Strange condition.
I've been listening to Pete Yorn for about two days straight, and the only thing I'm sure about is the fact that if Sirius ever sang, then this would be how. There is something rough and dear in his voice, unmistakeably tender and wild at the same time. It's got me jonesin', and if I lived by myself, I would have this stuff on stereo -- I'd be dancing around the room like nobody's business.
Moony and Padfoot were taking a vacation from my brain, holing up in some quiet brownstone they keep in Cambridge witih all the dusty books that Remus trucked from his parents' and from Flourish and Blotts over the years lined three deep in large, expansive bookshelves that panel every room, some indulgent birthday gift purchased with Black family wealth in order to create a more important currency in Sirius' life: Remus' smile. And Remus turns the pages of his novels and Sirius drowses, head in his lap, while Remus runs his hands through Sirius' wild bangs, which he has not yet had the heart to part with, long after the rest of his Azkaban mane was trimmed to a more acceptable length.
But this music is rousing them, and Sirius is blinking awake while Remus keeps glancing up from his copy of The House of Seven Gables.
Considering what's opened on my world processor, it's only fair that neither of them look too amused with me.
I'm working on a new story, which is leaving me...understandably down. I always called And Still the story that I didn't want to write but needed to be written. The other day, I literally crawled out of bed at around two thirty in the morning and dashed a few words into a Word window and then went right back to sleep, some final culmination to a certain fixation that I had a few weeks ago which was not sated, despite the best attempts of those involved.
This is the story behind the story that I never wanted to tell. Because while Sirius was gone, there was still Remus, and there are things to say.
And every time I start a major writing project, I make a playlist for the story. And Still had one, Seven Things had one named "happy."
Ours, Dizzy
Pete Yorn, Strange Condition
Pete Yorn, On Your Side
Ours, Dancing Alone
Tori Amos, Taxi Ride
Pete Yorn, Lose You
Tori Amos, Cruel
Pete Yorn, Closet
Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Maps
Poe, Wild
Pete Yorn, Undercover
Emiliana Torrini, Easy
Emiliana Torrini, To Be Free
And if you managed to sit through all of that:
The trouble with blood was that it implied violence, discord, uprising. For all its ancient power and filial importance, Remus never forgot the feuds that had come of obligation to bloodlines; the knowledge burned dizzying patterns into his mind, lines tracing into pieces of reality that moved with the streams of magic he'd learned after primary school until it all blurred into crimson and faded to black.
He woke at a particularly rough jolt, eyes snapping open to the dismal interior of a run-down train compartment. It took a moment before reality settled in all around him, and he slouched back into the seat, feeling the cracked leather poking into his shoulder.
Remus ran a hand over his face, feeling every year of his age, the skin on his hands uncomfortably dry, stretched tight over bone as if it were about to break along his knuckles and wrists. Distractedly, he stroked his left hand with his right, and stared out the window at the grim landscape outside the window: rain and grayness and flat, flat nothingness, earth tamped down with the sleeting water and dotted with sickly-green growth.
He glanced briefly at his watch before frowning at it, and taking it off. It would do him no good where he was going and the band was near finished, anyway, brown leather weak and wearing from age and use.
Remus tossed it into the battered brown case by his side, closing and locking it as quickly as he could, but the smell of a London flat and tea still escaped, real and terrifyingly near, just eight hours in the opposite direction by rail, four by broom, winds willing.
There was nothing there waiting, he reminded himself brusquely, and closed his eyes.
The timing had been suspect, but then, the Order itself was, as well.
He'd barely resisted the urge to ask Dumbledore if he'd requested it, if it had all been strategize. Why that particular battalion? Why exactly then? What luck, Remus allowed, that Sirius should be called so suddenly away three days before he'd received the letter, penned in scrolling green ink and intrigue.
It was better not to think of it, he'd learned. There were things to be done, and sacrifices had to be made in the end. The benefits, Remus lectured himself, would outweigh the losses.
The train hummed and creaked, rocking horribly, and Remus willed himself to sleep, with images of James and Lily and baby Harry vivid in his mind, and Sirius nothing more than the softest suggestion on the outstretched fingers of a dream.
-----
Dumbledore had never developed any fondness for details, preferring instead to toss variables haphazardly at one another and assume that it would work out for the best. By luck or madness or a combination therein, the majority of the time there was success in this methodology; in the remaining moments, he retreated to his office, and Remus told Sirius lies about where he was going.
It was easier than he liked to admit to himself, difficult only when it came to reigning in a desire to become overly creative, to say that he was off to save drowning children when a trip to the corner market would do. With lies came a remarkable freedom, and almost no inevitable guilt, not when there was the weight of obligation behind it, blocking out Remus' moral compass, what shattered pieces of it remained after seven years of psychotic play with the Marauders.
They'd been wild back then, rabid with wanting for freedom, for mischief, for knowledge to do more, as if somehow they'd known that it would come to an end too soon, and there'd be no more nights running beneath the starts together, shoulder to shoulder across the grass.
They still ran, but away from and toward different things. There were no promises of triumph or punishments easily resolved with money and Polyjuice; there were no promises of anything at all.
And it would be a wild, lonely place he would see, Remus was sure, leaning back against the aging seat. His hands were folded in his lap, creating a singular pinpoint of warmth along his thigh. He'd done the requisite research on his destination lazily, with no real intention of bothering to know the lay of the land before he emerged there; he was to be a refugee, in flight from England.
It was likely enough, he thought ruefully.
"One never knows when their curses can suddenly become gifts," Dumbledore had said, two years prior at James and Lily's wedding.
It had been starry overhead, and Sirius was dancing with Lily, in a grand, broad way that meant that he was drunk, and filled with happiness for them, swelling with it until all he could do was take up Lily's hands and parade them around the garden, shouting. And Remus, already lightheaded from the firewhiskey and blackberry wine from what seemed like endless toasts, had been slouched against a tree, feeling night fringe across his skin, as subtle as a whisper.
The words had made sense then, in a drunken, blurry sort of way, but Dumbledore had not bothered to put the weight behind them that they'd deserved, only slanting Remus an affectionate smile before Sirius abandoned Lily to one of her kinsman, and danced madly toward where Remus was sitting in the grass.
Curses prove commodities.
The dark creatures and Halflings of England were being expelled, Dumbledore had written to inform him four days ago. It was unfortunate that the Ministry of Magic had decided to take such a drastic action, and the rest of the magical world did not think kindly of the decision.
"It's very sad indeed," Dumbledore said later, ancient fingers tracing the lines of an ancient globe, fingernails riding over the ridged topography between Western Europe and Asia, hands skating on cold metal. "Have you given any consideration to where you'll go, Remus? What you'll do?"
The language of allusions, implication, and secrets was one in which Remus was well-versed.
"Perhaps," Remus had started, "perhaps the Balkans."
And he'd watched, tense, as Dumbledore's hand stopped along the globe, and fluttered away to his desk again, palm flat on the surface as a kindly smile came to his face. "Yes, the Balkans," he said approvingly. "Or thereabouts," he added. "It's supposed to be lovely this time of year. Aberforth always spoke of it fondly."
Aberforth pledged himself in sacred matrimony to an enchanted goat, Remus had nearly said.
"And what luck," Dumbledore had gone on, jovial, "I've an acquaintance -- or rather, you do, very near there." A pause, the rustling of papers, before Dumbledore produced a rather faded letter, sticky from sweets in Remus' hands; the weighty parchment had cracked with age, and Remus had studied the spidery print on it with trepidation. "A member of the Noble and Ancient House of Black, if I'm not mistaken."
Then there'd been a flurry of activity, and Sirius' lingering goodbye, still printed into Remus' hands, his skin, the curvature of his heart. Snapshots lingered, the way Sirius had looked in his uniform, how the dark green and black and brown modified-robe had darkened every corner of the room. They had made Sirius' blue eyes seem luminous, unbearably bright, until Remus had simply stripped away the clothes and pressed them together, skin to ordinary skin, and they'd waited for dawn together.
It amazed Remus sometimes how much Sirius loved him, as it had amazed him in school how much Sirius felt. For Sirius, there was no too much, no too far gone, just increasing degrees of sensation that welled up and flooded, overflowed and seeped into the air around him. Remus had asked once long ago if Sirius was ever tired, ever too exhausted to wake up in the morning and think that he'd have to feel again that day.
"That is the dumbest thing you've ever asked, Lupin," Sirius had said, every bit the brat prince he claimed he never was, "and you asked me why anybody would fancy you once, too."
And Sirius made Remus feel pious, gain a sudden desire for religion, or a version of it, when Remus woke to glance up and see Sirius gazing at him, drowsy and prayerful. There were words here, always words, chanting promises and romantic tripe, drivel and banter, and Sirius' mouth moved as his hands moved, quicksilver and with great skill, as he pressed Remus into the mattress and paid his respects, bowed before his personal alter.
"Doesn't that terrify you?" Remus had demanded once. "How can you love anyone that much?"
But the point was, Sirius had said, was that it wasn't anyone; it was Remus.
-----
Man, I wouldn't be surprised if Sirius launched a jihad after my ass.
In other news, I now have two midterms on Monday. Someone needs to install an Instant Total Knowledge Of The Chinese Language chip into my skull.
Moony and Padfoot were taking a vacation from my brain, holing up in some quiet brownstone they keep in Cambridge witih all the dusty books that Remus trucked from his parents' and from Flourish and Blotts over the years lined three deep in large, expansive bookshelves that panel every room, some indulgent birthday gift purchased with Black family wealth in order to create a more important currency in Sirius' life: Remus' smile. And Remus turns the pages of his novels and Sirius drowses, head in his lap, while Remus runs his hands through Sirius' wild bangs, which he has not yet had the heart to part with, long after the rest of his Azkaban mane was trimmed to a more acceptable length.
But this music is rousing them, and Sirius is blinking awake while Remus keeps glancing up from his copy of The House of Seven Gables.
Considering what's opened on my world processor, it's only fair that neither of them look too amused with me.
I'm working on a new story, which is leaving me...understandably down. I always called And Still the story that I didn't want to write but needed to be written. The other day, I literally crawled out of bed at around two thirty in the morning and dashed a few words into a Word window and then went right back to sleep, some final culmination to a certain fixation that I had a few weeks ago which was not sated, despite the best attempts of those involved.
This is the story behind the story that I never wanted to tell. Because while Sirius was gone, there was still Remus, and there are things to say.
And every time I start a major writing project, I make a playlist for the story. And Still had one, Seven Things had one named "happy."
Ours, Dizzy
Pete Yorn, Strange Condition
Pete Yorn, On Your Side
Ours, Dancing Alone
Tori Amos, Taxi Ride
Pete Yorn, Lose You
Tori Amos, Cruel
Pete Yorn, Closet
Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Maps
Poe, Wild
Pete Yorn, Undercover
Emiliana Torrini, Easy
Emiliana Torrini, To Be Free
And if you managed to sit through all of that:
The trouble with blood was that it implied violence, discord, uprising. For all its ancient power and filial importance, Remus never forgot the feuds that had come of obligation to bloodlines; the knowledge burned dizzying patterns into his mind, lines tracing into pieces of reality that moved with the streams of magic he'd learned after primary school until it all blurred into crimson and faded to black.
He woke at a particularly rough jolt, eyes snapping open to the dismal interior of a run-down train compartment. It took a moment before reality settled in all around him, and he slouched back into the seat, feeling the cracked leather poking into his shoulder.
Remus ran a hand over his face, feeling every year of his age, the skin on his hands uncomfortably dry, stretched tight over bone as if it were about to break along his knuckles and wrists. Distractedly, he stroked his left hand with his right, and stared out the window at the grim landscape outside the window: rain and grayness and flat, flat nothingness, earth tamped down with the sleeting water and dotted with sickly-green growth.
He glanced briefly at his watch before frowning at it, and taking it off. It would do him no good where he was going and the band was near finished, anyway, brown leather weak and wearing from age and use.
Remus tossed it into the battered brown case by his side, closing and locking it as quickly as he could, but the smell of a London flat and tea still escaped, real and terrifyingly near, just eight hours in the opposite direction by rail, four by broom, winds willing.
There was nothing there waiting, he reminded himself brusquely, and closed his eyes.
The timing had been suspect, but then, the Order itself was, as well.
He'd barely resisted the urge to ask Dumbledore if he'd requested it, if it had all been strategize. Why that particular battalion? Why exactly then? What luck, Remus allowed, that Sirius should be called so suddenly away three days before he'd received the letter, penned in scrolling green ink and intrigue.
It was better not to think of it, he'd learned. There were things to be done, and sacrifices had to be made in the end. The benefits, Remus lectured himself, would outweigh the losses.
The train hummed and creaked, rocking horribly, and Remus willed himself to sleep, with images of James and Lily and baby Harry vivid in his mind, and Sirius nothing more than the softest suggestion on the outstretched fingers of a dream.
-----
Dumbledore had never developed any fondness for details, preferring instead to toss variables haphazardly at one another and assume that it would work out for the best. By luck or madness or a combination therein, the majority of the time there was success in this methodology; in the remaining moments, he retreated to his office, and Remus told Sirius lies about where he was going.
It was easier than he liked to admit to himself, difficult only when it came to reigning in a desire to become overly creative, to say that he was off to save drowning children when a trip to the corner market would do. With lies came a remarkable freedom, and almost no inevitable guilt, not when there was the weight of obligation behind it, blocking out Remus' moral compass, what shattered pieces of it remained after seven years of psychotic play with the Marauders.
They'd been wild back then, rabid with wanting for freedom, for mischief, for knowledge to do more, as if somehow they'd known that it would come to an end too soon, and there'd be no more nights running beneath the starts together, shoulder to shoulder across the grass.
They still ran, but away from and toward different things. There were no promises of triumph or punishments easily resolved with money and Polyjuice; there were no promises of anything at all.
And it would be a wild, lonely place he would see, Remus was sure, leaning back against the aging seat. His hands were folded in his lap, creating a singular pinpoint of warmth along his thigh. He'd done the requisite research on his destination lazily, with no real intention of bothering to know the lay of the land before he emerged there; he was to be a refugee, in flight from England.
It was likely enough, he thought ruefully.
"One never knows when their curses can suddenly become gifts," Dumbledore had said, two years prior at James and Lily's wedding.
It had been starry overhead, and Sirius was dancing with Lily, in a grand, broad way that meant that he was drunk, and filled with happiness for them, swelling with it until all he could do was take up Lily's hands and parade them around the garden, shouting. And Remus, already lightheaded from the firewhiskey and blackberry wine from what seemed like endless toasts, had been slouched against a tree, feeling night fringe across his skin, as subtle as a whisper.
The words had made sense then, in a drunken, blurry sort of way, but Dumbledore had not bothered to put the weight behind them that they'd deserved, only slanting Remus an affectionate smile before Sirius abandoned Lily to one of her kinsman, and danced madly toward where Remus was sitting in the grass.
Curses prove commodities.
The dark creatures and Halflings of England were being expelled, Dumbledore had written to inform him four days ago. It was unfortunate that the Ministry of Magic had decided to take such a drastic action, and the rest of the magical world did not think kindly of the decision.
"It's very sad indeed," Dumbledore said later, ancient fingers tracing the lines of an ancient globe, fingernails riding over the ridged topography between Western Europe and Asia, hands skating on cold metal. "Have you given any consideration to where you'll go, Remus? What you'll do?"
The language of allusions, implication, and secrets was one in which Remus was well-versed.
"Perhaps," Remus had started, "perhaps the Balkans."
And he'd watched, tense, as Dumbledore's hand stopped along the globe, and fluttered away to his desk again, palm flat on the surface as a kindly smile came to his face. "Yes, the Balkans," he said approvingly. "Or thereabouts," he added. "It's supposed to be lovely this time of year. Aberforth always spoke of it fondly."
Aberforth pledged himself in sacred matrimony to an enchanted goat, Remus had nearly said.
"And what luck," Dumbledore had gone on, jovial, "I've an acquaintance -- or rather, you do, very near there." A pause, the rustling of papers, before Dumbledore produced a rather faded letter, sticky from sweets in Remus' hands; the weighty parchment had cracked with age, and Remus had studied the spidery print on it with trepidation. "A member of the Noble and Ancient House of Black, if I'm not mistaken."
Then there'd been a flurry of activity, and Sirius' lingering goodbye, still printed into Remus' hands, his skin, the curvature of his heart. Snapshots lingered, the way Sirius had looked in his uniform, how the dark green and black and brown modified-robe had darkened every corner of the room. They had made Sirius' blue eyes seem luminous, unbearably bright, until Remus had simply stripped away the clothes and pressed them together, skin to ordinary skin, and they'd waited for dawn together.
It amazed Remus sometimes how much Sirius loved him, as it had amazed him in school how much Sirius felt. For Sirius, there was no too much, no too far gone, just increasing degrees of sensation that welled up and flooded, overflowed and seeped into the air around him. Remus had asked once long ago if Sirius was ever tired, ever too exhausted to wake up in the morning and think that he'd have to feel again that day.
"That is the dumbest thing you've ever asked, Lupin," Sirius had said, every bit the brat prince he claimed he never was, "and you asked me why anybody would fancy you once, too."
And Sirius made Remus feel pious, gain a sudden desire for religion, or a version of it, when Remus woke to glance up and see Sirius gazing at him, drowsy and prayerful. There were words here, always words, chanting promises and romantic tripe, drivel and banter, and Sirius' mouth moved as his hands moved, quicksilver and with great skill, as he pressed Remus into the mattress and paid his respects, bowed before his personal alter.
"Doesn't that terrify you?" Remus had demanded once. "How can you love anyone that much?"
But the point was, Sirius had said, was that it wasn't anyone; it was Remus.
-----
Man, I wouldn't be surprised if Sirius launched a jihad after my ass.
In other news, I now have two midterms on Monday. Someone needs to install an Instant Total Knowledge Of The Chinese Language chip into my skull.