(no subject)
Hmm. Have a few James/Sirius Potterdrabbles in my notebooks, and was looking at them, so thought, "Why not?" (On a different note, please forgive the lack of personal pronouns. Don't know why, just felt like it. *shrugs*)
. . . . .
Or Forever Hold Your Peace
He's sitting there when the minister says, "Speak now, or forever hold your peace." He's sitting there, watching the wedding. He plans to leave right after, not staying for the party. No reason for him to stay and watch the love, almost as sweet as the wedding cake. He dropped his present off already; he'll give congratulations later. Over the phone. No reason to disturb them while they're settling in. The minister says, "Speak now or forever hold your peace." He is being watched and deliberately not watched, and knows it. They are waiting, watching him. He doesn't say anything.
. . . . .
Remembering Leaves
There were leaves, Sirius remembers later. The green yellow of a time perfectly between spring and summer. There were leaves and there were trees- bent, gnarled trees laden with the fruit of a thousand fairytales. Apples. The sky was a whimsical shade of blue. He remembers the leaves, trees, and sky, and he remembers James. It was a perfect moment, and he holds it in his heart because he knows James will no longer remind him. He went back to the leaves and the trees and they were brown, not the red red like Lily's hair that Sirius has in his front yard. He knows James has forgotten.
. . . . .
Charred Shells
There is quiet, dead quiet, until the peace of the night sky is broken by a rough sound, the sound of someone speaking with something in their throat. It is a motorcycle, and it lands among the charred shells of what was once happy. There is a man. He kneels down and cries, and it doesn't matter if it's for his loss or the words he never got to say. "No," he says. "You idiot, you idiot," although it's not clear if he's talking about himself or the corpse he can't look at. "James," he says bitterly. "James." That's all.
. . . . .
Screw Formulas
James had thought life was formulaic. You did this and this, and you got this. You tried booze, did drugs, but in the end rich parent (a) + rich parent (b) = rich kid (c). No matter how hard you try to be bohemian. Reasonable answers or predetermined ones. Formulaic.
Sirius Black knew that you could do X and try Y and end up at pi. He knew life was abstract, not a paint-by-numbers kit. James only got that when he was with Sirius for the first time, looking at that creamy skin and rosy-lipped smile, but he got it all the same.
So, if anyone's bothering to read this, tell me what you think. You know you want to...
~DF
. . . . .
Or Forever Hold Your Peace
He's sitting there when the minister says, "Speak now, or forever hold your peace." He's sitting there, watching the wedding. He plans to leave right after, not staying for the party. No reason for him to stay and watch the love, almost as sweet as the wedding cake. He dropped his present off already; he'll give congratulations later. Over the phone. No reason to disturb them while they're settling in. The minister says, "Speak now or forever hold your peace." He is being watched and deliberately not watched, and knows it. They are waiting, watching him. He doesn't say anything.
. . . . .
Remembering Leaves
There were leaves, Sirius remembers later. The green yellow of a time perfectly between spring and summer. There were leaves and there were trees- bent, gnarled trees laden with the fruit of a thousand fairytales. Apples. The sky was a whimsical shade of blue. He remembers the leaves, trees, and sky, and he remembers James. It was a perfect moment, and he holds it in his heart because he knows James will no longer remind him. He went back to the leaves and the trees and they were brown, not the red red like Lily's hair that Sirius has in his front yard. He knows James has forgotten.
. . . . .
Charred Shells
There is quiet, dead quiet, until the peace of the night sky is broken by a rough sound, the sound of someone speaking with something in their throat. It is a motorcycle, and it lands among the charred shells of what was once happy. There is a man. He kneels down and cries, and it doesn't matter if it's for his loss or the words he never got to say. "No," he says. "You idiot, you idiot," although it's not clear if he's talking about himself or the corpse he can't look at. "James," he says bitterly. "James." That's all.
. . . . .
Screw Formulas
James had thought life was formulaic. You did this and this, and you got this. You tried booze, did drugs, but in the end rich parent (a) + rich parent (b) = rich kid (c). No matter how hard you try to be bohemian. Reasonable answers or predetermined ones. Formulaic.
Sirius Black knew that you could do X and try Y and end up at pi. He knew life was abstract, not a paint-by-numbers kit. James only got that when he was with Sirius for the first time, looking at that creamy skin and rosy-lipped smile, but he got it all the same.
So, if anyone's bothering to read this, tell me what you think. You know you want to...
~DF