smell TERRIBLE."

"We'll always have deodorant, my dear Jacob." Bella smiles her touching smile sadly, melting the hearts of every male and supernatural being within the four-mile radius, including the defeated Jacob.

"Well, you can always get together and make sweet rebound love with Angela," suggests Edward cheerfully.

"Pshaw. The six-footer? I'd rather die." He continues to rant about how he would never, ever like a person like Angela as Edward and Bella sneak away.

They are still sneaking when they reach the Cullens' house.

All the Cullens are gathered in the living room of the house when Edward carries Bella cautiously through the front door after she trips on two toddlers, five wiener dogs, seven werewolves, and a patch of very wet grass on the way.

"Oh my, it's my favorite human!" booms Emmett. "With my least favorite brother!"

"Ha! I knew this was going to happen!" Alice is grinning as she dances around the room like a crazed pixie, though she is very graceful.

Her gracefulness is visible even to human eyes, as Bella enviously watches Alice's ballerina-like movements. And then Bella glances at Rosalie, statuesque figure enough to blow her away. Again.

Carlisle looks at Bella and rubs his hands together. "So. We're doing this now? Awesome."

There is something vaguely predatory about his expression.

Edward shakes his head. "No, no. I'm going to do it."

Bella's subconscious rejoices at the fact that yet more males are fighting over the right to have some part of her. In this case, it's her soul, but she doesn't mind. Both guys are pretty damn sexy.

"Are you sure, son? I am impervious to blood after all," asks Carlisle, movie-star-like in his confidence.

"Yes."

"Really, Eddy?"

Thus begins a heated argument about who should change Bella and whether Obama or Clinton makes a better president.

"Alright!" Bella says loudly, although without much enthusiasm. She has been waiting for the clothes to come off. "Edward's changing me, end of discussion."

"Come up to my bed," Edward murmurs seductively, and Bella giggles.

Meanwhile, Alice is overcome by a sudden vision of the inevitable future. "OH MY GOD, MY EYES," she screams, as Jasper holds her tightly against his chest frantically. "JESUS CHRIST EDWARD YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WEAR A CONDOM?"

Esme looks like she is going to explode into a billion sparkly pieces.

But more importantly, she wishes she had told both her son and husband that she is, in fact, a Republican.

Edward carries Bella up the stairs like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. The wedding-style hold interferes with his incredibly manly, muscular arms.

"I really do not want to hear them," Rosalie says. "Distract me, please."

"You know the time I said that your green dress didn't make you look fat?" Emmett peers at Rosalie's face in a sheepish manner. "Well, I lied."

A grotesque scream echoes through the Cullen household. It does not originate from Edward's upstairs room.

"You're horrible!" Rosalie yells. "I don't want to talk to you!"

"Whoops."

Jasper, who seems to be the only one with any common sense, says, "Hey, should we maybe invite the Volturis in? They've been looking at us from the back yard for like fifteen minutes." Indeed they are. Alice gazes at their badass robes enviously.

Esme throws an appreciative glance at Jasper. "Why come in, Jane," she says. She turns and mutters to Carlisle, "I think his hair is giving him another superpower. Look into that later."

"Hi, we've decided to just... drop by," says Marcus eerily.

"You need to get a tan," Rosalie points out bluntly, disgusted by his pale onion-like skin.

"My skin is just too... sensitive. And don't you know you can get skin cancer?"

"Not if you use sunscreen--"

Before this can escalate into a full-blown rant, Jasper steps in. Again, he shows he actually possesses common sense.

"Bella's being changed right now. If you listen, you might be able to hear her panting and moaning upstairs."

“Oh, how sexy," says Aro, his red eyes slightly glazed over as he listens to the noise upstairs, intent.

"I never knew that Edward was into things like that..." Jane comments, while Esme looked appalled.

Emmett chuckles. "He's definitely the submissive type."

Rosalie's expression immediately becomes suspicious. "And how did you find that out?"

Alice merely looks curious.

The thought of her two brothers in a bed with whips and chains and handcuffs is oddly enticing. It's like something from a Harry Potter fanfiction!

"Aren't you going to offer us something to... drink?" Aro looks at Esme expectantly as he says this, smirking.

"Well," she says, "we have orange juice."

"Also, there's blood in the fridge." That's Jasper, sarcastic. "Taken from four year old girls, just like you like it. Mostly from North Carolina -- it's the best variety."

"You always were the smart one," Marcus says, clapping the other vampire on the back encouragingly.

"But I was the hot one, right?" Rosalie is hopeful as Marcus looks her over like a real-estate inspector.

It is Aro who says, "No, that would be Emmett."

"I didn't know you swung that way," Esme says conversationally, bringing out the orange juice. It sits untouched, but interested, on the table.

Marcus snorts. "Duh."

"You do know that my robe is lined with RAINBOWS on the inside, right?" Aro exclaims, opening his robe just a little bit to show the others.

Alice is fanning herself but not making useful contributions to the conversation in any way.

"So..." Caius begins. "Since we have three days to kill...I mean, there's a Jeopardy marathon on...anyone else wanna watch?"

"HEY I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE HERE!” Jasper shouts

"I'm very stealthy."

"Unlike Bella." Rosalie snorts in disdain.

"Yeah really," says Emmett. "What was up with that 'sneaking'? She didn't fool anyone but the werewolf."

"Oh look!" Caius yells excitedly. "Name that third century poet!"

***

Alice and Jasper are watching late-night reruns of Frasier when Jasper is struck by a speeding realization. "Hey, isn't it weird that Edward and Bella haven't come out of his room in like three days?" he mentions nonchalantly.

"Wow, they're on a marathon, aren't they?" Jane says as she emerges from the kitchen with a packet of err--juice.

Jasper is a little worried. "Maybe we should go... check on them?"

Rosalie snorts. "You're the first one going in, then. I have no desire to see their sexual fantasies in play."

Emmett coughs loudly, although there couldn't possibly be anything blocking his throat. "Well."

Aro winks at him seductively. He really is quite badass.

Esme shoots Carlisle a very alarmed look, but Carlisle only shrugs helplessly in return. It's not like he wants to see his ninety-something-year-old son having sex.

Marcus says, "I guess they'll have to come out eventually... right?"

Aro isn't convinced. "If they don't want to come out, they're not gonna," he says sagely. "I'm going in there to check on them."

Emmett visibly wilts. He clearly wanted to be the first one.

In the end, however, the Cullens and the Volturi end up massing together and moving toward the bedroom door in one large group, Aro at the front. He knocks on the door and when no response is heard, he opens the door.

"OH MY JESUS--" Alice screeches.

"--how utterly unnatural!" cries Esme, burying her face into Carlisle's chest.

"Geez, Edward," Jasper says, caressing Alice soothingly.

"I really don't have anything interesting to say that hasn't already been said," Aro says wryly, while Caius is silent as usual.

Marcus cannot stop himself from adding in his own two cents: "You Cullens really are quite sick."

"HUH?" Jane, who is too short to see over the heads of the other vampires, is very annoyed.

"It's not what you think!" cries Edward, chained to a beam in the ceiling and cut all over his body. A large, evil-looking sheep bleats nearby.

"I'm so very disappointed in you both," Carlisle tells them gravely.

"I should have forseen this," Alice sobs, very traumatized. "No amount of shopping can make things right again."

"Am I the only sane one here?" Jasper cries, releasing one exasperated sigh.

Carlisle walks over to the sheep, palms facing outward in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not going to hurt you, Bella. I just need to talk to you. How did you become a sheep?"

The sheep bleats.

"Can you turn back into a human?"

Miraculously, the sheep shakes her head.

"Vampire?"

She nods. A few moments later, the shape of the sheep blurs and transforms into a much-sexier version of human-Bella.

"Oh my love!" Edward says as Bella rushes over to unchain him. "We are united at last!"

"Does somebody care to explain here?" Jasper's blond hair is growing increasingly messy, but in a deliberate way that is still very attractive.

Reluctantly, Bella begins, "Well, it's about my power..."

"Yes?" everyone prompts.

Bella blushes. It's faint, since there is less blood in her system, but it's there. "Remember when everyone thought my power would have something to do with the fact that Edward can't read my mind? Or that Jane can't make me feel pain?"

Jane pouts.

"Well, it kind of is. You see, I have the power to change into a sheep. Which...has to do with my mind. See?"

Carlisle is amazed by this brilliant logic. Jasper is the only one who frowns.

"See, I knew she would be interesting," Marcus half-whispers to Caius, Aro, and Jane, completely full of awe for himself. "Okay, let's offer her lots of money and grass to join us next year, after the blood gets out of her system."

"I'm so undeserving of you, Edward! How can you ever love a sheep like me?" Bella covers her flushed face with her elegant graceful pale hands.

"Sheep are very noble and beautiful!" Edward kisses her aggressively now that he can't break her bones and such.

"He's like Dumbledore's brother!" Alice points out, surprised.

"No, no, Aberforth liked goats," Jasper replies.

"Yes, and Remus liked dogs," says Rosalie irritably, "but that's not the point. The point is, Bella is a sadistic sheep."

"B...I...A...S...S," Emmett murmurs slowly. "Bi...ass? Bitch-ass?"

"I-I-I am unworthy of a-a-an acronym such as this one!" Bella sounds rather like a sheep as she stutters in a fragile loveable vulnerable way.

"No you mustn't think this way," Edward coos lovingly. His features are perfect. Like those of an angel.

Bella looks up at Edward's face. "Edward," she says softly, "listen to your heart. Does it say you still love me?"

"My heart says you still love me," he says solemnly. "Besides, who else will be the top to my bottom? The S to my M? The sheep to my lion?"

"Nobody!" everyone chimes.

~fin~

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 04:12:58 GMT

Title: Upon My Dishonor (2/2)
Author: fathomlesssky
Fandom: Tamora Pierce
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Alex likes to sneak furtive looks at his former knight-master. He has gotten quite good at it over the years, but Roger of Conte will never know.
Author's Notes: A birthday present to the awesome hahahahowlucky that should have been finished a while earlier.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.

part one: past

Part Two: Present

Alex likes to sneak furtive looks at his former knight-master. He has gotten quite good at it over the years, but Roger of Conte will never know.

Tonight, he wears an emerald green tunic that highlights the perfect straightness of his form, a welcome change from the rich, sober hues that nobles tend to prefer, as though their wealth can be offset by modesty in their choice of colors. Roger’s expression is warm, inviting He speaks to this lady or this lord and that, weaving gracefully from one crowd to another, perfectly at ease, while Alex’s face never reveals more than a quiet, polite interest in the topic at hand. He is the shadow to his Duke of Conte’s form.

“You don’t dance enough,” says Roger, glancing at him casually. “That is highly improper for a young knight such as yourself.”

They have had that conversation before many times. “I find it a waste of time,” Alex replies. “If I wanted exercise, I would perform sword drills. Though he is talented enough, Alex doesn’t like dancing. He doesn’t like pointless movements, for dancing is only an act of courtship, which he is certainly is not interested in, and he doesn’t like the slight look of surprise that young noblewomen can never hide when they realize that he is proficient at dancing in spite of his height.

“Not everything in life has to serve a purpose, Alexander.” Roger’s voice is light, playful, yet Alex cannot help but feel that this argument they are having is about something more than just dancing.

Crossing his arms, Alex says, “Yes, but we do, don’t we? Anyways, there’s no challenge in dancing—one gets very bored doing the same sort of steps to the same sort of music.” The corners of Roger’s lips quirk upward suddenly, as though he had just thought of something very amusing. “I don’t like the look on your face.

“I think you should dance with Lady Delia, actually,” Roger suggests as he nonchalantly rearranges the jeweled rings on his fingers.

“Who is that?” Alex demands impatiently.

Smirking, with his rings glittering like starlight in his fingers, Roger gestures at a tall noblewoman dancing elegantly with—Alan, whose head barely came above her shoulders. It’s a ludicrous sight, and Alex admires the squire’s audacity, the willingness to do anything except conform to the restraints noblemen are born into. “This beautiful creature is Lady Delia of Eldorne, freshly introduced at Court as a fresh and lovely decoration. Every knight, married or unmarried, is dying to have a dance with her.”

Distastefully, Alex peers at the swarm of knights, a crowd that includes Prince Jonathan, that gaze at this Delia of Eldorne with streaks of admiration and hunger staining their features like paint. She seems to revel in the light of their faces, too, a joy that Alex has never really quite understood, her beautiful ivory features shining from reflected radiance. Why would anyone give a damn whether a group of noblemen admire her? “It’ll be quite the challenge trying to claim a dance from her at this rate.”

“Well, at least she is an appreciator of short men.”

“You’re not funny at all,” Alex mumbles, trying to repress the flush that is rising into his countenance. His height is another quality he had unwittingly inherited from his father, along with the legacy that he desperately needs to live up to.

“When, Alexander, will you accept that I am as funny as I think I am?”

“As soon as Delia of Eldorne decides to abandon all her admirers for the pleasure of my company.” Alex rolls his eyes derisively, though Roger’s offhand comments are no longer shocking to him after eight years spent first as his pupil and now as a friend, and Roger is amused as he usually is when he lures a reaction out of someone else.

“Well then, that’s not so difficult.” Winking, Roger walks away from Alex, making his way toward where the Lady Delia and her admirers gathered and leaving Alex with a confused tangle of feelings in the pit of his stomach. He tries his hardest to pay no attention to Roger and not fall into the trap his former knight-master has laid for him out of mischief, his blood rising to his temples as he guesses at what might be occurring right now on the other side of the ballroom.

He notices a slender girl, nearly a woman, standing not far from him, at the edge of the music. Her posture is slightly awkward, like she is not quite used to the body that she is in, her arms folded across her chest like a shield. Alex doesn’t know what the force that is leading him to that girl is called, but he finds himself approaching her, hesitantly at first, and asking, “Would you care for a dance?”

Relief, then embarrassment crosses her subdued features. “Are you sure?”

“I’m a poor dancer, but—”

“Sorry, Alexander, but I’m afraid I’ll have to commandeer your dance partner for now.” Delia of Eldorne’s hand clasped lightly in his, the Duke is standing beside him, smiling a secretive smile that glitters like a gem in the dark. “Let us dance.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she curtsies, looking almost as surprised as Alex felt on the inside as Roger takes her hand and together they enter the dance floor, swaying in fluidly to the pulse of the music.

Left alone, Alex bows at Lady Delia, who is exactly the same height as he, resplendent as springtime in green.

***

This is how Sir Alex of Tirragen first becomes acquainted with Lady Delia of Eldorne, leading to more dances at other balls where they will inevitably and lock gazes like the last people in the room. They are comforts to one another, her body lithe and soft against his as he kisses her neck in the dark, under the protection of the secret places that belong to him and her. He does not know what appeal he holds to one such as her, but he tries to lock questions and doubts away when he breathes in the scent of her hair, hears the soft, composed inflections of her voice. They do not speak of this to any one because they do not need to, yet Roger knows, and he disapproves.

She doesn’t believe in love, Alexander, Roger says while they take a hunt in his expansive estates. Neither do you, Alex replies. But I am not the one you have feelings for.

Roger is telling him as they watch a play performed by the best acting troupe in Tortall, a tragedy. The two of you are rather mismatched in height. We are the same height, Roger. She will embitter you.

You’re bothering me. A lot.

I think its better that I do.

***

He finds her as he passes through one of the many empty, drafty corridors of the Palace.

Her eyes are reddened and wet, and his unsure hand reaches out to wipe the tears off her cheeks. He has an inkling about the cause of her tears, both shed and unshed, and he hates himself for not realizing sooner. Of course she has some other flirtation, another lover that she prefers over him. Roger was right; he always is.

“Do you love him?”

She nods, her face turned partially away from him. “More than he knows,” she replies, her normally controlled voice breaking into shards.

The foreseeable answer does not hurt him and leave an ache in his chest as he expects it to, ebbing as gradually as it came like tranquil waves colliding upon the beach. “Who is it?” he croaks. He runs his hands through the silk of his tunic; the parts of his fingers that her tears stained burn. “No, don’t tell me,” he says quickly when she begins to speak.

“I wish…”

“Don’t.” It is ungentlemanly of him to interrupt a lady, especially one in distress, but he does not particularly give a damn at the moment. “I wish you the best of luck.” He wants to act more forcefully towards her, as it is certainly not uncalled for, but he cannot. He is a knight. Oddly enough, he hears Roger’s voice inside his head: Knights do not allow their hearts to become embittered. Knights do not behave vindictively.

Delia was never his and never will be his; her hand is something like a butterfly that flutters away at sudden movement that he can never truly grasp in his. And again, this does not bother him at all. What bothers him is that Roger will know.

***

“You are moping, Alexander,” Roger drawls as he invites himself into Alex’s bedchamber, swinging the door shut behind him without the sound. He seats himself on the edge of Alex’s bed.

“I’m not moping. I’ve spent no time alone and I have been attending to parties and games and races,” Alex says, finding it ludicrous that the duke thinks he is moping at all.

“You are not finding interest in other women. There are other conquests to be made,” he states, eyebrows rising.

“Do I have to bed many women to be a knight?” Alex demands. “Is that what you expect? You were the one who expected me to stop seeing her, and now you expect more of me?”

“Anyone will do, Alex,” says Roger, a strange desperation seeping into his smooth voice. His breathing is ragged.

“What if I don’t want anyone in my company? What if I can be a knight and reclusive at the same time? I do not want to be a gentleman. I never did. Not if it means—” he catches himself.

“What is it?”

“Oh damn it!” He seizes Roger’s shoulders and aggresively pulls their bodies impossibly close together as he presses his lips upon his in a violent kiss. The collision of their lips numbs Alex’s thoughts and his consciousness converges into nothing but the moment at hand, at the weight of Roger’s body and how eyes long lashed eyes are closed tight, at how they are melting into one another like there were never separate beings at all.

Their limbs are tangled as their faces pull apart for the first time, and Alex cannot say a word, shock and horror pouring into his veins like blood. “I am Delia’s secret lover.”

“I don’t understand you,” says Alex, with the taste of Roger’s lips fresh on his.

“Even though I introduced the two of you, I made her love me so she would leave you, because I couldn’t stand it even though I thought I could,” he confesses, his eyes closed. His hands are cold. “This is… improper. Ungentlemanly. Wrong.”

“I know.” Then: “I have never claimed to be right.”

The words and confessions are pouring from Roger now, like they have been waiting to be released for the longest time. Alex has rarely seen Roger so open even in his fits of nightmare during the night. “I wanted you to choose someone. Anyone—”

“Except you.” Alex kisses him again, gently on the mouth, then on his hands. Roger doesn’t talk anymore, and this is as close to fully declaring his true feelings as he ever becomes.

***

Roger knows he is bleeding into the floor, dying, soon to become as cold as the marble of the floor himself. His hand is around the hilt of the sword that has struck him, the blood emptying from his body and onto the blade the sword’s revenge. Things don’t matter now, he realizes. No longer can honor, duty, and secrets bind him like chains and drag him into the ground. Things have stopped mattering what seems to be a lifetime ago, when he saw Alex’s body, limp and cold, as the life drained out of it, a billion nevers on his mind, gazing straight at him.

He cried, Alexander Alexander Alexander!

I think I’m dying.

I think you are.

Do you think they will burn my body like they do with other traitors? He is slightly amused by that, but Roger is frozen as a corpse. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

No, it doesn’t, Alexander.

I can’t see anymore, but dying… this isn’t so bad.

I’ll see you soon.

All the things he has said, all the things he hasn’t, nothing matters anymore, except Alex that is gone, and he will be gone soon himself. Roger thinks he can see Alex, peering at him from faraway, if he closes his eyes, and he thinks of everything he would like to say.

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 04:07:27 GMT

Title: Upon My Dishonor (1/2)
Author: fathomlesssky
Fandom: Tamora Pierce
Rating: PG for now
Summary: He was used to being alone, if nothing else, as surely as his name was Roger of Conte. His eyes did not flicker even once at the cutting cold as he leapt of his horse with a flourish, heavily booted feet marking the snowy ground.
Author's Notes: I finished your fic a while back and can't help but post this part a bit early :p Dedicated to the lovely hahahahowlucky .
Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Part One: Past

He was used to being alone, if nothing else, as surely as his name was Roger of Conte. His eyes did not flicker even once at the cutting cold as he leapt of his horse with a flourish, heavily booted feet marking the snowy ground. He had arrived at Fief Tirragen with no servants or companions but his faithful horse and freshly sharpened sword, expecting little more than a frosty welcome from Lady Tirragen. He was the son of a traitor, after all, and he steeled his heart against all sharp accusations until it was a lock.

Instead, a welcome committee greeted him at the gates. Allow me, Your Grace, said one of them. He pulled the reins of the horse gently from Roger's hands. A servant girl curtsied at him, flushed as a flower. She took his fur-lined cloak from his as soon as they felt the warmth of the castle upon their cheeks. At any moment Roger expected this illusion of cordiality to shatter like ice, like a reflecting mirror, but it did not. It was still. It was constant.

The lady Tirragen was beautiful, with an oval pale moon-face and light green eyes. Her shoulders were graceful slopes when she reached out her hand, allowing him to brush his lips against her white fingers. She was in the black velvet of mourning, as she had been for the past two years. The shadow of her husband's death never lifted from her.

Lord Tirragen was killed defending the King from Roger's father. Roger wondered if the Lady knew that. "You are as radiant as ever, milady," he said with a sly smile, bowing low.

"And you are as charming as I remembered."

"If I had more than a drop of charm in milady's recollection, it would not have been I," he replied, playing the part of a sleek, well-oiled duke.

He noticed a young lad standing far behind Lady Tirragen, dressed in simple livery.

"May I present my son Alexander?" she introduced, as she beckoned Alexander forward. "He will be going to Corus this year."

The boy was small for his age, slender. His dark gaze clashed with Roger's as he, stiffly, bowed, the small grace to his swift movements almost feline. "I'm going to be a knight like my father," he declared quietly, his voice a flame, his face as pale as a blade. “I will be the best.”

"You will make a fine knight, I'm sure," Roger told him. "Make anyone who underestimates you for your size eat his words, eh?" He didn't really know what to say to the boy, who should have a father beside him, saying to him these precise words. He couldn't quite tell him the truth, could he? Not after Uncle Roald had hushed his father's rebellion so well from everyone, including the Tirragens, including Roger himself until but recently.

Lady Tirragen said proudly, "Alex is extremely talented at swordplay, like his father was."

But what use is a sword against Conte magic? thought Roger. "Perhaps we'll have a match someday."

"Perhaps." The boy nodded without a single expression across his features.

"You're barely a boy yet, Alex, and you're accepting challenges already?" His mother smiled at him lovingly as he glanced away, a faint flush rising into his countenance. "Just like a knight already, you are, far too eager to get a sword through your heart."

"That is also known as bravery, Mother," said her son, his tone slightly wry.

His vague smile broadening into a deep grin, Roger told him, "As always, the line is thin, lad." And he wasn't sure what he was feeling for this young boy, both eager and reserved, thin but strong, was fondness or just pity and guilt for the deeds of his mad father. He did not expect to experience something like this here, in Tirragen, buried in sleet and frost.

"You're philosophical."

"Why yes I a--" He paused to stifle a yawn, running a hand through his damp, jet-black hair. "Pardon me, milady."

"Linney," called Lady Tirragen, taking the initiative as a kind hostess, the mistress of the castle. A pretty, pale-haired maid stepped forth, curtsying at her Lady and Roger at the same time. Her slim form was apparent in a pale dress that hugged her curves. "Do show Duke Roger his chambers--he must be weary from travel." Roger smiled at the girl, watching with pleasure as her long pale lashes veiled her dark eyes when she lowered them. It was the same sense of mystery, of challenge as courting a young noblewoman at Corus that he could not resist now, casting a curious gaze over the pretty maid and her willowy frame and wondering. Her half-hidden smile, painted on her pink lips, was an invitation.

"Certainly, milady," Linney replied, softly. Eyebrows rising, eyes counting every step he took, he followed the girl as Alex's eyes followed his shadow, every step leading to the promise of comfort. Roger could only smirk in response to the mild expression of disgust unfolding over the boy's fine features.

“I bid you all a good night.” Roger bent his cold, aching body in a bow of refinement and took his leave while Alex, silent and almost fragile, watched on for moments after he left.

“He’s a very amiable man, is he not, Alex?” His mother tilted her head at her son inquiringly, measuring his expression. “There is quite an air of mystery around him.”

Alex wondered, and then nodded as a reply. He wasn’t sure what to make of this stranger, whose eyes shone of the sky and lips curve with easy humor, except that he wanted to solve the mysteries of the elusive Duke Roger of Conte. But that was all he knew for now, so he gave his mother a kiss, soft, gentle.

///

The blade of the sword threatened to slice through his slim form like a fish through water as he dropped to the ground, his sword held above him like a safeguard. His opponent attempted another strike while he was down. Alex rolled away from the tip of the sword, hungry breaths rasping through him when he pulled himself up, fueled only by his fiery desire to be the strongest, the best. “Running away from an opponent, are we?” the other sneered. His muscles tightened beneath a white shirt thinned by sweat.

Through gritted teeth Alex replied, “Would you prefer it if I stood still while you shred me into pieces?”

“You’re a fool, like a girl!” his opponent shouted. As Alex dodged yet another lethal blow—“Coward!”

Alex knew he had to stop his fury from burning through his veins and consciousness, before he lost control. His opponent’s lips twist into a feral grin, the contemplation in his features reflecting the desperation in Alex’s as the boy pressed his sword arm against his side to blot out the blood dripping from a short wound there. He wiped the beads of sweat, like dewdrops, from his forehead with the back of his left hand, taking his sword from his right in the same movement. Silence spilled into the pause.

“You are nothing like your father. He will be ashamed of you!” The words slipped out but nobody, not even the watchers, attempted to pick them out.

And Alex lunged at his opponent. He gripped the hilt of his sword tenaciously and, straight as the shot of an arrow, aimed for the older boy’s heart. “HOW DARE YOU SPEAK OF MY FATHER!” he roared as his blade crossed with that of the other, their match metamorphosing into a duel of physical strength. He can hear the sparks between their swords, almost see the taunt in his opponent’s eyes through pain that blurred his vision. His legs tremble weakly, and Alex then realized it was all futile.

His opponent pushed his sword towards him, using a brutal strength that he had kept within him through the entire match. Alex’s sword flew out of his hands and made a wind chime sounds when it struck the ground in an uncontrolled clout. Weaponless, he bit his lips in defeat as the other’s blade halted at his neck. “You lose,” the winner of the match whispered near his ear, his declaration slivering like a snake. “Nothing. Like your father.” His arms closed around Alex’s waist in entrapment, fingertips hard through the bare fabric of the boy’s shirt. “You are nothing.”

Then he let him go, and Alex collapsed to the ground.

He knew it was just a normal fencing tactic to insult the opponent and his family, yet nothing could have stopped him from veering down that hill. All of a sudden he couldn’t bear being in the barracks any longer, crumpled on the ground in defeat, mocked by the older boy who towered over him. He couldn’t imagine how he could ever become the best, how he could ever become a knight as great as his father was when he was utterly dictated by his own emotions and desires.

Alex found his way through the twists and turns of the castle, overcame with anger and disgust and hatred for himself that threatened to overflow him in teardrops, swordless, hopeless, friendless. It was almost as though becoming the best was too impossible a star for him to reach, a bitter brew. He could not beat even one visiting page, whose lunges were hungry and sentences harsh. Blood seeped into his mouth through dry, broken lips and infused the tip of his tongue with a mercilessly bitter taste.

Looking over his badly bruised shoulder, he saw that the castle that he would one day inherit was the majority of his view, a dark majestic statue against a backdrop of melancholic grey. The cold was nothing to him because of the fire within him, a fire he could only seek to put out yet continued to sear through his body like poison. He was in the forest now, thin, extending branches stroking the tearstained skin of his face and neck, a lover’s caress, though the thick lush trees blocked the barracks from sight, his memories were intact.

He’d lost. He had vowed never to lose the day he promised he would become the best knight of all. He could not allow himself to think of this.

“—beautiful…”

Alert, Alex’s hand flew to his hip, where a sword usually hung, when he caught the word through the whispers of wind, but his fingers grabbed empty air and he remembered that he did not retrieve his sword in his haste to quit the barracks. You fool, he scolded, wincing.

He would, at least, have the element of surprise on his side, he thought as he traced from where the hushed murmurings had sailed.

He nearly snorted when he saw it was Duke Roger. The nobleman was in a defensive stance and beside him was the maid Linney, blanched. Alex had a good inkling of what he had just interrupted. Linney bit her lips, arms folded over the pale half-moons of her breasts, inhaling shallow breaths as her chest rose and fell, while Duke Roger was flushed from his neck above. His shirt was nearly al the way unlaced, revealing a tanned chest marked by twisting scars reaching his strong collarbone. His eyes were bright as though lit up by fever, wide, staring.

He turned to the girl and whispered something. Blushing, she lifted her skirts an inch from her feet and walked quickly out of sight, her deft fingers twisting her pale back into its usual knots.

“Sorry,” Alex mumbled, reddening at the state of Duke Roger’s undress. “Your Grace.”

The other merely shrugged it off. “You’re most likely scarred for life now, I’m afraid.”

“I’m still waiting for the shock to come.”

Duke Roger laughed a hearty laugh. His half-grin made the sharp lines of his face even more handsome. “You must think me an awful knight now…”

“Aren’t you?” said Alex, direct.

“Yes, quite so,” he replied, straight-faced. “But that’s a secret between you and me.” Alex laughed. This—most dishonorable—duke was incredibly funny, but then he frowned when he saw the blood on Alex’s sleeve and the strain in his brows. “What happened to you?”

“I was dueling a page and I lost.”

“A page?” He then stopped himself. “Obviously.” The duke’s eyes were inscrutable as they clouded over like the horizon. Alex liked his eyes. “The match should have ended at first blood. This is ungentlemanly of him.”

He could barely repress a snort as he remembered the page Ralon of Melvin, his heavy limbs like trunks, savoring every bruise, every cut. “Gentlemen don’t win matches. I don’t want to be a gentleman if I’m going to lose,” he replied, bitterly.

“So you will not be a gentleman?” Amused, the knight’s large hands clasped the boy’s shoulders evenly, absorbing the wince scattering over Alex’s features as his fingers struck the wound. “I suppose you’re devoted to your cause, in any case, as I am to mine.”

The weight of his hands lightened as his fingertips brushed Alex’s pallid cheeks. When the Duke’s hand lifted from Alex’s sore shoulder, the boy found the pain that once nested there had evaporated. So this duke is a knight as well as a mage. “To each his own.”

“You’re a funny lad, Alexander of Tirragen. There will be those who will not understand this at court, but—”

“You will. And you want me to be your squire in the future.”

It was that same smile again, but different. The blue eyes were as dusky as twilight and his lips portrayed the glumness of a marble statue,

part two: present

Mon, 07 Apr 2008 02:57:11 GMT

Title: Different Names for the Same Thing
Author: fathomlesssky
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G for now. Eventual slash.
Summary: It is their final April as Hogwarts students and nothing is the same as it used to be anymore.
Author's Note: Written for prompt 1 of barefootboys
Disclaimer: I own nothing.

1. sleep through the night with open eye

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes....

-from the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, Geoffrey Chaucer (14th C.)

Classroom windows frame expanses of vivid green that blur into the brilliant blue of the sky; Sirius sees them like paintings to emerge himself in as McGonagall lectures the class on some bloke that accomplished something or another that was important to the art of Transfiguration. Poor woman, he thinks. So completely besotted with a wizard that is either about several hundred years older than she is.

He runs his hands through his hair in a manner that he knows McGonagall goes wild for, the Patented Sirius Black Hair Flip, if you will, and throws a glance at where Remus is sitting, at the far side of the table next to Peter. He is transcribing every bloody thing McGonagall is saying onto parchment, splashing his nose with drops of ink when he dips his quill into his ink bottle a little too passionately, completely unaware of Peter’s wandering eyes. James is, as usual, making googly eyes at Evans unsuccessfully, being the poor sod that he is. He probably fancies himself quite dashing, constantly ruffling his own hair, but Sirius supposes that’s what those without Patented Hair Flips have to resort to.

He feels the tip of a wand on his back, threatening. “Mr. Black!” McGonagall barks, snapping him out of his reverie. “Do you find Mr. Potter to be particularly relevant to the various accomplishments of Ernest Graycauldron?” Remus is shaking his head disapprovingly in the background, though Sirius doesn’t know what in the bloody hell he’s disapproving of, considering he isn’t the one with ink smeared on his nose.

“Well, my dear Professor McGonagall. The answer is really quite simple,” he begins, pausing to buy some time to figure out how to answer this one. “Ernest Graycauldron, of course, was a great wizard that greatly propelled the –erm, great field of Transfiguration with his—discoveries. In a way, he is quite similar to my Great-Uncle Lawrence, who is a great wizard in his own way, in that he is fascinated by Transfiguration. His greatest dream is to follow in the footsteps of Ernest Graycauldron. One day, seven years ago…” Sirius then launches into a long and complicated tale regarding his (fictional) Great-Uncle Lawrence and how he had accidentally transformed his cousin into a porcelain cat with a broken wand, managing to weave in many subplots involving a flock of geese, two babies, and seven hippogriffs. His sentences tangle and run onto one another, like vines, winding round and round until the beginnings and ends are circular.

When Sirius at last concludes the story, the entire class is exhausted by the frightening amount of pointless details and McGonagall, wearily, asks, “Was that… tangent in any way related to Ernest Graycauldron or Mr. Potter?”

Emitting a dry, nervous laugh, Sirius replies, “No, I’m afraid not, Professor.”

But it is now the end of class and students are pouring gratefully into the hallways, full of feelings about the epic tale that they are eager to express to their friends. James, Remus, and Peter wait for him at the door, side-by-side like brothers in arms, though their eyes are wide and their faces haven’t lost their schoolboy expressions. Sirius swallows some very painful groans inward.

“Your way with words astounds me.”

She is very calm today, Sirius notices, gulping. He then realizes that this is the calm before the storm, the silence of a predator about to strike and use her claws to rip the throat of her prey. “Thank you.” His voice is hoarse.

“I trust you will put your eloquence to good use when you write an essay about the life of Ernest Graycauldron tonight,” she says. She taps the table commandingly, lending an air of finality to everything. Sirius understands that he is dismissed and makes his way across the room, his movements stiff and reluctant, as though he, like everyone else in the room, isn’t really sure what just happened.

***

“Moony!”

Remus knows that he is being prodded, but knowing and understanding aren’t the same things and his eyes are too heavy with sleep to flick open for the imbeciles that he shares a room with for now. “Goaway,” he mumbles against his pillow. “Moonyistryingtosleep.”

“Wake up, the night is young! She is the most adoring mistress!” This sounds like James, but it can’t be, because James shouldn’t be alive after snatching Remus’s covers away from him.

“Moony!” Sirius is howling. “Mooooooooooooooony!”

The logical brain part of Remus brain is working while the sane part is still dead asleep. He considers the scenario at hand: these annoyances are most likely going to continue until he succumbs to whatever James and Sirius want, those bastards. Knowing from experience that he is defeated, Remus opens his eyes balefully.

“That’s the spirit, Moony!” Sirius exclaims, clapping him on the back, while Peter sighs apologetically.“The spirit of Marauding does not permit whining about sleep. Sleep is overrated. It’s just what normal blokes do because they’re not out having adventures and exploring the wonders of Nature and such.”

“I would really like too hex you. Would it be un-Marauderlike of me to hex you, Padfoot?”

“Now now, Moony,” James says, jumping in. “There can be as much hexing and cursing and as many demonstrations of masculinity as you’d like once we’re outside.”

“Outside?”

Sirius, James, and Peter nod in unison, as though Remus is a very daft cow. Sirius says, “Yes, outside. You know, with trees and grass and birds and unicorns and things? We are going to engage in a pastime known as ‘camping’.”

“Oh bugger,” he grumbles, eyeing the large pile of tent pitches and tarps in the middle of the room.

“Watch your language, my dear.”

***

Memories like these are their sole defense against the rest of the world. Remus knows this as he claims his spot between Sirius and Peter beneath the starry night, tossing away the blanket he had brought with him. It flutters away in the wind like an apparition, though Remus can hardly feel the light breeze at all. The silvery constellations above him, with their intricate, mysterious patterns, are sentences he cannot read and the moon is so thin a crescent that he can barely feel its pull at all.

Clearing his throat suddenly, Sirius turns on his side, propping his head up with his arms to face him. His lips, slightly chapped and rough-looking even though it is springtime, part a little as though he is about to say something, but they close again as Remus meets his gaze levelly. They watch one another, not saying a word, as they each take in every inflection of the other’s countenances, the small changes in the expression of their eyes, the sharp lines of their features.

Sirius’s eyes are the exact, luminous color of the stars as he surveys Remus, with a smile that is nearly a smirk painted on his mouth, though Remus cannot for the life of him figure out what’s so amusing.

When at last they both fall asleep, on the grass, but a handspan apart, it is like a mutual agreement.

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 04:03:56 GMT

Title: Watch You Turn from Me
Author: fathomlesssky
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG for slash.
Summary: Four Christmases Remus Lupin spent with Sirius Black from Hogwarts to beyond as they try to leave things are unsaid.
Author's Note: Written for hahahahowlucky ages ago.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.

We’re paralyzed
We apologize
Our hell is a good life
- Emily Haines, Our Hell

Outside, snowflakes were falling slowly into place, a stark shroud drifting downwards to cover the barren ground. Through a thin pane of frosted glass Remus saw them and smiled obscurely to himself as Sirius tried to catch a snowflake on his tongue, sending James tumbling into Lily. Then they were lost beneath a blanket of fresh snow, and it seemed they were drowning in the white, the lack of color until a dark-haired, gray-eyed boy poked his head through the ice.

The corners of Remus’s lips lifted some more and Sirius saw him. Their eyes held through the veils of powdery snow and the cold, lifeless glass of the window. It felt as though he had just discovered the gray in Sirius’s gaze, in striking contrast to the white eating away at the outside, for the first time.

They broke contact at the same time, with the same nervous quickness that was like a sudden shot of an arrow, as their attention slid back to their previous focus. Fumbling with a book in his unsteady hands, Remus ducked below the window, out of sight. They understood each other, he knew. Back pressed against bleak stone and legs sprawled out across the bare floor, he tried to continue reading his book but the black letters on the dog-eared pages were mangled to him then.

Nervous, said Remus to himself, meaning marked by strength of thought, feeling, or style.

Later they were all gathered in the once near-empty room, and it wasn’t so cold anymore. Remus realized this while leaning back on the rather lumpy sofa where he sat with Lily and Peter at either side, while James lay on his back on the not-so-obviously hard floor, obviously trying to look up Lily’s rather short muggle skirt through narrowed hazel eyes. Sirius sat on a separate armchair all on his own, and Remus found it intriguing how it was unnoticed that Sirius’s seat was disconnected with the rest of the group while it was impossibly painful how detached Peter’s seat on the sofa was.

“And then I saw Dumbledore leaning in to McGonagall under the mistletoe…” James was saying in a low voice, excitedly.

“In the Great Hall, mate?” asked Sirius, bouncing on the edge of his seat.

“Yes! And then they kissed!” the other boy shouted.

“Wow, Dumbledore… and McGonagall?” Lily said. Her expression of puzzlement parted like rain clouds to reveal a good-natured smile to Remus. With a vibrant green gaze, her smile was a prod for him to speak that he, enveloped in thoughts of home with its tendrils of warm scents, barely noticed. He saw, vaguely, a drunken hallucination pulling thick over his eyes, his father and mother beaming and standing, hands together, in front of their Christmas tree, picturesque.

“Dumbledore, that sly old dog! Didn’t know he had it in him!” Sirius’s voice, loud but not obnoxious, jolted Remus from his secret reverie, into reality. Reality was a softly burning hearth, and a spectacular tree, and pairs of eyes shining hazel, green, gray, blue, brown.

“He had more than six cups to drink,” Remus said quietly. It seemed everybody turned to him in a single fleeting instant, curiosity extracted from their faces, slight childish roundness not yet lost, like an expression of surprise. Shyly, he justified himself with, “He did drink that much though. Professor Slughorn handed him two while—”

“Remus Lupin, I swear you have eyes grown on the back of your head—” James’s voice, loud and obnoxious, only softened when Lily cleared her throat warningly.

Remus thought he heard Peter murmur something timidly and was guilty that he could not discern it. What made him even guiltier was that he found he did not bother with asking the small boy, smaller than himself, to repeat his words. “All the better to see you with, Jamie-dear,” he replied, wearing a sufficiently eerie smile or smirk.

They snickered. “Wow, Remus Lupin making a funny. Must be our bad influence, ‘Jamie-dear’, though it’s a vast improvement from the original… Argh!” Sirius spat a ball of paper from his mouth, grinning wolfishly still, wand pulled from his pocket defensively.

James said, “No one can call me that. Well, you can, Evans, if you want.”

“In your dreams, Potter,” Lily shot back, a scowl playing on her lips. Her skin was fair as marble and her light freckles were enhanced like mischievous stars against the dim firelight that made it all the more clear when she flushed.

“How’d you know that?”

“Remus called you that—” protested Sirius, throwing a glance at him and pouting.

“Don’t pout, I bribed him with a present.” Remus shrugged. “And by present, I do not mean a pair of rolled up socks.”

“What is it? It’s a book, isn’t it? A book. A book for reading. A large, heavy book with thin pages and small print and even smaller margins? You’ll probably throw it at me, huh, mate?” Sirius said cheerfully.

“Yes, and that’s what I got for you too.”

“I don’t care. Christmas at home would involve my mum drooling over Regulus, ‘Oh my , Reggie-poo’, Father bewitching muggles for sport, and many declarations of pureblood supremacy. Sweet memories,” Sirius said, his low voice unconsciously laced with bitterness. Remus didn’t really know what to say, which didn’t come as too much of a surprise to him. Maybe he should write what he thought on parchment. Maybe he should actually say something instead of hiding behind sheets of paper… paper was only paper, after all, in most cases… and people were… people. Maybe.

“GODDAMMIT!” James and Sirius. Beating each other up.

Remus sighed then. It was a pale sort of sigh, like thin wisps of smoke escaping into open air and fading into nothing at the same time, a sigh that was hardly a sigh at all.

***

“Caught red-handed.”

The dark-haired boy’s widened eyes said the same back to him, and Remus wasn’t so sure who caught whom red-handed after all. Sirius had appeared out of nowhere, an embittered shine in his eyes as if all the tears and resentment had polished the gray, bringing Remus to another Christmas Eve that was not too long ago yet long enough to be part of memory. Yes, he had caught Sirius most likely sneaking out for a run, but he, Sirius, had caught Remus watching for his return. He smiled slightly as he brushed the powdered snow off his shoulders and hair.

The magic they both practiced was potent, but the ice glittering and swirling around Sirius like fairy dust, that was another kind of magic altogether.

“You might get caught sneaking out one of these days,” Remus said, breaking the delicate silence when his gaze brushed upon the visage of Sirius. “You were out for a run, weren’t you?” Sirius didn’t give him an answer and he, recognizing the restlessness that grew in the boy—almost a man now—during the days of celebrating with family, days of lights that brightened the bleak skies, didn’t need one.

In the same slightly accusatory tone, Sirius returned, “You’re sitting here all alone, aren’t you?” Too sharp were his movements when he settled down on the sofa beside Remus as if his remark made everything fine, fair and square, the way that he always did. Their hands touched briefly when Remus, acutely aware of how close Sirius’s body was to his, the scent of sweat and, scantly, of something else, the warmth, adjusted himself on the sofa, inching away from the other. There it was, that magic again, as Remus unthinkingly studied the obscure shadows on that pale, angular face, colored by a sudden crush of crimson.

“I was,” Remus replied, seized by the need to Say Something, anything. “You were running out. Alone too.”

“You shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve. Celebrate, be merry, get fucking drunk as a skunk,” Sirius stated, his rough tone on edging on harsh.

“I’m not alone anymore.” Realizing what he said, how it could be misinterpreted, Remus’s voice stuttered in an attempt at a clearer explanation, something else, not this. “I was by myself and because you are here, there are two of us and therefore I am not alone.” His arms were folded across his chest and he tried to steady his breathing.

Sirius raised his eyebrows curiously. “I guess we’re not alone anymore, are we?” He was tapping his fingers gently to a secret tune on his seat, unflinching gaze fastening to Remus’s tightly, like on that day, that Christmas Eve years ago when they had stumbled upon the unseen connection between gray and yellow amidst all the colorless snow. And like that day, Remus turned away abruptly, his lips emitting a soft, protesting sound he had tried to stifle, only this time he could not duck below a window, away from Sirius’s focused stare. He would try, though, rising from his seat next to Sirius and staggering back a handful of steps until he felt the pines of the Christmas tree graze his back through the thin fabric of his shirt almost comfortingly. Though the other boy had abandoned his seat already.

Sirius’s caress was softer still, searing the places on Remus’s face where their skin touched and felt like igniting stars, somehow soothing the unbearable ache that had settled over Remus’s chest. Their entwined bodies sank to the bottom of the tree and disappeared beneath the thin shade it cast. “I want you, Remus Lupin,” Sirius whispered, his lips too close to Remus’s.

Remus was pinned to the ground by a force too strong for him to break free from, and maybe, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, consumed with adrenaline and desire and Sirius, he didn’t want to break free. He did not reply, made no objections, as Sirius lunged forward, and then their lips were crushed together, with desperation and urgency flooding free from a broken, unconscious dam. Sirius slid cold hands into Remus’s shirt, his fingers wandering over the too-thin body, tracing the slim lines of his form, and laughed roguishly when the other boy—seeming so much younger that he wanted to protect him—shivered softly in his arms. Remus’s hands shuffled around Sirius’s back awkwardly, experimenting with the hard muscles and bony angles that were so new to him as their legs tangled, their bodies melded together under shadow, their hearts, pressed against one another’s, pulsating to a unified rhythm that was theirs alone.

Their breathing was shallow and ragged through swollen, parted lips when they stopped, Sirius laying crumpled on Remus’s heaving chest like a withered petal. It was the first time Remus had ever seen Sirius this way, eyes closed gently, peaceful as a lone angel. He didn’t dare think that this angel, beautiful with a fresh glow on his pale skin from perspiration and soft, damp hair and lips far too lovely for Remus to linger, was his, but he wanted to and wished for it, and that was almost enough for him.

***

They are trying to stay alive in a war again, for the second time, and it is draining the life from them.

Remus sees that this prison is breaking Sirius into pieces, fragments of an already broken man. He acts the happiest Remus has seen of him, since a lifetime ago, but it is Christmas Eve again and the restlessness, the anger, and newfound despair is here, gazing at him uncertainly behind haunted gray eyes.

It’s not fair, Remus thinks as he lets go of the white cloth he bundles in his agitated hands and kisses Sirius. His lips are thick with too much alcohol when he kisses back, his body feeling harder and bonier pressed against Remus’s, and the friction from collisions of their skin sets his body aflame. Remus is filling his eyes and lips with Sirius, as he lines the insides of those scarred wrists with soft kisses. They do not utter the word love aloud but feel it in their hearts and soul, communicating it with tender strokes and music in their eyes, transforming this hellish prison of memories into a paradise of their own.

“Remus.”

Remus stops and says, “Yes?”

Sirius’s face is too beautiful to bear as his lips parted to speak, a quaver from his voice infecting his body. “We should end this. Look, I’m an fugitive, and well, I can never give you things or even leave the house this way… I love you and you deserve someone better… better than me…” He is crying now, tears making paths from his eyes down the shadowy lines of his jaw and falling onto Remus’s hand like raindrops.

***

They were sitting on opposite ends of the bed, him and Sirius, and it was excruciating, this distance between them, because he could reach across the distance of the rumpled sheets with trembling, frozen fingers to hold his hand and there would still be an unbreachable sea separating them. Reflecting the years that were lost to them, the years making the distance were the fine lines carved upon Sirius’s features that mirrored lines of his own. And Sirius’s face seemed younger than his now, with the years of life missing.

Everything felt too late to him, as if the two of them had missed their stop aboard this mad, hellish train, and now all they could do was sit there, unable to look at each other.

“Moony.”

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 03:36:07 GMT

Title: The Brilliant Dance
Author: fathomlesssky
Fandom: Twilight
Rating: PG for violence
Summary: The battle against Victoria in Eclipse from the point of view of our favorite Texan vampire (that would be Jasper, btw). Mild violence, strange humor, banter, and vampire kissing.
Disclaimer: I don't own any sparkly vampires.

“It’s beginning, isn’t it?” said Alice. Her eyes shone darkly even against the blackness of the night as her fingertips skimmed my elbow, softly tracing the thin scars that crisscrossed there, but they were anxious, worried. Her body felt fragile against mine when we touched, I could not help but notice. It was all I could do not to manipulate her into going far, far away for this battle and not return until I had destroyed them all, if I didn’t know that she would most likely find some way to outwit me towards the end.

“Alas,” I replied in a relaxed drawl, but I could tell that my limbs were too tense, perhaps stiff enough to give the enemy a lucky advantage. “It is.”

Alice… Her name is fresh on my lips, like her kiss. Her gaze was on me. “You’ll be careful, right?”

I stared at her, and said, sarcastically, “I’ll try.” She pretended to swat me on the arm, while I cleared my senses to discover the bastards were trying to surround us. The dog—werewolves growled lowly, ears shooting up, alert. If they wanted a fight, they were getting one. “Can I trust you to be careful?”

Alice wrinkled her nose at me, appearing to be insulted to the utmost level. “Of course—”

“Not.” I sighed, lacing my fingers with hers. What I’d give for her to be safe forever, to never have to fight as I did and bear the very same scars… “Just stay close to me, which, I do realize, is a mildly sexist thing to say, but better sexist than single, I have to say.”

In response she squeezed my hand gently, and I could not react to that with any course of action than what I had in mind: I bent down and pressed my lips to hers quickly, wrapping my arm around her thin shoulders, feeling many pairs of eyes watching me as I did so. Damn dogs. “You are so overprotective.”

I laughed, then stilled, for they were here at last, blundering into our territory like clumsy oafs. Deadly silence washed over the air like rain, when the wolves too caught the scents of the fledglings. I could hear the crisp blades of grass ripple against the night wind as I waited for something to set this battle off.

I waited, because I knew they were impulsive, and they would not wait for the right strategic moment to begin this fight. And correct I was. The first that came were the worst of the lot. A blond, broad-shouldered one—he could not have been than seventeen-years-old—flew at Alice, deciding to choose her as his primary target due to her size and demeanor.

I stepped in front of her, a shield between she and the fledgling. “Get away from her. Now,” I snarled, seizing his shoulders, lifting him inches off the ground, and dropping him headfirst downwards with fury. Crimson blossoms of blood stained his crushed neck as the scent of savagery curled in tendrils around me.

Alice stared down at the corpse at her feet. “Is he…” The question lingered in the air until I nodded. I wanted to say more, tell her that there was a reason for all this bloodshed that wasn’t in order for our way of life to continue. There never was a reason other than this very one.

Somewhere not too far off from here Emmett, eyes wild, roared his fierce battle cry and I kissed the sadness off of Alice’s cheeks before the next fledgling came.

She took my elbow into her hands again and gazed at me tenderly. “I want to fight, Jasper.”

“They cannot even remember what it was like to be human anymore,” I protested, fending off the circle of vampires closing in around us like a chain.

She cried, “I don’t want to stand on the sidelines while watching the people I love get hurt!”

“It will hurt me all the more of they hurt you. I cannot watch you in danger.” And I could not, would not allow a battle to taint her as they had tainted me. “Please,” I said, softly pleading.

“I can’t.”

I replied, “Nor can I.” We fought to finish off the next opponents, but I could not voluntarily give her any part in it. It was just too hard.

***

I did not see the brown-haired female preparing to twist my arm as I fought the male intending to fight my love. I bit my lip when the female’s nails dug into my elbow, ignoring the sting that was slowly spreading its way upwards into my left shoulder, and shoved the male away, pinning him to the ground. My head lifted from the male’s body when I heard a sharp cry of pain from the female behind me, penetrating the calm, merciless mind-frame I had plunged into especially for this battle. “Stay back!” I shouted to her. The female attempted to throw a punch at her, but Alice was too quick, dodging the blow completely and appearing behind the brunette. As her small, pale hands closed around the female’s throat, I snatched the enemy out of the way, crushing her neck with my own hands. Her blood painted my skin red and streaked across my cheek. I steered Alice to another direction immediately so she would not see the female’s lifeless ruby eyes roll back into her skull.

The rhythm of the battle was hungry and incontrovertible. I fell into it with my entire being, hearing each step I take toward the enemy as a beat in my song. I strangled, and slashed, and tackled. I tried my best to ignore the beseeching spilling from her eyes. Each movement I took was a step in the dance, and the fledglings could not escape it.

***

I felt scratches on my skin, wounds of venom and carelessness that I’d taken as a result of taking six or seven of them at a time, the monster within me not to be taken lightly. I heard the last cries of the remaining vampires as I took more lives in one night than I had since more than a lifetime ago. I could barely contain my snarls and furious pummels to something vaguely civilized, little more than a beast.

“Jasper.” My name was on her lips, but not in a way I would ever desire for it to be so, like anguish. She was the only one who would know that I was tearing my soul apart all over again, into bloody pieces, and that I could not stop anymore, not until it was finished.

I began to say, “I—”

Then, when I saw the tangle of orange hair drifting into the battlegrounds from afar, the vivid color of the waves the exact shade possessed by Victoria, the battle was over.

The last remaining fledgling had surrendered, and we were left with the aftermath.

“You overprotective fool,” Alice whispered, her lips pressing against my neck, stiff and cold and all that I could want. Her hand was in mine and I could not let it go.

“I know,” I told her, before I collapsed on the moist, blood-soaked ground.