Easy by angelgazing
Title: Easy
Author: angelgazing
Summary: Remus is easy, in an epic poetry kind of way.
Rating: pg13
Recipient: slashtastica
***
Easy
It's easy, in the end. After months of planning conversations, of making lists, a hundred half-formed plays in his head where they star. Where it's "D-Do you think, maybe," and laughter and, "Yes, of course." There's no great tragedy, no offset comic plots, where Sirius, three sheets to the wind, the sun bouncing off the lake at his back, says, lonelily, "the world has deserted me." And Remus sighs, in that dramatic way he has-that you are the bane of my existence way-and kisses him, fingertips and thumbs and palms at his face, separate and together, so that Sirius can know all of him, finally-all of him.
And Sirius planned, plotted-spent energies usually reserved for finding the very best ways to turn Slytherins into titmice and termites, with their endless, rat-like chewing. He lay awake nights, his fingers curling, hair damp with sweat against his forehead, curtains drawn against the moonlight in spring, against prying eyes, against the noise of them: James with his snoring, always, and Peter with the crinkle of sweet wrappers, shuffling, thick and loud with sugar and too many revisions always left to do. And Remus, of course, steady, breathing, a sighsnufflegasp of dreaming things he shouldn't, and that, that there is what Sirius listened for, fingers curling around himself, thinking: Tomorrow I'll buy him chocolates and slip into his bed instead; give him comfort like when we were children; suffocate in his warmth.
There were lists, with flowers and books and poetry and epic tales. And, in one very well thought out plan, learning to play the guitar and starting a band, because if a bird would throw her knickers on stage, then surely Remus would not be able to resist his beautiful, rock star pull.
Remus laughs, softly, eyes swimming drunkenly, fingers wrapped around Sirius' sleeve, pinching and pulling. Tugging until the button pops, because he doesn't really know his own strength. And this, this right here-Remus' fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist-that's what Sirius is paying attention to now, horrible peach wool blanket under his palms that makes his skin itch, Firewhisky in his belly, humming through him the way that Remus does, under his skin, through his veins, making his blood sing.
"Ponce," Remus says, thumb pushing against the thin, delicate, vulnerable inside of Sirius' wrist, where his pulse speeds, beats wildly, like a drum when they dance in the sand in Africa, hard and building. "Pay up, or there'll be no more whisky for you."
Sirius laughs, sits up on his knees, tilting dangerously forward-tilting toward Remus, toward the crazy fucking warmth of him-and shimmies his hips, as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. He's got pins and needles in his feet from sitting too awkwardly too long, and he's grinning, stupidly, but this is all so easy. "The things you make me do, Moony." Sirius sighs, a pitch-perfect imitation of the you are the bane of my existence sigh, if he does say so himself.
"The things." Remus smirks, bottle held oh so protectively in the clutch of his pretty, pretty fingers, leaning back on his elbows. He pats Sirius' hand, gently, like he's offering comfort, and tilts his head at a funny angle.
Sirius, bare-chested and, perhaps, slightly drunk off his nut, can't get his arm out of his sleeve, so he lets it hang there, sits back on his heels. There's a fire going, and the shack is cold as it always is in spite of it. He shivers, all through him, and Remus catches the sleeve he did manage to escape from, and pulls. "You're very easy," Sirius informs him, and shifts to sit across his thighs.
"I am complex and mysterious," Remus says, relinquishing the firewhisky long enough to undo the button on the offending, trapping sleeve with one hand. "You will never figure me out, Sirius Black, because you are touched in the head and easily distracted by shiny things."
"I am-I am one of those things, yes," Sirius admits, outrage dying quickly to acceptance. Because he's a very, very mellow bloke, when he's got firewhisky in him, warming him up and making his head buzz, and Moony trapped beneath him. "You are, you know, shockingly easy. I believe there may be songs about this. Moony, Moony, You're So Easy. I'm starting a band, you know. Though I won't sing about your eyes, because they are brown and that's boring. You are bookish. Perhaps I should write about books."
"A song about books?"
"Maybe an epic poem." Sirius, stealthy and quick like a fox, liberates the firewhisky from it's sad little home, cupped between Remus' palm and his hip. "With battles and giants and trolls. That you battle. Standing on the bow of your ship in a kilt."
"A kilt?" he asks, and bites his lip so it's pretty and red and wet. And Sirius, from years of imagining it, knows with certainty that his mouth is soft. Is hot. Is fucking lush with whisky and lust and sin and all those delicious things that Moony doesn't touch, usually, fingertips busy being trapped in his books to hold his place. "I would think that was a bit breezy for the life of a troll fighting captain of a ship at sea."
"Adds to the epic. Fighting monsters that're dumb as rocks for the sakes of kiddies and puppies everywhere, with your jollies hanging out, now that's a brave man."
Remus grins, sloppy and sideways, so his mouth turns up more on one side. It's ridiculous and endearing, and Sirius, for the first time, gets the inkling that perhaps he is in a bit of trouble here, because Remus smiles like that and it does funny, semi-pleasant things to his tummy. "Maybe," Remus says, his mouth looking soft. "But it's not exactly going to have all the girls in Ravenclaw throwing their knickers at your face."
"They do that anyway," Sirius tells him, leaning forward, stupid itchy woollen blanket scratching his palms again, when he grabs fistfuls of it and kisses, very softly, Remus' poor, bitten and abused and teasing bottom lip. "I'd start a new trend. Make singing songs of epic poems the coolest thing since the last thing I did that was tremendously popular and spread like fire."
"I believe that was actually fire." Remus smiles again, in the way that makes Sirius all wobbly. And cups Sirius' face with his hand, fingertips behind his ear, thumb on his cheekbone, the heel of his hand against the corner of Sirius' mouth, and it's easy.
***
Author: angelgazing
Summary: Remus is easy, in an epic poetry kind of way.
Rating: pg13
Recipient: slashtastica
***
Easy
It's easy, in the end. After months of planning conversations, of making lists, a hundred half-formed plays in his head where they star. Where it's "D-Do you think, maybe," and laughter and, "Yes, of course." There's no great tragedy, no offset comic plots, where Sirius, three sheets to the wind, the sun bouncing off the lake at his back, says, lonelily, "the world has deserted me." And Remus sighs, in that dramatic way he has-that you are the bane of my existence way-and kisses him, fingertips and thumbs and palms at his face, separate and together, so that Sirius can know all of him, finally-all of him.
And Sirius planned, plotted-spent energies usually reserved for finding the very best ways to turn Slytherins into titmice and termites, with their endless, rat-like chewing. He lay awake nights, his fingers curling, hair damp with sweat against his forehead, curtains drawn against the moonlight in spring, against prying eyes, against the noise of them: James with his snoring, always, and Peter with the crinkle of sweet wrappers, shuffling, thick and loud with sugar and too many revisions always left to do. And Remus, of course, steady, breathing, a sighsnufflegasp of dreaming things he shouldn't, and that, that there is what Sirius listened for, fingers curling around himself, thinking: Tomorrow I'll buy him chocolates and slip into his bed instead; give him comfort like when we were children; suffocate in his warmth.
There were lists, with flowers and books and poetry and epic tales. And, in one very well thought out plan, learning to play the guitar and starting a band, because if a bird would throw her knickers on stage, then surely Remus would not be able to resist his beautiful, rock star pull.
Remus laughs, softly, eyes swimming drunkenly, fingers wrapped around Sirius' sleeve, pinching and pulling. Tugging until the button pops, because he doesn't really know his own strength. And this, this right here-Remus' fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist-that's what Sirius is paying attention to now, horrible peach wool blanket under his palms that makes his skin itch, Firewhisky in his belly, humming through him the way that Remus does, under his skin, through his veins, making his blood sing.
"Ponce," Remus says, thumb pushing against the thin, delicate, vulnerable inside of Sirius' wrist, where his pulse speeds, beats wildly, like a drum when they dance in the sand in Africa, hard and building. "Pay up, or there'll be no more whisky for you."
Sirius laughs, sits up on his knees, tilting dangerously forward-tilting toward Remus, toward the crazy fucking warmth of him-and shimmies his hips, as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. He's got pins and needles in his feet from sitting too awkwardly too long, and he's grinning, stupidly, but this is all so easy. "The things you make me do, Moony." Sirius sighs, a pitch-perfect imitation of the you are the bane of my existence sigh, if he does say so himself.
"The things." Remus smirks, bottle held oh so protectively in the clutch of his pretty, pretty fingers, leaning back on his elbows. He pats Sirius' hand, gently, like he's offering comfort, and tilts his head at a funny angle.
Sirius, bare-chested and, perhaps, slightly drunk off his nut, can't get his arm out of his sleeve, so he lets it hang there, sits back on his heels. There's a fire going, and the shack is cold as it always is in spite of it. He shivers, all through him, and Remus catches the sleeve he did manage to escape from, and pulls. "You're very easy," Sirius informs him, and shifts to sit across his thighs.
"I am complex and mysterious," Remus says, relinquishing the firewhisky long enough to undo the button on the offending, trapping sleeve with one hand. "You will never figure me out, Sirius Black, because you are touched in the head and easily distracted by shiny things."
"I am-I am one of those things, yes," Sirius admits, outrage dying quickly to acceptance. Because he's a very, very mellow bloke, when he's got firewhisky in him, warming him up and making his head buzz, and Moony trapped beneath him. "You are, you know, shockingly easy. I believe there may be songs about this. Moony, Moony, You're So Easy. I'm starting a band, you know. Though I won't sing about your eyes, because they are brown and that's boring. You are bookish. Perhaps I should write about books."
"A song about books?"
"Maybe an epic poem." Sirius, stealthy and quick like a fox, liberates the firewhisky from it's sad little home, cupped between Remus' palm and his hip. "With battles and giants and trolls. That you battle. Standing on the bow of your ship in a kilt."
"A kilt?" he asks, and bites his lip so it's pretty and red and wet. And Sirius, from years of imagining it, knows with certainty that his mouth is soft. Is hot. Is fucking lush with whisky and lust and sin and all those delicious things that Moony doesn't touch, usually, fingertips busy being trapped in his books to hold his place. "I would think that was a bit breezy for the life of a troll fighting captain of a ship at sea."
"Adds to the epic. Fighting monsters that're dumb as rocks for the sakes of kiddies and puppies everywhere, with your jollies hanging out, now that's a brave man."
Remus grins, sloppy and sideways, so his mouth turns up more on one side. It's ridiculous and endearing, and Sirius, for the first time, gets the inkling that perhaps he is in a bit of trouble here, because Remus smiles like that and it does funny, semi-pleasant things to his tummy. "Maybe," Remus says, his mouth looking soft. "But it's not exactly going to have all the girls in Ravenclaw throwing their knickers at your face."
"They do that anyway," Sirius tells him, leaning forward, stupid itchy woollen blanket scratching his palms again, when he grabs fistfuls of it and kisses, very softly, Remus' poor, bitten and abused and teasing bottom lip. "I'd start a new trend. Make singing songs of epic poems the coolest thing since the last thing I did that was tremendously popular and spread like fire."
"I believe that was actually fire." Remus smiles again, in the way that makes Sirius all wobbly. And cups Sirius' face with his hand, fingertips behind his ear, thumb on his cheekbone, the heel of his hand against the corner of Sirius' mouth, and it's easy.
***