FIC: The Young Thousands
TITLE: The Young Thousands
AUTHOR: eudaimon
RATING: N/A
WARNINGS: N/A
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, not at all...the title is from a
Mountain Goats song and the last line is kind of from a Richard Brautigan poem
called 'Mouths That Kissed In The Hot Ashes of Pompeii'.
A/N: written for the late round of queerditch_pub last night. The theme was Alternate Universes. The
prompt was "Sirius/Lily - Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated". I
think I might expand this into a longer fic.
They'd been young and silly and wanton and they'd been the front that
the war was being fought on, they were the new terrain, the noman'sland and
there were, oh, thousands of them, and there was just the four of them there
too.
There's a pub, see. S'nowhere and s'everywhere, all at once. He doesn't pretend to understand the physics of the thing...phyiscs were never his strongest point, one step two step dancer hairline cracks along the edges and at the heart. Love makes you brittle. Fall once and you're always going to be full of cracks. He fell. He fell, tripped, stumbled, and that's it.
He doesn't feel dead. He wonders if anybody really does.
He pushes open the door, whirl of cigarette smoke. He's lived his life in places like this (always was a chancer, dancer, take what he could get). He pushes the seventeen year old hair out of seventeen year old eyes and none of this is right at all, is it, it really isn't. In the corner, crowded room, he thinks he catches a glimpse of Marlene McKinnon, long silver earrings and a flash of tit. But but but. Somebody's put The Clash on the jukebox, and the last time he heard this song...the last time he heard this, they were dancing in a circle, him and James and Lily in borrowed boots and Remus Remus Remus. They'd been young and silly and wanton and they'd been the front that the war was being fought on, they were the new terrain, the noman'sland and there were, oh, thousands of them, and there was just the four of them there too.
He saw her and heard her at different times, something about how light and sound carries. She'd cut her red hair short the year that Harry was born. There were any years after that, but she'd said that she couldn't feel like a little girl anymore, not when she'd produced life, whole and perfect. Lily Potter never was a soldier. Lily Potter was the kind of woman who contained the whole world.
She made room for him on the bench shaped like a church pew. He pressed his nose into her hair, and she smelt of cigarette smoke and green light.
"I thought that you were dead," he whispered. Lily shook her head.
"No, no, just waiting."
They all were.
The young thousands, starting to come back, in what the children called their children.
AUTHOR: eudaimon
RATING: N/A
WARNINGS: N/A
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, not at all...the title is from a
Mountain Goats song and the last line is kind of from a Richard Brautigan poem
called 'Mouths That Kissed In The Hot Ashes of Pompeii'.
A/N: written for the late round of queerditch_pub last night. The theme was Alternate Universes. The
prompt was "Sirius/Lily - Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated". I
think I might expand this into a longer fic.
They'd been young and silly and wanton and they'd been the front that
the war was being fought on, they were the new terrain, the noman'sland and
there were, oh, thousands of them, and there was just the four of them there
too.
There's a pub, see. S'nowhere and s'everywhere, all at once. He doesn't pretend to understand the physics of the thing...phyiscs were never his strongest point, one step two step dancer hairline cracks along the edges and at the heart. Love makes you brittle. Fall once and you're always going to be full of cracks. He fell. He fell, tripped, stumbled, and that's it.
He doesn't feel dead. He wonders if anybody really does.
He pushes open the door, whirl of cigarette smoke. He's lived his life in places like this (always was a chancer, dancer, take what he could get). He pushes the seventeen year old hair out of seventeen year old eyes and none of this is right at all, is it, it really isn't. In the corner, crowded room, he thinks he catches a glimpse of Marlene McKinnon, long silver earrings and a flash of tit. But but but. Somebody's put The Clash on the jukebox, and the last time he heard this song...the last time he heard this, they were dancing in a circle, him and James and Lily in borrowed boots and Remus Remus Remus. They'd been young and silly and wanton and they'd been the front that the war was being fought on, they were the new terrain, the noman'sland and there were, oh, thousands of them, and there was just the four of them there too.
He saw her and heard her at different times, something about how light and sound carries. She'd cut her red hair short the year that Harry was born. There were any years after that, but she'd said that she couldn't feel like a little girl anymore, not when she'd produced life, whole and perfect. Lily Potter never was a soldier. Lily Potter was the kind of woman who contained the whole world.
She made room for him on the bench shaped like a church pew. He pressed his nose into her hair, and she smelt of cigarette smoke and green light.
"I thought that you were dead," he whispered. Lily shook her head.
"No, no, just waiting."
They all were.
The young thousands, starting to come back, in what the children called their children.