statelines: ficlet: "exhibit a: 17 november 1977" [pg 13]
title: exhibit a: 17 november 1977
author: statelines
rating: pg-13 (sirius and his dirty mouth :>)
word count: 330
notes: for lykaios, who so beautifully theorised, "so what i'm saying is sirius and remus have to do each other repeatedly. for science."
the steps ought to be cold under his arse, the middle of november, his breath, or maybe just remus' cigarette, condensing in whispy clouds, his new dm's scuffing against the stone in delightful sccccritches on the stoop of alice's new flat. he's probably a little too drunk to notice, though, a glass of shite wine, three-and-a-half beers remus had handed him, grinned, cheers, and the shots he did with pete and lily. his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, but he can't remember if he already told remus, oi moony, it's not so funny you cunt, my tongue is too big and don't you make any bloody dog jokes, all right, that is just dessa-- not on.
the shoulder under his cheek is awfully warm, he knows: the heavy wool coat remus insists on wearing, with the dogbite on the hem of the right sleeve, the fringe of his gryffindor scarf, tickling sirius' nose. if he shuts one eye, tilts his head forty-one-point-six degrees, and clutches his wrist, the pavement doesn't seem to move so much. "the science of the drunk," remus murmurs, eyebrow raised, and shifts as he brings the fag to his mouth, his shoulder poking sirius right in the hollow of his cheek.
"bony bastard," sirius hisses, lifting his head, and just barely dodging the fist aimed at his arm. he wriggles closer, though, knees knocking against remus', scratch of denim, the familiar brush of their elbows as remus leans down and stubs out the cigarette. "lupin, luuuuuupin." he likes the way his tongue curls around the words (good practise, he thinks smugly), the way remus tilts his head, props his chin in his palm. "you," he taps remus' temple, "had best appreciate me, like. i looooove you." love, he thinks, well, it starts out quite a lot like lupin, doesn't it.
remus just grins: six teeth, the one gone crooked in a pub brawl. bent just for him. "don't think i'm holding your hair back."
author: statelines
rating: pg-13 (sirius and his dirty mouth :>)
word count: 330
notes: for lykaios, who so beautifully theorised, "so what i'm saying is sirius and remus have to do each other repeatedly. for science."
the steps ought to be cold under his arse, the middle of november, his breath, or maybe just remus' cigarette, condensing in whispy clouds, his new dm's scuffing against the stone in delightful sccccritches on the stoop of alice's new flat. he's probably a little too drunk to notice, though, a glass of shite wine, three-and-a-half beers remus had handed him, grinned, cheers, and the shots he did with pete and lily. his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, but he can't remember if he already told remus, oi moony, it's not so funny you cunt, my tongue is too big and don't you make any bloody dog jokes, all right, that is just dessa-- not on.
the shoulder under his cheek is awfully warm, he knows: the heavy wool coat remus insists on wearing, with the dogbite on the hem of the right sleeve, the fringe of his gryffindor scarf, tickling sirius' nose. if he shuts one eye, tilts his head forty-one-point-six degrees, and clutches his wrist, the pavement doesn't seem to move so much. "the science of the drunk," remus murmurs, eyebrow raised, and shifts as he brings the fag to his mouth, his shoulder poking sirius right in the hollow of his cheek.
"bony bastard," sirius hisses, lifting his head, and just barely dodging the fist aimed at his arm. he wriggles closer, though, knees knocking against remus', scratch of denim, the familiar brush of their elbows as remus leans down and stubs out the cigarette. "lupin, luuuuuupin." he likes the way his tongue curls around the words (good practise, he thinks smugly), the way remus tilts his head, props his chin in his palm. "you," he taps remus' temple, "had best appreciate me, like. i looooove you." love, he thinks, well, it starts out quite a lot like lupin, doesn't it.
remus just grins: six teeth, the one gone crooked in a pub brawl. bent just for him. "don't think i'm holding your hair back."