Stars in My Fists, Moon Round My Wrists
Title: Stars in My Fists, Moon Round My Wrists
Author: Bratanimus
Format: Ficlet
Rating & Warnings: T
Prompts: Christmas dinner (with a turkey or a goose) and a knitted jumper or hat
Word Count: 592
Summary: Christmas during HBP. After the Burrow, against his better judgment, Remus goes to Tonks’ flat.
Author’s Notes: Written for the MetamorFic Moon Christmas fic challenge, December 2006. If anyone was looking for a heavy dose of Christmas angst, look no further. ;) For the purposes of this fic, I’ve decided to play with first person present tense and train of thought from Remus’ point of view. I also wanted to toy with rhythm of language and give Remus a bit of poetry in his expression. The italics represent his internal dialogue. This is a departure from my usual style, so I’d be interested to see if you think it works or not!
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Protections unchanged. Calling her name, no answer. Perhaps gone to her parents’ after all. The silence
except for the pounding heart
is too much. Turn around and go home.
Breathe.
But home …
Shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t shouldn’t shouldn’t shouldn’t …
A series of well-intended shouldn’ts have led me to this: Snooping in my girlfriend’s
Ex.
flat when she’s not here and
hoping she’ll -
The bookshelves, all the books I left in her care. Some piled on the windowsill, my oldest and favorites, dog-eared to mark her stopping places, perfectly stacked -
I never thought she’d want to -
Clock ticks. Her place is neat, tidied up. It’s as if she -
Does she expect …?
Lurking at the window, expecting hoping longing to see her bounding toward the door, the whip of her robes cracking the air, pink hair lollipop flaming against the snow, snowflakes turning to water on her raspberried lips, pounding up the stairs, tumbling cold and trembling into my arms with salt tears and nutmeg tongue -
Stop.
The kitchen. Spotless. No dishes in the sink. Colored tin canisters of spices I bought lined up like soldiers on the counter, her dad’s favorite friendly and exotic persimmon tea that spoiled me for all else, cast iron pan broken and unbroken for our efforts, jug that held maple syrup for the pancakes that first morning with Sirius -
Stop it. Breathe.
Home.
No.
Wavering helplessly in the living room, no tree this year, no hover-above-the-rug dancing smile against smile, no Christmas wishes as wild and hopeful as we dared make them in our eggnogged stupidity, yet the enchanted ceiling still draped with the security blanket of stars that she takes with her wherever she goes, to open up a sky and give her room to -
Breathe.
Home.
No. Stop it.
Home.
Leave now.
Wait. The bathroom, and would she just step through that door right now, with her bubblebath skin and no-longer-mysterious scents and clutch me, keep me, shuddering and sighing and laughing and crying and kissing me kissing me kissing -
Breathe.
Home.
Leave her.
No.
Leave.
Wait. Bed neatly made. Echoes of countless precious stolen naps spooned together like children or animals, clothed or unclothed, fairy tale sleeptalking, morning unfocused innocent eyes as her wish became my command over and over again, sheets tangled and damp and in the way, that particular delicious inhalation of musky sweaty -
Stop it stop it stop it stop it -
Bit of green peeking from under the covers.
What?
That’s -
It’s my -
Knitted.
Go.
Jumper.
Turn around.
My favorite, ancient, moth-eaten, shapeless, I left it here for safe keeping, her demand, my favorite, hers -
Go now.
No. No. It’s under the covers, tucked in, rumpled, and does it -
- smell like her?
Does it -
Breathe.
Breathe.
… breathe …
… … … breathe … … …
… yes …
Fists grasp. Heart stops.
Stop.
More.
Leave.
More.
Can’t. You’re -
I know I know I know -
And she -
I know.
Then take it. Take it.
Shouldn’t.
Take it.
This old blue one I’m wearing, been wearing for three days, she’d want it, wouldn’t she want it, I’ll leave it -
Take the green one, take her scent, take her -
I need to -
Breathe.
Folding the blue one neatly on her pillow. She’ll cry, she’ll wish, it’s cruel -
She’s gone, she doesn’t want, don’t flatter -
Shut up.
A quill and parchment. Meager. Nonetheless:
Merry Christmas.
- R. xxx
Stumbling into the street, inhaling the wrist of the knitted green jumper I’m wearing - mine, hers -
Stop it.
Breathe.
Come home.
No.
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Author’s Notes, Part Two: For this fic, I had to have Remus wearing one of his old jumpers rather than the new one he’d just received from Molly. Hope it didn’t distract. :)