Letter // 27 December 1977
To Sirius ‘King of Christmas and Owner of WAY Too Much Mistletoe’ Black,
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to meeeeeee…
That’s you, by the way. Figured I should mention that. Are you impressed by how un-sappy I just made that? You can’t be a girl just for pointing out specifics in Christmas songs, after all. That’s just good sense. It always occurs to me around this time of year that you’re not allowed to sing Christmas songs again. My mum always said that it’s bad luck to sing Christmas songs before the first of December, and, as my mother is a bit psychotic, it’s stuck in my brain. Wait, I forgot who I was talking to there. My mum’s like some Yorkshire pudding advert mother compared to yours, isn’t she?
But less of that. It’s Christmas, after all. (For at LEAST a few days!)
I want to be back at the Potters’ house. I want to be at your FLAT. More your flat than the Potters’ house. That was kind of frustrating. There are these Muggle films and stuff where people are tortured, and they’re put with something they need (e.g. like food if they’re starving, right?). Then they’re strapped down so they can’t have it and go crazy. Well, that’s just a little bit what it was like being with the Potters for the few hours I visited on Christmas day. You had holly in your hair, for God’s sake. How do you manage to look so bloody smashing? I genuinely felt like I was going to suffer a brain haemorrhage every time you came too close. You smelt like turkey. Turkey, Pads.
God, I love turkey. I wonder if Mum has any left. I mean, I know it’s been more than two days now, but there’s only three of us so surely there should be a smidgen left. Oh god, she might have stuffing balls. We could MAKE stuffing balls. Stuffing balls and turkey. Can you heat turkey up? I don’t think you can, right? Not even with a wand. Oh, man, now I’m starving.
I know you say I’m obsessed with food but I want turkey. I’m going to pick this up in ten minutes. There are sandwiches that are whining for me. Just like you do. Ha! Well, no. You beg rather than whine, though there IS whining. Mmmm.
HOW ARE YOU DISTRACTING ME FROM EATING WHEN YOU’RE NOT EVEN HERE?
Okay, back in a tick. Though you won’t know that I left writing the letter anyway. I should cross this o
Please ignore the smudge at the bottom of the parchment, Pads. I couldn’t help it. I was reading through what I’d read so that I could make this letter a little bit more coherent, but my fingers were all gravyish (is that a word? I don’t think it is, is it? Gravied isn’t a word. No.). That’s why it’s brown. Don’t be disgusting, I don’t want to hear your suggestions. And, yes, I had turkey and gravy. And cake! There’s cake here. That’s why I need to see you, you understand? You could be sharing cake with me. Instead, you’re off with that wanker with glasses and a stupid shaped face and long, muscular arms and a gorgeous, pale neck with long-Are you having a heart attack?
I miss your heart attacks. I miss your whining and your yelling and your bouncing up and down next to me even when I’m trying to bloody read. I miss your back, which is weird as I only just realised that I have a strange fetish for all that skin. Oh god, skin. I hate the holidays. They’re too Padfootless (definitely not a word there) and sad.
I miss your hair too. I miss you buggering about with your hair and that drives me NUTS.
I’m beyond hope now, aren’t I?
I know it’s only been two days. I do actually recognise that it hasn’t been long at all, but bloody hell it’s partly just knowing that I won’t see you for days yet that makes me crazy. I’m comfort eating. That’s what it is. (Yes, I know I eat ridiculous amounts anyway but still.) Come New Year’s Eve I’ll be rolling into your flat rather than walking. And all because it’s been sixty-two hours since I saw you. And the memory of that ‘seeing you’ involved seeing a lot of you. And that makes me crazy.
CRAZY.
I mean, look at how spasmodic this letter is. I have betrayed grammar and sacrificed my dictionary for the cause of pining. Yes. Pining. I will spend my days waiting like a caged animal (no pun intended and let’s not go there), pacing and pulling out my fluffy hair (which you apparently love, are you worried yet?) and wasting away. Well, no, not wasting away. Gaining pounds and pounds on turkey and gravy sandwiches and chocolate cake. (That’s what the darker brown stain is. Sorry, I’ve progressed on from the sandwiches. I figured I could write with cake, as it’s less messy, but it’s just too crumbly. DAMN YOU, CRUMBLY CAKE.)
Oh god. I’ve become you, haven’t I?
Take the word crazy and underline it twenty times before crossing it out and writing ‘going out with Sirius Black.’
I miss you. Really. I know it’s really pathetic but I really miss you.
Boxing Day at yours was pretty amazing hot perfect. Really. Oh god. I was so sore coming home. DON’T YOU DARE SHOW THIS TO ANYONE BUT OH MY GOD. You are a miracle worker beneath the covers. (Yes, Pads. Don’t be pedantic. I realise only the third time was actually anywhere near covers at all.) Also? We really should do it on a table again. It gives good... I don’t know? Leverage? Please don’t read this. I’m shaming myself. You’re going to ditch me because you’ll realise I’m becoming too like you, and you don’t want to go out with you, do you?
Wait. What am I saying? You’d LOVE to go out with you. You’d be bonking James seven ways to Sunday if he was... How did you put it the other day? A “trouser snake fondler”? You’re insane. Only because I’m now like you and insane too do I see the funny side of that.
Oh god. I’m dying. The light. The light.
This cake is SMASHING, Pads. (I’ll try to get Mum to make another one before New Year’s and bring you some.)
I can’t believe you got me so many Christmas presents again this year, Sirius. I’m going to bloody kill love you for smack you across the head again when I see you. I was too distracted on Boxing Day to get around to it, what with your tongue in my ear and my neck and my mouth and every bloody over place known to man. (Well, not all men. Do... I suppose straight men don’t put tongues down below on a ... wait, that’s a ridiculous line of thought. (Sorry for all the crossing out. Did I mention I’m losing it without you?) Oh god, Sirius. At the risk of inflating what is admittedly a bloody big ego, you were very... skilled. (Isn’t that a cool way of putting it?) I don’t think Boxing Day is meant to be better than Christmas. Surely, that’s not a very religious go at it? Or something.
Something.
WHAT AM I ON ABOUT?!
Your body has killed my brain. Then not having your body around has finished off my soul.
I want you back now. I want you here, complaining about not having eggnog and stuffing mistletoe down my trousers again. This isn’t fair. You’re my favourite person in the world, and you should be with me right now instead of with James buggering-blind-as-a-bat-and-mad Potter. He doesn’t fully appreciate you. He’s not the one sitting here getting a - you know - just thinking about what it would be like to lick you in places that I’m really not writing down. (I swear to Merlin, if Mrs. Potter gets hold of this letter I’m going on an Obliviating spree and then blasting myself to smithereens. Don’t test me. I’m a guy on the edge, Padfoot. ON THE EDGE.)
It’s because I want sex it. And I want you. I’m so annoying when I’m left alone now. I used to like it, but now the silence is bloody unsettling, and I keep hearing your voice in my head suggesting that I put food colouring in the mashed potatoes and see if Mum panics.
(She would, Pads. She’d probably pack our bags and abandon the house or something, assuming it was a death threat. You know Mum - bloody loopy.)
I want you here now. Now. Now now now now now now now. See what I’ve done to the English language? See how much I’m missing you? I even miss your farting.
YOUR DAMN FARTING.
I actually want to have to hold my nose and slap you in the ear in the middle of the night while you snicker and tickle under my ribs. Damnit, Pads. What have I become?
You are gorgeous, though. I mean, apart from Boxing Day, which shall go down as a day to be remembered for ALL ETERNITY for being COMPLETELY AMAZING, you looked so good on Christmas. I just couldn’t stop thinking ‘I’m going out with this boy. I get to KISS this boy.’ Me! A scruffy, silly, bloody you-know-what from Cambridge. It’s insane. You should see yourself all lit up and happy. I was half-glad to go home before I did something completely unmanly and started singing at you or something. Or weeping.
I genuinely fear for my safety having to wait until New Year’s Eve. I officially hate the Potters for stealing you from me. You and that damn arse of yours which featured in my dream last night as a bouncy castle. (I kid thee not. I’ve lost it. Told you so.)
Will there be alcohol at your party? Will there be loud music and dancing to distract people from the fact that I’ll be walking around staring at you as though I’ve never seen a human being before? Because I’m telling you that is what’s going to happen. And then the sex. There WILL be sex.
(Please don’t let Mrs. Potter see this. I may have lost the plot, but I haven’t lost my ability to be thoroughly ashamed of myself. I’m sorry, Mrs. Potter. I’m usually very polite but I do rather love Sirius and we’re going to be together forever so it’s not like this is just stupidity. Well it is but I... What am I doing?)
That’s it. I’m stopping the letter. I’m ending it here before I lose every marble in my toy box and signing things with a kiss. Well, not a literal kiss as I’m now eating sherbets and they’d probably leave smudges.
Have you got from this montage of insanity and bad grammar that I’m missing you? It’s probably too late to salvage what sanity I had to be honest so I wouldn’t worry about rushing your reply. I’ll probably just be sitting here comfort eating and talking to the pencils on my desk.
Do hurry, though. Like… reply right now. RIGHT NOW. I need to hear something from you. I don’t even care if it’s about that Quidditch Captain that you secretly fancy with the blond hair (fucking wanker of a pillock with his stupid blue eyes and, as long as it’s from you.
You’re missing me, too, right?
Just a little bit?!
I miss you. Just in case that hasn’t been communicated. Thought I’d add it one more time.
Your newly insane boyfriend,
Moony
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P.S. Isn’t two rows of kisses on a letter from me the gayest thing you’ve seen yet? I find that quite painful to look at. Sorry. I’d try crossing it out, but then it’d be obvious and I kind of feel the damage is rather done now.
P.P.S. I do love you enough for two rows of kisses, of course. Love you enough for three. But then you’d likely check if I’ve grown breasts when I see you in a few days.
P.P.P.S. Okay. Don’t make fun of me? What should I wear for your party? I don’t want to look ugly. Not too ugly anyway. A little ugly I can deal with but I want you to think I look okay. Just tell me, alright?