Fic: Le Deluge
Le Deluge
Author: lah (yeats)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Regulus/Sirius
Wordcount: 710
Summary: 18 June, 1789. Sirius knows about the gathering storm. AU
A/N: Spoiler-free. Thanks to setissma for the beta. Anglicized the title out of formatting necessity - refers to the famous Louis XV quote: Après moi, le déluge.
Le Deluge
18 June, 1789.
No one talks about it anywhere. Not in the drawing rooms, where boat-like women sail past, wigs climbing towards the ceiling like billowing sails (bound for distant places with woman carrying baskets on their heads - sugar and gold and empire). Not in the banquet halls, where the men show their perfect teeth and flinch, just barely, when they reach the bone, fingers curling with the momentary, ancient impulse to throw the gristle to the dogs (papillions and poodles, where once there were hounds, baying at the medieval cold).
And certainly not in front of the children, the children with their ringlets and satin waistcoats and red cheeks. Mes petits anges, Maman coos when she comes to tuck them in. Mes petits choux. Her wig wobbles as she bends low to kiss them; the tops of her white breasts bulge in her dress. She smells of wine, of lavender, of duck liver and chopped cranberries and melted chocolates.
Sirius throws himself onto his side, writhing as Regulus puts his hands under his head and drops off to sleep. No one talks about it to him, but Sirius is not a child, and he knows anyway. He sees the tops of newspaper headlines, reads the set jaws of Father's associates. Trouble. (He gets in trouble so often he can smell it.)
The nursery is too hot tonight, but the windows are bolted shut - le mal air of the early Parisian summer chokes, fetid and sticky like the breath of a drunken uncle. Sirius kicks at his bedding, and glares at the glassy-eyed painting of the Dauphin in the corner, daring it to tattle on him.
"Hsst!" He cups his mouth with his hands
Regulus does not stir, so Sirius goes to him, tangling with the edges of the moonlight, elongating into the shadows, climbing up into his brother's bed. Regulus, le petit prince. Sirius straddles his legs - Regulus' eyelids are dyed blue with trickling, pure veins. "Hsst," he tries again, lips to his brother's ear, one hand to his chest to keep him from thrashing.
Regulus opens one eye. "Va-t'en," he scowls, screwing up his milk-moon face. "Go away." Sirius feels his breathing, the stuttering of his diaphragm through his slick satin pyjamas as he speaks.
Grinning, Sirius whispers, "Come with me? I want to see the party." He rocks against Regulus, playful. (His big cousin, Bellatrix, who sings at parties and shoots like a man and beds Ministers, calls him a black dog, a mongrel, and Sirius likes that.)
Covering his eyes with a hand, Regulus shakes his head. "I want to sleep." He pronounces every word precisely, syllables flouncing off his tongue, as if reading from Virgil. (Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus...) He closes his eyes, turning his head.
Sirius shakes him again, liking the way the body underneath him reverberates with his motions. Regulus' legs quake, helpless, warm.
"Please?"
How very tiresome his brother is! Sirius imagines, sometimes, that he had a better one - Jacques, his friend from lycee, fits well. Jacques, he thinks, would come downstairs with him, creeping through the long hallways, careful to avoid being caught in the full mirrors.
"I think I hate you," Sirius grits out, whispering with every bit of anger he can cull from inside himself.
Regulus winces, bites his bottom lip. Stupid, scared gamin, afraid of the dark and of the black horses that pulls father's carriage. Afraid of the streets outside the gates, with their breathing, coffing, cursing masses. (He'd run away from the garden, years ago, out into the steaming streets; a gendarme had carried him home that night, soiled and sobbing, begging for his bed.)
"Who's going to save you," Sirius leans down, curving into the space next to Regulus, staring hard, "from the Revolution?"
Regulus stares back. "I don't believe in revolution," he whispers. His hands grab Sirius' shirt, though, and they beg: will you?
Sirius tugs Regulus close, feeling how their pulses almost match, how the rustle of their clothes echo. How he forgets whose hair he is curling his fingers in. He thinks of Virgil, of the Romans, of men, hunched around a fire on the night-drenched shores of an alien country. He will try.
Author: lah (yeats)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Regulus/Sirius
Wordcount: 710
Summary: 18 June, 1789. Sirius knows about the gathering storm. AU
A/N: Spoiler-free. Thanks to setissma for the beta. Anglicized the title out of formatting necessity - refers to the famous Louis XV quote: Après moi, le déluge.
Le Deluge
18 June, 1789.
No one talks about it anywhere. Not in the drawing rooms, where boat-like women sail past, wigs climbing towards the ceiling like billowing sails (bound for distant places with woman carrying baskets on their heads - sugar and gold and empire). Not in the banquet halls, where the men show their perfect teeth and flinch, just barely, when they reach the bone, fingers curling with the momentary, ancient impulse to throw the gristle to the dogs (papillions and poodles, where once there were hounds, baying at the medieval cold).
And certainly not in front of the children, the children with their ringlets and satin waistcoats and red cheeks. Mes petits anges, Maman coos when she comes to tuck them in. Mes petits choux. Her wig wobbles as she bends low to kiss them; the tops of her white breasts bulge in her dress. She smells of wine, of lavender, of duck liver and chopped cranberries and melted chocolates.
Sirius throws himself onto his side, writhing as Regulus puts his hands under his head and drops off to sleep. No one talks about it to him, but Sirius is not a child, and he knows anyway. He sees the tops of newspaper headlines, reads the set jaws of Father's associates. Trouble. (He gets in trouble so often he can smell it.)
The nursery is too hot tonight, but the windows are bolted shut - le mal air of the early Parisian summer chokes, fetid and sticky like the breath of a drunken uncle. Sirius kicks at his bedding, and glares at the glassy-eyed painting of the Dauphin in the corner, daring it to tattle on him.
"Hsst!" He cups his mouth with his hands
Regulus does not stir, so Sirius goes to him, tangling with the edges of the moonlight, elongating into the shadows, climbing up into his brother's bed. Regulus, le petit prince. Sirius straddles his legs - Regulus' eyelids are dyed blue with trickling, pure veins. "Hsst," he tries again, lips to his brother's ear, one hand to his chest to keep him from thrashing.
Regulus opens one eye. "Va-t'en," he scowls, screwing up his milk-moon face. "Go away." Sirius feels his breathing, the stuttering of his diaphragm through his slick satin pyjamas as he speaks.
Grinning, Sirius whispers, "Come with me? I want to see the party." He rocks against Regulus, playful. (His big cousin, Bellatrix, who sings at parties and shoots like a man and beds Ministers, calls him a black dog, a mongrel, and Sirius likes that.)
Covering his eyes with a hand, Regulus shakes his head. "I want to sleep." He pronounces every word precisely, syllables flouncing off his tongue, as if reading from Virgil. (Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus...) He closes his eyes, turning his head.
Sirius shakes him again, liking the way the body underneath him reverberates with his motions. Regulus' legs quake, helpless, warm.
"Please?"
How very tiresome his brother is! Sirius imagines, sometimes, that he had a better one - Jacques, his friend from lycee, fits well. Jacques, he thinks, would come downstairs with him, creeping through the long hallways, careful to avoid being caught in the full mirrors.
"I think I hate you," Sirius grits out, whispering with every bit of anger he can cull from inside himself.
Regulus winces, bites his bottom lip. Stupid, scared gamin, afraid of the dark and of the black horses that pulls father's carriage. Afraid of the streets outside the gates, with their breathing, coffing, cursing masses. (He'd run away from the garden, years ago, out into the steaming streets; a gendarme had carried him home that night, soiled and sobbing, begging for his bed.)
"Who's going to save you," Sirius leans down, curving into the space next to Regulus, staring hard, "from the Revolution?"
Regulus stares back. "I don't believe in revolution," he whispers. His hands grab Sirius' shirt, though, and they beg: will you?
Sirius tugs Regulus close, feeling how their pulses almost match, how the rustle of their clothes echo. How he forgets whose hair he is curling his fingers in. He thinks of Virgil, of the Romans, of men, hunched around a fire on the night-drenched shores of an alien country. He will try.