TITLE: Joined Fragments
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
RATING: R
POSTED: April 10, 2004
SUMMARY: Two men, many lessons, one night.
NOTES: Sort of birthday fic for KJ. Actually, pulled out and polished a bit after being a challenge for myself from an old contrelamontre challenge (the topic was "earth").
DISCLAIMER: The captain and the commodore belong to the mouse. Read.




They met on dry land, with one of them dripping the sea, and both happier when the wood under their feet was as free and powerful as they instead of driven into the rock-sand floor.

They came to an understanding riding the waves, watching each other carefully, even though one was gesturing large his carefree gratitude and the other glowering dark his utter frustration.

When the first gentle touch was shared -- offered and returned -- they were cradled within the creaks and grinds of a ship. It was the same the time after that, and the times to follow, with only the lady holding watch as understanding changed to knowing.

This night they stand on the shore, a curious place to be. No wood between them and the elements, only the sand, dark and glittering, tossing the flames' shadows at the black everything of the ocean.

The sand catches them, then. Catches and cushions, shifting with their movement. It forms a wall to support the back of the one who is turned so hands can coax buttons and ties to open. The wall collapses when restless arms reach up, an elbow crashing into it, knocking the center into a landslide. Fingers clutch at the ground, drive through the grains. The sand is everywhere, increasing sensitivity, catching in the heart lines, fate lines, life lines, highlighting them when, with a gasp, the hands fall open, offering their tales to the stars.

Whispers. Soft sounds, yet rough as the grit that slides between bared skin and forms another layer after clothes are pushed to all sides. Those whispers come from both, blending as they speak of delirium visions, goals that two can reach in a way no one man can. Whispers that precede touches, preparing, inflaming, almost negating the need for a touch at all. The contact comes anyway, fingers that don't hesitate as they trace lines through the coating on that thigh and this temple. Mouths merge, hot, panting, turning wet as they name the patterns, heads tilting to better taste a spice-laden smile.

Fragments of shells and slivers of bones lie smooth within the hot friction generated by the sand, ground fine until only sensation and the white glare of the moon separates them from the minute rocks that did the grinding. The contrast pulls a sound from a throat, driven by a hand on a stomach that pushes the air stored inside up and out while knees and heels dig for purchase against a surface that never stills. That sound says everything without becoming a word.

One hand dark, one pale, one on each side is pressed flat against the sand to hold them down.

Two hands join, both hard, held tight and high, thumbs tucked around to lock them together.

A sigh drifts up with the sparks, leaving them behind curled together on the ground.

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