(HP) fly, r/s
In which I try fanfiction again. I'm... pretty happy with this one.
Watch me get even fewer comments than before! u__u;;
Title: fly
Author: risa / bonjovial
Rating: PG? nothing scandalous, unfortunately
Disclaimer: Characters belong to JKR & co., not me.
Comments/concrit: are very very welcome in comments or at risarin@gmail.com.
Summary: After Hogwarts, Remus is discouraged. Sirius tries to help.
The world after Hogwarts, for Remus, is suddenly grey.
It’s all-encompassing, a thoroughly dreary color tinged black some days with disappointment and red with anger. This is all the record he keeps for his first summer in the real world-a mental calendar of colors, a catalogue of never-ending injustice.
He remembers them all, from 1 to 281, mulls over the days and moments in slow motion. He finds that lowering his standards just enough helps to quell the dark murmurings in his heart, helps him keep an even temper.
Soon, the reds don’t come as often or, perhaps, it’s just that he has learned acceptance. He’s fired from his fourth job in as many months and realizes that in place of the anger is only dull grey exhaustion. Walking back to the flat he shares with Sirius, he wonders if perhaps the change is a good one-numbness is, after all, not quite as painful. He stares at the concrete as he walks, drags himself from point A to point B. With practice, he reassures himself, these movements will become mechanical; these feelings set on automatic.
With practice, Remus changes-doesn’t feel the same burn of shame lying on the couch in the afternoon while Sirius is out at work. The newspaper is spread out on the coffee table in front of him, but only for show. He doesn’t try so hard anymore. And really, it’s midsummer and too hot to move, the couch is so cool and soft beneath him, the exhaustion has seeped into his bones so heavy…
Remus’s eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, and he curses as he pulls himself up. The room is pitch-black and silent, a darkened tangle of tricky furniture and scattered books. He has bruised himself too many times on sharp table-corners to take his chances; he quickly searches his pockets for his wand and whispers for light. The illumination he creates uncovers, in order: the rumpled sofa, his abandoned papers, a slew of forgotten books…
a disgruntled Sirius.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Sirius mutters, his rough voice obscured by the way his head is slumped in his hands, “it’s not like you at all.”
He doesn’t look up as Remus stands shakily, and he knows the answer before Remus replies, raspily, as if realizing truly for the first time, “…I’ve nothing else to do.”
Silence. He doesn’t-can’t expect Sirius to disagree. They’re out of Hogwarts and Dumbledore’s idealism seems to have gone someplace far out of both of their grasps. When he finally feels brave enough to look Sirius in the eye, he sees burning anger and disappointment, bottomless frustration with an edge of sorrow. He sees a reminder of himself, just a few months ago, and marvels at how quickly the cards have changed.
Sirius looks away, body still stiff and humming with repressed anger. His lips are tightened into a rigid line, easing slowly, a measured effort. He relaxes his fists and meets Remus’ eyes with an unwavering stare, “Go outside. Walk around. Visit James and Lil. Peter, even. Let’s go skiing, play Quidditch, go to the pub… I don’t care!” Quietly, “Pretend, Remus. Live.”
The world is red - dark, crimson - for a moment (it’s been such a long time) and he wants to lash out, to strike out against that penetrating gaze, to break smash hit until it goes away. “I don’t want to go out,” he growls, channeling the violence into his voice in place of his body, “I can’t even walk the bloody streets anymore without being branded.” His fists are clenched together so tightly the knuckles are white, his unclipped nails piercing the callused skin of his palms, “I don’t think I can pretend anymore.”
The crimson is gone, faded back into so much grey. He’s so tired again, suddenly, and as his limbs feel ready to give out, strong arms surround him firmly, keep him on his feet. Sirius isn’t angry anymore, he can tell, but squeezing too tightly, so tightly, as if closing the distance between their bodies will make them one, lend him the strength Sirius has always had so much of. He sighs, softly, at the feel of gentle kisses pressed against his hair and lets himself lean into the embrace.
Before Remus has time to collect himself, Sirius is moving again, away, tugging insistently on his hand to follow. They’re through the door and out, down the stairs (so many stairs), and weaving through cars parked neatly in the darkened garage. He allows himself be led, noticing anew the smoothness and confidence in Sirius’ movements, wondering if it had always been that way.
The door is ahead, the world is ahead, he knows, and struggles weakly to pull free as they draw near. Sirius glances at him knowingly, sadly, and turns back toward the rusting cars. He’s led deeper, to the dark undisturbed corner where Sirius keeps the other love of his life, a painstakingly maintained motorbike. The grip on his hand is firm - no escape - and he acquiesces, watches Sirius straddle the seat and toss him the helmet.
They don’t speak. Remus wraps loose arms around the other’s waist, absorbs the passing roads and the busy people with only fleeting interest. He remembers this pain too well, still, remembers days spent walking from store to store hopefully with resumes, portfolios, transcripts, recommendations, cover letters in hand. Those papers are ash now and soon enough, the people aren’t there at all and the cars that remain are small enough to be toys. He sees only treetops and steeples and grass and roads, sees the clouds at eye-level and realizes finally what Sirius has been working on all summer.
The engine’s continuous roar drowns out attempts at conversation, but there are thousands of words here-of reassurance, of love, of hope-regardless. Remus looks down at the tiny rooftops and trees beneath him… and for the first time in a while, he sees a world bright with color.
Crossposted at remusxsirius: here.
Watch me get even fewer comments than before! u__u;;
Title: fly
Author: risa / bonjovial
Rating: PG? nothing scandalous, unfortunately
Disclaimer: Characters belong to JKR & co., not me.
Comments/concrit: are very very welcome in comments or at risarin@gmail.com.
Summary: After Hogwarts, Remus is discouraged. Sirius tries to help.
The world after Hogwarts, for Remus, is suddenly grey.
It’s all-encompassing, a thoroughly dreary color tinged black some days with disappointment and red with anger. This is all the record he keeps for his first summer in the real world-a mental calendar of colors, a catalogue of never-ending injustice.
He remembers them all, from 1 to 281, mulls over the days and moments in slow motion. He finds that lowering his standards just enough helps to quell the dark murmurings in his heart, helps him keep an even temper.
Soon, the reds don’t come as often or, perhaps, it’s just that he has learned acceptance. He’s fired from his fourth job in as many months and realizes that in place of the anger is only dull grey exhaustion. Walking back to the flat he shares with Sirius, he wonders if perhaps the change is a good one-numbness is, after all, not quite as painful. He stares at the concrete as he walks, drags himself from point A to point B. With practice, he reassures himself, these movements will become mechanical; these feelings set on automatic.
With practice, Remus changes-doesn’t feel the same burn of shame lying on the couch in the afternoon while Sirius is out at work. The newspaper is spread out on the coffee table in front of him, but only for show. He doesn’t try so hard anymore. And really, it’s midsummer and too hot to move, the couch is so cool and soft beneath him, the exhaustion has seeped into his bones so heavy…
Remus’s eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, and he curses as he pulls himself up. The room is pitch-black and silent, a darkened tangle of tricky furniture and scattered books. He has bruised himself too many times on sharp table-corners to take his chances; he quickly searches his pockets for his wand and whispers for light. The illumination he creates uncovers, in order: the rumpled sofa, his abandoned papers, a slew of forgotten books…
a disgruntled Sirius.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Sirius mutters, his rough voice obscured by the way his head is slumped in his hands, “it’s not like you at all.”
He doesn’t look up as Remus stands shakily, and he knows the answer before Remus replies, raspily, as if realizing truly for the first time, “…I’ve nothing else to do.”
Silence. He doesn’t-can’t expect Sirius to disagree. They’re out of Hogwarts and Dumbledore’s idealism seems to have gone someplace far out of both of their grasps. When he finally feels brave enough to look Sirius in the eye, he sees burning anger and disappointment, bottomless frustration with an edge of sorrow. He sees a reminder of himself, just a few months ago, and marvels at how quickly the cards have changed.
Sirius looks away, body still stiff and humming with repressed anger. His lips are tightened into a rigid line, easing slowly, a measured effort. He relaxes his fists and meets Remus’ eyes with an unwavering stare, “Go outside. Walk around. Visit James and Lil. Peter, even. Let’s go skiing, play Quidditch, go to the pub… I don’t care!” Quietly, “Pretend, Remus. Live.”
The world is red - dark, crimson - for a moment (it’s been such a long time) and he wants to lash out, to strike out against that penetrating gaze, to break smash hit until it goes away. “I don’t want to go out,” he growls, channeling the violence into his voice in place of his body, “I can’t even walk the bloody streets anymore without being branded.” His fists are clenched together so tightly the knuckles are white, his unclipped nails piercing the callused skin of his palms, “I don’t think I can pretend anymore.”
The crimson is gone, faded back into so much grey. He’s so tired again, suddenly, and as his limbs feel ready to give out, strong arms surround him firmly, keep him on his feet. Sirius isn’t angry anymore, he can tell, but squeezing too tightly, so tightly, as if closing the distance between their bodies will make them one, lend him the strength Sirius has always had so much of. He sighs, softly, at the feel of gentle kisses pressed against his hair and lets himself lean into the embrace.
Before Remus has time to collect himself, Sirius is moving again, away, tugging insistently on his hand to follow. They’re through the door and out, down the stairs (so many stairs), and weaving through cars parked neatly in the darkened garage. He allows himself be led, noticing anew the smoothness and confidence in Sirius’ movements, wondering if it had always been that way.
The door is ahead, the world is ahead, he knows, and struggles weakly to pull free as they draw near. Sirius glances at him knowingly, sadly, and turns back toward the rusting cars. He’s led deeper, to the dark undisturbed corner where Sirius keeps the other love of his life, a painstakingly maintained motorbike. The grip on his hand is firm - no escape - and he acquiesces, watches Sirius straddle the seat and toss him the helmet.
They don’t speak. Remus wraps loose arms around the other’s waist, absorbs the passing roads and the busy people with only fleeting interest. He remembers this pain too well, still, remembers days spent walking from store to store hopefully with resumes, portfolios, transcripts, recommendations, cover letters in hand. Those papers are ash now and soon enough, the people aren’t there at all and the cars that remain are small enough to be toys. He sees only treetops and steeples and grass and roads, sees the clouds at eye-level and realizes finally what Sirius has been working on all summer.
The engine’s continuous roar drowns out attempts at conversation, but there are thousands of words here-of reassurance, of love, of hope-regardless. Remus looks down at the tiny rooftops and trees beneath him… and for the first time in a while, he sees a world bright with color.
Crossposted at remusxsirius: here.