I will kill you with my hands and I will put knives in your family if you do not bend to my will.
Things this entry would contain if I could only do it:
1. My new Stephen Colbert icon from fox1013 who brings all the girls to the yard with her hardcore wonderful.
2. A link to fabulous comment porn that happened.
Things it will contain now, despite LJ's attempts to kill my spirit and quench the rebellion: a ficlet for the lovely Ms. Vic P.
This is unbeta-ed as my girl is out of town, and un-titled, as I am lame ass. Any thoughts, comments, criticisms, would be fawned over/appreciated.
Also, PS, I was way lame, and snuck the word she requested into a line of dialogue. *laughs*
There’s a haze around the moon, and ice on the grey leaves that droop toward the roof, where Sirius lies. The shingles are hard beneath his back as he stares up. Downstairs, inside, he can hear his mother shrieking, and the clatter of something probably very old, and very expensive breaking. He holds his hand up, and the tips of his fingers are pink from the cold.
It’s October. He’s only home because his father has had a heart attack, which is, according to his mother, a perverse and deliberate attempt to ruin her birthday plans. She hasn’t stopped harping on it since Sirius Apparated home at the news. She hasn’t really acknowledgd his presence, either.
His father did – looked at Sirius with pale, flat eyes, and said, “Oh, it’s you.” Then he’d closed his eyes again, and turned his face away, toward the wall.
At Hogwarts, Sirius would be in the Great Hall, knocking elbows with James and running the tip of his toe over Remus’ calf while they ate something warm and delicious, and then afterward he’d probably trip Remus into one of the many convenient empty hallways or spacious closets. He would fumble his way under Remus’ robes, and touch Remus’ skin, and kiss Remus’ neck when Remus arched his back and moaned as quietly as he could, despite the silencing charm.
It’s such a beautiful sound that Remus makes when Sirius makes him come. It’s not a whimper, and it’s not a growl, but it’s so quiet that if Sirius didn’t listen for it, if Sirius didn’t hold his breath, he’d never hear it. It’s the quietest scream in the world, the most exquisite gasp.
After, when Sirius and Remus slunk back into the bedroom, still pulling their robes into place, Peter would cough discreetly and James would tiredly say, “You both stink of sex, you do realize?”
Through the open window, Sirius hears Regulus say, “Mum, sod off, it’s hardly Dad’s fault he’s sick –“
“Oh *isn’t* it?” Lucretia screeches.
Sirius winces, closes his eyes and the window. He considers sleeping out here, thinks it would be better than his own, wide, lonely bed, with its too fine sheets, and too heavy blanket, and its smell which is nothing like his bed at Hogwarts. The bed he shares sometimes with Remus.
Remus smells…he smells *warm*, Sirius thinks. Like almonds, or fresh laundry, or something like that. Sirius can’t find words for it, though he’s tried – in a half a dozen poorly conceived and worse executed sonnets that he’s burned in the past six months.
Even when Remus isn’t beside Sirius, when Remus is across the room, and Sirius is curled around his pillows, clutching them tighter than he has ever dared to hold Remus, it never *smells* like he’s alone.
Sirius stares up at the stars until his eyes prickle with cold, and expels a long shivery breath, white frost into the sky.
He is not the Black his parents wanted, expected, hoped for. He is not the Black that anyone expected. But once he was a boy who’s father taught him how to fly a broomstick, and now his father is pinch faced and sick, and Sirius will stay to be sure that he’ll live.
He doesn’t know quite how his parents stopped loving him so quickly, and he fears that Remus will do the same while he’s gone. Remus has more reason than they ever did.
He has to stay for another day or two before he’ll feel all right leaving, though he knows his father and mother and brother wouldn’t turn a hair if he left right this very second.
The house shakes as a door slams, and Sirius covers his face with his hand. He pulls his coat tighter, and he just breathes. He feels very small, and very alone. He hates it.
A hand settles on his shoulder, and Sirius almost jumps out of his skin, and when he turns Remus is smiling at him, gently. His eyes are light in the dark, and his hair hangs over his forehead. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and Sirius think Remus here, now, is the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.
“Madam Pomfrey’s a bit far away for you to be falling off the roof,” Remus says quietly.
Sirius doesn’t waste his breath on how, or why, he just wraps his arms around Remus’ neck and hold on tightly. He murmurs, “Thank God you’re here.”
“I have to go back in the morning,” Remus responds, rubbing circles on Sirius’ back. “But I thought perhaps you’d have room in your vulgarly opulent bed for me tonight.”
Sirius smiles into the worn fabric of Remus’ coat, and he whispers, “Yeah, there’s room.”