10/30/99 - Maxine here, with a short piece, "Polish Dancer" - very short. It's more of a mood thing than a real story. Vignette? Whatever. Fiction. Hope you enjoy it. Pairing Fraser and Ray Kowalski. NC-17 on general principles. I own nothing. Archive at will, just let me know. KatherineF, if you have the time and inclination, I'd love it if you put this up on Hexwood. Dedicated to Te, whose stories and friendship keep me good company, always. And to Paul Gross, whose Benton Fraser is the never-ending challenge.... Feedback welcome at all times and in all electronic in-boxes, especially maxmayer2@JUNO.com. Love you all. Enjoy! Maxine
Category: Drama, Romance
Rating: NC-17, slash, m/m
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
A romantic interlude for a loving couple. Vignette.
"POLISH DANCER"
by Maxine Mayer, 10/28/99
I come out of the bedroom of the small apartment we share, into the living room. It is very early in the morning, before dawn. Night, still, really. I woke to discover that Ray was gone from our bed and Dief had abandoned me as well.
As I focus I notice music and recognize it. It is Schubert's String Quintet in C Major. It is a CD that I haven't played for some time. Mostly, we play Ray's CD's since I believe he does not care for classical music and I do like the lovely selections he takes with him wherever he goes, including into my life....
I am very surprised, therefore, to hear the Schubert. I am even more surprised when I see what Ray is doing in the living room. More than simply listening to it - which would be amazing enough.
Ray is dancing to it. To the fourth movement, the Allegretto, which in parts is like dance music. He is moving very differently than he did when he waltzed with Stella, his ex-wife. Now, he is doing what amounts to folk steps. Then, as the music slows, he slows with it, swaying and turning, his eyes closed. His body is relaxed, his posture a kind of blend of the innately disciplined straightness of a ballet dancer and the loose-limbed freedom of a peasant. He is immensely graceful.
I can see that he is happy.
I see, too, that he is alone.
So terribly alone.
Even in the shelter of our love, our intimacy, which means so much to him, as it does to me, Ray is still alone, and always so.
My heart goes out to him. This aloneness is more terrible than the isolation I have experienced in the wild, or even in Chicago. This is another brand, another sort, entirely.
It is Ray.
The isolation and aloneness is in his soul.
It makes me afraid for him, because even I, who love him, and whom he loves, can do nothing to assuage the soul-deep pervasiveness of it.
But I want to try.
* * *
The music stops and Ray walks to the CD player and starts it up again, forwarding to the fourth movement He begins once again to dance his lonely Polish peasant dance.
"Ray," I say.
He turns, opening his eyes, and stares at me. His face is naked and beautiful. He doesn't speak. He nods. Stands in place. Lets the music play out, exquisitely beautiful, on its own.
"May I dance with you, Ray?" I ask when the music ends, taking the few steps that bring me close to him.
He smiles. All that he is is open to me in his face. Charm and joy and self-mockery and defiance and love and courage.
"I'll lead." He sweeps me into his arms and dances me over to the CD player, finds the fourth movement again, and pulls me around into a true Argentinian tango. We are tight to one another's bodies, feet touching as we turn, heads close, elbows out. A circling, twirling progress around the small room. A perfect kick-away stepping into each turn. I am more nimble and sure-footed in Ray's arms than I have ever been under my own direction.
The faster, dance-like section of the movement is short; when the slower passages come, Ray pulls me even closer and slows our rhythm. We dance groin to groin, a dreamy, sensual series of small, languid rotations: dance nearly in place.
I feel his heartbeat. I taste the joy from his mouth when he kisses me. His hands move up my body until they're on my face. Still dancing.... Or something.... Something erotic... He pulls my face towards his into another kiss. And another.
He stops moving when the music loses all resemblance to dance, and just presses closer. I tighten my hold on his body. I cannot seem to get close enough.
I will never get close enough.
But the effort is there. And a modicum of success.
"More," he murmurs, pulling me with him to the CD player and starting the music again.
"Yes, please," I whisper. "More. Forever, more."
* * * * * * * *