FIC | All the Falling Stars (Remus/Sirius, PG)
title: All the Falling Stars
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: PG
words: 1, 001 (palindrome power!)
summary: Sirius is acting strangely: reticent, composed. James doesn't understand, but Remus thinks that, perhaps, he might. Includes the Marauder dynamic, with undertones and overtones of Remus/Sirius.
notes: Started as part of a multi-era fic, decided to be Sirius gen for a while, and eventually became R/S. (Why is it that R/S always hijacks my genfic for use in its master plan?) Also, thanks to artfulsincerity for the read-over.
ALL THE FALLING STARS
Remus watches Sirius watching: the glint of candlelight on silverware, the irregular pattern of raindrops drumming on the windowpane, the delicate bone of his wrist, exposed as he reaches for a goblet (yes, he might be blushing).
Yet Sirius' eyes remain downcast, defiantly not meeting anyone's eyes. Mute. (The only quiet Sirius is a Sirius waiting to detonate.) He must be able to feel the pressure of their gazes, Remus thinks: his own apprehensive one, James' confusion, Peter's blustering outright worry. But he doesn't look up - if he did, he would also see the way Regulus deliberately avoids staring across at the Gryffindor table, the way Bellatrix deliberately doesn't. Remus folds the cuffs of his sleeves, unfolds them, bites his lip, and says nothing.
"Did you know," Sirius murmurs suddenly, "that when I was ten, Narcissa tried to teach us how to paint?" His tone is conversational: he could be talking about the weather, or the daily news, or pass the pepper, please. "To 'culture us', she said, and the first thing she told us: the colour black is always black. No bloody idea what she meant at the time, of course - Reg said it was the inbreeding, but I think" - he pauses and swallows (not food or drink: he hasn't touched that all evening) and says - "I think that maybe now I get it."
The Marauders are instinctively silent, knowing better than to cut themselves against Sirius' razor-sharp edges. James fidgets: arranges and rearranges the potatoes on his plate, fiddles with his glasses, runs a hand through his hair distractedly, coughs. And Peter takes his cues from James, as always; opens his mouth, reconsiders, closes it, and then repeats the entire process.
Remus doles out reassuring looks in exchange for James' concerned ones - and watches, and listens. Conversation flutters past him, reminiscent of owls delivering post in the morning, and he catches snippets of communication from amidst the quiet roar of the Great Hall: whispers, exclamations, ran away, disowned, disinherited. Gossip spreads like wildfire through the corridors of Hogwarts, and today's item is the fallen star of the noble House of Black.
Regulus Black, Remus notes, has no qualms about meeting peoples' eyes; he matches each furtive glance with an indifferent glare (perfected at the draughty dining tables of pureblood manors) and the words which tumble from his snide smile cause Snape to laugh aloud. Remus catches the last few words - "she regrets he was ever born" - and, judging from the sudden tautness in Sirius' posture, he does, too.
"Bastard," James spits furiously, "bloody hell, how could -" and fumbles his wand out into his hand. His elbow angles in to Sirius' side: a cue to draw out confrontation. It is a form of catharsis Sirius and James are all too fond of, and one which Remus refuses to participate in.
From across the hall, Regulus recognizes the thrown gauntlet, arches an aristocratic eyebrow. The surrounding din lessens to a quiet roar as expectant heads turn one-by-one - a ripple effect, and Gryffindor table is its source. If he opened his mouth, Remus thinks, he could taste the storm brewing between scarlet-gold and green-silver.
But tonight Sirius doesn't take James up on the invitation. His lips form the shapes of "just stop, just leave it alone", and no sound passes his lips; Remus blinks, and realizes, oh, so that's it.
"James," Peter says - tremulously, because one doesn't admonish one's admiral, oh no. "You, you already have detention twice this week, you should..." He is obviously unnerved, and Remus commends him for showing forethought; but it's no use. Peter is the only one of the three who has not yet learned the techniques of successful James Potter deflection: one has to divert the tide of his will, can't halt it entirely; anyway, in this mood, James is unstoppable.
- Or, nearly. Remus allows himself a split-second of calculation before the possibilities coalesce into a course of action. "James," he hisses quietly; then, louder, "Prongs." Remus can't speak the James-and-Sirius as effortlessly as they can, of course, but he's picked up a few phrases here and there, and the eyebrow-lift/head-jerk to the right which he discreetly executes says, stop it, she's watching.
Sure enough, something like anger glints in the green eyes of a certain redhead, a few places down. Usually, with Sirius and James feeding off of each other's energy, there's enough collective spirit that James can contend with Evans' disapproving stares. But Sirius is reticent, and James, missing his other-half, falls apart in mumbles of futile, blushing apology. He shoots Remus a Look: this isn't the end of it, I'll talk to you later - but that is all.
And just like that, the tension is gone, like crackling electricity draining from the atmosphere after a thunderstorm.
"Thanks, Moony," Sirius murmurs, leaning across the table a bit so that James won't catch it. Remus feels the radiance of Sirius' mesmerizing smile, spreading slow and secret - he doesn't look at it directly, doesn't have to; after six years, he has its every curve and quirk memorized.
Abruptly a mass of the Slytherins rise from their table to sweep past and out of the Hall, deliberately taking a circuitous route which leads them directly by Gryffindor table. Phalanx, Remus thinks, and Sirius says (almost) nonchalantly, "I knew what it felt like to be part of that. ...Bella and Cissa and Sirius, on my first day at Hogwarts, veni vedi veci, until -"
"- the Sorting Hat said Gryffindor," James cuts in firmly, faultlessly picking up from Sirius' hesitation as he tucks away his wand a tucks into his potatoes. "And thank Merlin for that, mate."
"Yeah," Sirius says finally, "yeah," and finally looks up and to his right, meeting James' eyes with a grin. When he shifts a little in his seat, though, it's Remus' right knee which he brushes softly; in reply, Remus gently hooks his ankle around Sirius' and allows it to remain there, a constant pressure, a steadfast I am always here.
end.
Feedback is welcome; concrit is beloved.
Question for the flist: would you rather read something justified or right-aligned? I justified this, because I like to see my paragraphs justified; but is it awkward/difficult for anyone to read?
ETA: I am so indecisive I deserve to be shot. Goodbye, justified paragraphs.
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: PG
words: 1, 001 (palindrome power!)
summary: Sirius is acting strangely: reticent, composed. James doesn't understand, but Remus thinks that, perhaps, he might. Includes the Marauder dynamic, with undertones and overtones of Remus/Sirius.
notes: Started as part of a multi-era fic, decided to be Sirius gen for a while, and eventually became R/S. (Why is it that R/S always hijacks my genfic for use in its master plan?) Also, thanks to artfulsincerity for the read-over.
ALL THE FALLING STARS
Remus watches Sirius watching: the glint of candlelight on silverware, the irregular pattern of raindrops drumming on the windowpane, the delicate bone of his wrist, exposed as he reaches for a goblet (yes, he might be blushing).
Yet Sirius' eyes remain downcast, defiantly not meeting anyone's eyes. Mute. (The only quiet Sirius is a Sirius waiting to detonate.) He must be able to feel the pressure of their gazes, Remus thinks: his own apprehensive one, James' confusion, Peter's blustering outright worry. But he doesn't look up - if he did, he would also see the way Regulus deliberately avoids staring across at the Gryffindor table, the way Bellatrix deliberately doesn't. Remus folds the cuffs of his sleeves, unfolds them, bites his lip, and says nothing.
"Did you know," Sirius murmurs suddenly, "that when I was ten, Narcissa tried to teach us how to paint?" His tone is conversational: he could be talking about the weather, or the daily news, or pass the pepper, please. "To 'culture us', she said, and the first thing she told us: the colour black is always black. No bloody idea what she meant at the time, of course - Reg said it was the inbreeding, but I think" - he pauses and swallows (not food or drink: he hasn't touched that all evening) and says - "I think that maybe now I get it."
The Marauders are instinctively silent, knowing better than to cut themselves against Sirius' razor-sharp edges. James fidgets: arranges and rearranges the potatoes on his plate, fiddles with his glasses, runs a hand through his hair distractedly, coughs. And Peter takes his cues from James, as always; opens his mouth, reconsiders, closes it, and then repeats the entire process.
Remus doles out reassuring looks in exchange for James' concerned ones - and watches, and listens. Conversation flutters past him, reminiscent of owls delivering post in the morning, and he catches snippets of communication from amidst the quiet roar of the Great Hall: whispers, exclamations, ran away, disowned, disinherited. Gossip spreads like wildfire through the corridors of Hogwarts, and today's item is the fallen star of the noble House of Black.
Regulus Black, Remus notes, has no qualms about meeting peoples' eyes; he matches each furtive glance with an indifferent glare (perfected at the draughty dining tables of pureblood manors) and the words which tumble from his snide smile cause Snape to laugh aloud. Remus catches the last few words - "she regrets he was ever born" - and, judging from the sudden tautness in Sirius' posture, he does, too.
"Bastard," James spits furiously, "bloody hell, how could -" and fumbles his wand out into his hand. His elbow angles in to Sirius' side: a cue to draw out confrontation. It is a form of catharsis Sirius and James are all too fond of, and one which Remus refuses to participate in.
From across the hall, Regulus recognizes the thrown gauntlet, arches an aristocratic eyebrow. The surrounding din lessens to a quiet roar as expectant heads turn one-by-one - a ripple effect, and Gryffindor table is its source. If he opened his mouth, Remus thinks, he could taste the storm brewing between scarlet-gold and green-silver.
But tonight Sirius doesn't take James up on the invitation. His lips form the shapes of "just stop, just leave it alone", and no sound passes his lips; Remus blinks, and realizes, oh, so that's it.
"James," Peter says - tremulously, because one doesn't admonish one's admiral, oh no. "You, you already have detention twice this week, you should..." He is obviously unnerved, and Remus commends him for showing forethought; but it's no use. Peter is the only one of the three who has not yet learned the techniques of successful James Potter deflection: one has to divert the tide of his will, can't halt it entirely; anyway, in this mood, James is unstoppable.
- Or, nearly. Remus allows himself a split-second of calculation before the possibilities coalesce into a course of action. "James," he hisses quietly; then, louder, "Prongs." Remus can't speak the James-and-Sirius as effortlessly as they can, of course, but he's picked up a few phrases here and there, and the eyebrow-lift/head-jerk to the right which he discreetly executes says, stop it, she's watching.
Sure enough, something like anger glints in the green eyes of a certain redhead, a few places down. Usually, with Sirius and James feeding off of each other's energy, there's enough collective spirit that James can contend with Evans' disapproving stares. But Sirius is reticent, and James, missing his other-half, falls apart in mumbles of futile, blushing apology. He shoots Remus a Look: this isn't the end of it, I'll talk to you later - but that is all.
And just like that, the tension is gone, like crackling electricity draining from the atmosphere after a thunderstorm.
"Thanks, Moony," Sirius murmurs, leaning across the table a bit so that James won't catch it. Remus feels the radiance of Sirius' mesmerizing smile, spreading slow and secret - he doesn't look at it directly, doesn't have to; after six years, he has its every curve and quirk memorized.
Abruptly a mass of the Slytherins rise from their table to sweep past and out of the Hall, deliberately taking a circuitous route which leads them directly by Gryffindor table. Phalanx, Remus thinks, and Sirius says (almost) nonchalantly, "I knew what it felt like to be part of that. ...Bella and Cissa and Sirius, on my first day at Hogwarts, veni vedi veci, until -"
"- the Sorting Hat said Gryffindor," James cuts in firmly, faultlessly picking up from Sirius' hesitation as he tucks away his wand a tucks into his potatoes. "And thank Merlin for that, mate."
"Yeah," Sirius says finally, "yeah," and finally looks up and to his right, meeting James' eyes with a grin. When he shifts a little in his seat, though, it's Remus' right knee which he brushes softly; in reply, Remus gently hooks his ankle around Sirius' and allows it to remain there, a constant pressure, a steadfast I am always here.
end.
Feedback is welcome; concrit is beloved.
Question for the flist: would you rather read something justified or right-aligned? I justified this, because I like to see my paragraphs justified; but is it awkward/difficult for anyone to read?
ETA: I am so indecisive I deserve to be shot. Goodbye, justified paragraphs.