Seen from a distance, they couldn't be told apart. Both are tall, slender. Pale, sexless, hairless, ageless. They are unmarked and glow very very faintly. Open windows have the light of heaven pouring in, catching on the dust motes that dance in the air - where there are books, there is dust - and their glow is faint compared to that. Their backs are identical, the curve at the base of the spine and up a thing of inexplicable beauty.

Closer, there are minute differences; her eyes are blue, his gray - though the term 'her' and 'his' are inappropriate, used regularly but still not accurate. 'She' is defined as such because her body is slightly slimmer, because there is a small amount more curve to her hip than 'his', because her waist is ever so slightly narrower. Nothing between their legs but smooth skin. He has been female before, and she male. They do not define themselves so, but terms are useful. There will always be people who need identity on others, and so they do not protest the terms, which are useful.

They are reading.

Close together, touching at knee and hip, they bend over a book. It is silent between them, comfortable. They read the same words; dialogue is unnecessary, unwanted.

After a long moment, by mutual but silent consensus, their fingers twine.

This is foreplay: two bodies touching, and a good book.

She feels contentment in him, also interest, love. He feels the same from her and turns his head so that he's watching her instead of the book. She looks up at him, blue eyes large in her face as gray eyes are large in his.

"Raphael," he says.

Raphael smiles. It's not a smile other people would notice, really, the corners of her lips twitching up ever so slightly, her eyelids closing just a little. But he feels it in her, the quiet bliss that means that she's smiling. "Jean."

It is acknowledgement of everything.

He inclines his head to ask permission; she gives it with her emotions, controlled but powerful.

Jean's head tilts and lips meet lips.

Mouths don't open; tongues don't meet. Not yet, at any rate. Just a gentle brush of lips on lips, like fingers over a page of writing.

She pulls back and they smile at each other, those tiny unrecognizable smiles. Love, interest.

Raphael's lips turn upward just that little bit more to hint mischief before she swings a leg over both of his and presses close. There is nothing lewd about it; they have nothing with which to be lewd. Just another way to touch, another way to be closer. Her eyes close as she presses her cheek to Jean's and whispers in an exhalation,

"Read to me."

Jean draws an unnecessary breath in, fingers tracing the curve of her back, a motion that nears sensuality. Touching the Symphony, he submerges in love, desire, a hint of playfulness running over the calm that marks the boundaries of being, the certainty and centeredness of Knowledge. He does not drown, he cannot drown, but he is submerged in her, deep inside her.

He exhales and pulls the book closer, his arms strong about her.

"Yes," he says.