R/S drabble
After seeing half my flist raving about dogdaysofsummer, I decided to check it out.
And promptly got sucked in.
It is raining.
It is the story of his life, Remus thinks. It is bloody August and it is Sirius staying over at his house and it is just the story of his life that it is raining.
They are sitting beneath the big oak tree in the Lupins' garden. The grass beneath them is dry, sheltered by the numerous leaves, and Remus can hear water, dripping, rushing, flowing. Sirius has lit a fire. He keeps poking at it with a dead branch, crackle snap spark in the flames.
"We should be in France," he grumbles. "I like the French. They eat frogs. And I bet it doesn't rain there in August."
Remus grins. "Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun," he sings. It is Lily's influence, of course, but sometimes Remus thinks that one of them would have discovered the Beatles even if it hadn't been for her. Four is, after all, the magic number for them, although nowadays, a tiny corner of Remus's heart is growing steadily fonder of two, as well.
Sirius grins back. His voice when he sings is deep, and off-key, and designed to awaken any person who might be sleeping in the vicinity. "If the sun don't come you get a tan from standing in the English RAIN!" He sticks a hand out from beneath the tree into the torrent and the droplets he flicks at Remus's face feel like splashes of laughter on his skin.
The song is one of Sirius's favorites. He spent the twenty-eighth of July trying to convince Remus that the nonsensical lyrics held all the secrets of the universe. Remus thinks he might believe him, even if his explanation for the penguin is a bit iffy. When Sirius returns to stirring the burning wood, restless, shifting, Remus feels a pang. His small village is singularly lacking in penguins, or any other things that could be interest.
"You could have gone to Barcelona," he says. James is in Barcelona, with his parents. Even the name of it sounds exotic. Remus thinks Sirius would like the sweet sun-kissed fruits in the sangria, but Sirius merely shrugs and leans against Remus's side.
"Nah," he says. "We are good Englishmen, you and I, Moony. Our upper lips are stiff. They kill bulls in Barcelona, you know."
His fingers brush against Remus's just for a moment, while they wait for the sun.
And promptly got sucked in.
It is raining.
It is the story of his life, Remus thinks. It is bloody August and it is Sirius staying over at his house and it is just the story of his life that it is raining.
They are sitting beneath the big oak tree in the Lupins' garden. The grass beneath them is dry, sheltered by the numerous leaves, and Remus can hear water, dripping, rushing, flowing. Sirius has lit a fire. He keeps poking at it with a dead branch, crackle snap spark in the flames.
"We should be in France," he grumbles. "I like the French. They eat frogs. And I bet it doesn't rain there in August."
Remus grins. "Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun," he sings. It is Lily's influence, of course, but sometimes Remus thinks that one of them would have discovered the Beatles even if it hadn't been for her. Four is, after all, the magic number for them, although nowadays, a tiny corner of Remus's heart is growing steadily fonder of two, as well.
Sirius grins back. His voice when he sings is deep, and off-key, and designed to awaken any person who might be sleeping in the vicinity. "If the sun don't come you get a tan from standing in the English RAIN!" He sticks a hand out from beneath the tree into the torrent and the droplets he flicks at Remus's face feel like splashes of laughter on his skin.
The song is one of Sirius's favorites. He spent the twenty-eighth of July trying to convince Remus that the nonsensical lyrics held all the secrets of the universe. Remus thinks he might believe him, even if his explanation for the penguin is a bit iffy. When Sirius returns to stirring the burning wood, restless, shifting, Remus feels a pang. His small village is singularly lacking in penguins, or any other things that could be interest.
"You could have gone to Barcelona," he says. James is in Barcelona, with his parents. Even the name of it sounds exotic. Remus thinks Sirius would like the sweet sun-kissed fruits in the sangria, but Sirius merely shrugs and leans against Remus's side.
"Nah," he says. "We are good Englishmen, you and I, Moony. Our upper lips are stiff. They kill bulls in Barcelona, you know."
His fingers brush against Remus's just for a moment, while they wait for the sun.