and completely by accident, I wrote something
longsunday wrote a drabble, and when I went to comment on it this came out.
Wood Smoke
He permeates everything, like wood smoke in hair, every time Remus turns his head and those few unruly curls reach for his nose. When he rolls over in the middle of the night in the near inky black all he can smell is Sirius, though the other boy has long since retreated to his own bed and is snoring away, the deep sleep of the contentedly wicked.
At times it seems that Sirius is the only scent there is, blocking out everything else. Even the near too-hot stream of the shower never quite washes it away, just distills it to bare essentials: the sharpness of blind confidence, the dark cinnamon of unquestioning friendship, and the heady bouquet of desire. It sends Remus’ thoughts to places they ought not be while sitting under the stern gaze of McGonagall and a surprise Transfiguration quiz. It effects his studies.
He affects his studies.
Whether negatively or positively, that depends on the definition. It probably is better for sixteen year old boys to run full tilt through snowdrifts and throat scorchingly cold wind to rescue Charms-notes-turned-kite from time to time. Probably best not to spend every Sunday afternoon studying. Probably best to be knocked breathless from cold and heat and laughter all at the same time on occasion even if Remus’ sides are left aching and his cheeks sore and it takes hours to reconstruct bits of parchment lost to the wind.
Wood Smoke
He permeates everything, like wood smoke in hair, every time Remus turns his head and those few unruly curls reach for his nose. When he rolls over in the middle of the night in the near inky black all he can smell is Sirius, though the other boy has long since retreated to his own bed and is snoring away, the deep sleep of the contentedly wicked.
At times it seems that Sirius is the only scent there is, blocking out everything else. Even the near too-hot stream of the shower never quite washes it away, just distills it to bare essentials: the sharpness of blind confidence, the dark cinnamon of unquestioning friendship, and the heady bouquet of desire. It sends Remus’ thoughts to places they ought not be while sitting under the stern gaze of McGonagall and a surprise Transfiguration quiz. It effects his studies.
He affects his studies.
Whether negatively or positively, that depends on the definition. It probably is better for sixteen year old boys to run full tilt through snowdrifts and throat scorchingly cold wind to rescue Charms-notes-turned-kite from time to time. Probably best not to spend every Sunday afternoon studying. Probably best to be knocked breathless from cold and heat and laughter all at the same time on occasion even if Remus’ sides are left aching and his cheeks sore and it takes hours to reconstruct bits of parchment lost to the wind.