Fic: As With Everything
Title: As With Everything
Author: talksleazy
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG
Summary: As with everything else in his life, one name moves just above the rest.
So I'm in the process of typing up the little ficlets currently residing in my notebook, and here is the first of a few.
I.
The year he runs away from home, Sirius takes to Muggle culture with a vengence. On weekends, weeknights when he's daring, he wraps his body tight with bawdy neon prints, sequins, feathers, metallic leather. He paints his lips, smirking as the colour stains them, the fullness almost overpowered by the bright red. He dusts rouge along the contours of his cheekbones, carefully designs glittering starbursts that spiral from around his eyes.
The girls in the clubs, glam-rock groupies, fawn over him, twirl his dark hair around their fingers, giggling when it gets caught on their press-on nails, rhinestones against silk. Eventually, every conversation slips into the same place.
"So baby, are you like all the best boys these days? Do you swing both ways?" they coo to him around the smoke that pours from their lips. "It's all the rage, you know."
Sirius just laughs, choosing to remain vague, wondering if it's called bisexual if you would only ever kiss one boy, just the one.
(I bet you'd be a dandy if you'd been alive at the right time, Remus says, as Sirius cuffs him affectionately, A right fop, Remus, but you would be, too.)
II.
It's odd. All his life he's been told the sun is hot, too bright to look at without ruining your eyes, it'll burn your skin, a star so bright it's visible during daytime. A star so bright it creates daytime. A star to outshine the rest. But strangely enough, he thinks this really applies to the moon. (This close to Remus, everything else fades, the way the moon outshines every other orbiting satellite. This close to Remus, it's so hot his eyelashes could melt, keep his eyes closed, keep their lips locked.)
III.
Sirius knows that Remus wants to feel what it's like to fly. To be in constant, active defiance of gravity. They are fourteen and Sirius has just made Gryffindor's Quidditch team, spends his early Saturday mornings cutting through the fog, zipping over the pitch, dipping low enough to count the blades of grass, the dew drops. When he lands his hair is wet.
Remus can't fly. Remus has anchors- books and quills and calendars with full moons discretely labelled. Remus and gravity go hand in hand.
But Sirius knows Remus should fly. They are fourteen, and hovering on his broom in front of Remus one afternoon, the handle awkward between them, Remus with a book tucked under his arm, Sirius takes Remus's wrist in his hand. He can feel his bones through the thick of the sweater- too hot, really, but good for hiding scars. He pulls him closer.
Sirius knows that Remus needs to fly. So he pulls him by the wrist, maneuvering around the sleekly polished handle of his broom, and kisses him. Remus' eyes go wide, the colour of sky above clouds.
IV.
Of one thing he is always sure: the names and faces of the people he loves. Even after Halloween, after the rubble of the house he knew and loved in Godric's Hollow, after he laughed all through his booking, his sentencing, because really, this could not be real, he knew, and right up to the moment the veil swallowed him, he knew.
It's a blur, but the most defined and beautiful blur he could imagine. Names and faces, glasses and scars, this bright swirl of the colours of their hair and eyes,blackredbrowngraygreenJamesLilyHarry, a constant loop, but as with everything else in his life, one name moves just above the rest, the scars and eyes and hair of Remus, this whirling in his head of RemusRemusRemus, I love you Remus.
Author: talksleazy
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG
Summary: As with everything else in his life, one name moves just above the rest.
So I'm in the process of typing up the little ficlets currently residing in my notebook, and here is the first of a few.
I.
The year he runs away from home, Sirius takes to Muggle culture with a vengence. On weekends, weeknights when he's daring, he wraps his body tight with bawdy neon prints, sequins, feathers, metallic leather. He paints his lips, smirking as the colour stains them, the fullness almost overpowered by the bright red. He dusts rouge along the contours of his cheekbones, carefully designs glittering starbursts that spiral from around his eyes.
The girls in the clubs, glam-rock groupies, fawn over him, twirl his dark hair around their fingers, giggling when it gets caught on their press-on nails, rhinestones against silk. Eventually, every conversation slips into the same place.
"So baby, are you like all the best boys these days? Do you swing both ways?" they coo to him around the smoke that pours from their lips. "It's all the rage, you know."
Sirius just laughs, choosing to remain vague, wondering if it's called bisexual if you would only ever kiss one boy, just the one.
(I bet you'd be a dandy if you'd been alive at the right time, Remus says, as Sirius cuffs him affectionately, A right fop, Remus, but you would be, too.)
II.
It's odd. All his life he's been told the sun is hot, too bright to look at without ruining your eyes, it'll burn your skin, a star so bright it's visible during daytime. A star so bright it creates daytime. A star to outshine the rest. But strangely enough, he thinks this really applies to the moon. (This close to Remus, everything else fades, the way the moon outshines every other orbiting satellite. This close to Remus, it's so hot his eyelashes could melt, keep his eyes closed, keep their lips locked.)
III.
Sirius knows that Remus wants to feel what it's like to fly. To be in constant, active defiance of gravity. They are fourteen and Sirius has just made Gryffindor's Quidditch team, spends his early Saturday mornings cutting through the fog, zipping over the pitch, dipping low enough to count the blades of grass, the dew drops. When he lands his hair is wet.
Remus can't fly. Remus has anchors- books and quills and calendars with full moons discretely labelled. Remus and gravity go hand in hand.
But Sirius knows Remus should fly. They are fourteen, and hovering on his broom in front of Remus one afternoon, the handle awkward between them, Remus with a book tucked under his arm, Sirius takes Remus's wrist in his hand. He can feel his bones through the thick of the sweater- too hot, really, but good for hiding scars. He pulls him closer.
Sirius knows that Remus needs to fly. So he pulls him by the wrist, maneuvering around the sleekly polished handle of his broom, and kisses him. Remus' eyes go wide, the colour of sky above clouds.
IV.
Of one thing he is always sure: the names and faces of the people he loves. Even after Halloween, after the rubble of the house he knew and loved in Godric's Hollow, after he laughed all through his booking, his sentencing, because really, this could not be real, he knew, and right up to the moment the veil swallowed him, he knew.
It's a blur, but the most defined and beautiful blur he could imagine. Names and faces, glasses and scars, this bright swirl of the colours of their hair and eyes,blackredbrowngraygreenJamesLilyHarry, a constant loop, but as with everything else in his life, one name moves just above the rest, the scars and eyes and hair of Remus, this whirling in his head of RemusRemusRemus, I love you Remus.