boy, my shirt sure is covered in cat hair.
Hopefully I will have the rest of the Xmas drabbles done by New Year's. This is ze first one. For tilney, with much love.
[Originally posted at hpdrabble here. Posting the full text here now instead of just the link for posterity.]
For tilney for Christmas (though late). Hopefully it is, at least, skating around the edge of what she wanted.
Winter Companions
The two of them, sit side by side on the couch reading their books. Fire wrapping them in warm yelloworange glow, pushing the cold back against the unreal purpleblue of rapidly advancing dark. Eyelids flutter open and shut, fighting sleep. Arm sinks toward cushion, and Harry continues to read through the hazy vision of almost-sleep (the book is that good), feet curled beneath him and slowly leaning toward the warmth of the man next to him.
When Harry does fall asleep - book over face and snoring slightly into Remus’ arm - Remus relishes, for delicious minutes, the small motions of sleep. The way Harry’s hand, curved around the book, slowly loosens. The rise and fall of his chest. Hair - that in waking seems to have a life of it’s own - stilled in black on black mosaic. Lips slightly parted and the whisper of breath on sleeve.
He could watch Harry sleep all night.
It is still such a joy that this boy, this man, would let him see this. Remus knows that no one else does. He suspects that even for his lovers Harry never lets his guard down quite so completely. It is reassuring to know that despite all the things Harry needs, wants, craves, that Remus can’t give him - that no one can give him - that he can provide this one comfort.
Seeing that face - so often creased in concern - relax back into the boy he once was. Or possibly the boy he never was (the Dursley’s had provided him with a house, yes, but it had never really been a home; never a place to shed the day at the door and share conversation over a cup of tea, and a warm inviting couch) Remus can’t help but want to run his fingers through black hair.
And he remembers another night, years ago: a lapse of judgment brought on by grief, and lips - softer than seemed possible - on his own. Insistent hands throwing caution, and clothes, to the wind. Tongue curling around earlobe and the brush of teeth on neck.
When they had turned to each other the next morning, it hadn’t been regret, exactly, that reflected back from sleepy green eyes, but it hadn’t been satisfaction either. It had been a longing for something that neither of them could give each other. At least not that way. And, without voicing it, they both knew that they would never speak of that night again.
Harry shifts his weight, half turning toward Remus. Hands brush and eyes lock. Suddenly everything shifts to just this side of a tad too intimate; the half second touch that will never be more is too much, and not enough, and just exactly right all at once. The odd comfort of half-longing for something that is there, but not quite - tea that has steeped for just a bit too long, still agreeable enough, but slightly bitter around the edges - fills Remus’ chest. And the feeling is gone as quickly as it came, leaving contentment in it’s wake.
Harry flashes Remus a muzzy grin and curls up again. Remus smiles at the back of his head as he turns away, sips at his tea slowly, and returns to his book.
Title stolen from lyrics to Old Friends by Simon & Garfunkel.
[Originally posted at hpdrabble here. Posting the full text here now instead of just the link for posterity.]
For tilney for Christmas (though late). Hopefully it is, at least, skating around the edge of what she wanted.
Winter Companions
The two of them, sit side by side on the couch reading their books. Fire wrapping them in warm yelloworange glow, pushing the cold back against the unreal purpleblue of rapidly advancing dark. Eyelids flutter open and shut, fighting sleep. Arm sinks toward cushion, and Harry continues to read through the hazy vision of almost-sleep (the book is that good), feet curled beneath him and slowly leaning toward the warmth of the man next to him.
When Harry does fall asleep - book over face and snoring slightly into Remus’ arm - Remus relishes, for delicious minutes, the small motions of sleep. The way Harry’s hand, curved around the book, slowly loosens. The rise and fall of his chest. Hair - that in waking seems to have a life of it’s own - stilled in black on black mosaic. Lips slightly parted and the whisper of breath on sleeve.
He could watch Harry sleep all night.
It is still such a joy that this boy, this man, would let him see this. Remus knows that no one else does. He suspects that even for his lovers Harry never lets his guard down quite so completely. It is reassuring to know that despite all the things Harry needs, wants, craves, that Remus can’t give him - that no one can give him - that he can provide this one comfort.
Seeing that face - so often creased in concern - relax back into the boy he once was. Or possibly the boy he never was (the Dursley’s had provided him with a house, yes, but it had never really been a home; never a place to shed the day at the door and share conversation over a cup of tea, and a warm inviting couch) Remus can’t help but want to run his fingers through black hair.
And he remembers another night, years ago: a lapse of judgment brought on by grief, and lips - softer than seemed possible - on his own. Insistent hands throwing caution, and clothes, to the wind. Tongue curling around earlobe and the brush of teeth on neck.
When they had turned to each other the next morning, it hadn’t been regret, exactly, that reflected back from sleepy green eyes, but it hadn’t been satisfaction either. It had been a longing for something that neither of them could give each other. At least not that way. And, without voicing it, they both knew that they would never speak of that night again.
Harry shifts his weight, half turning toward Remus. Hands brush and eyes lock. Suddenly everything shifts to just this side of a tad too intimate; the half second touch that will never be more is too much, and not enough, and just exactly right all at once. The odd comfort of half-longing for something that is there, but not quite - tea that has steeped for just a bit too long, still agreeable enough, but slightly bitter around the edges - fills Remus’ chest. And the feeling is gone as quickly as it came, leaving contentment in it’s wake.
Harry flashes Remus a muzzy grin and curls up again. Remus smiles at the back of his head as he turns away, sips at his tea slowly, and returns to his book.
Title stolen from lyrics to Old Friends by Simon & Garfunkel.