Fic: The Long Division of Tuesday Mornings
HAPPY GRADUATION!!!
I am obviously the latest of all the people, seeing as how I cannot meet deadlines. I win all sorts of awards.
Title: The Long Division of Tuesday Mornings
Author: setissma
Rating: PG-13. Ish. PUPS!
Words: five hundred and eighty-four
Notes: Congratulations! It would be, you know, longer. Except I kept having these giant, epic things come up, and then it was spontaneously Sunday at four and oh shit. You know how it goes. Therefore, I obviously owe you one sex scene, claimable when life is back to normal.
There are four minutes and seventeen seconds between when Remus wakes up and when Sirius gets out of bed, writing January with muffled swearing at the cold of the floor against bare feet, in carefully-counted thumps (one for each step) as he tumbles downstairs, almost puppy-eager. There’s the morning noise of the kettle, the slam of the cupboard door.
Sirius always makes excuses to cut corners, this time of the month, to go to bed early and give Remus an extra twenty minutes of sleep, and Remus hasn’t the heart to break it to him that when Sirius is up, Remus wakes, to the inevitable clang of the kitchen door as he goes to get their newspaper, the creaking noise of the shower. It’s not Sirius’s kisses, shower-damp and soap-clean, that wake him, it’s Sirius himself, who opens his eyes and pours noise (clatter crash thud) into every corner of the flat, who turns on the wrong light four times and apologizes for each one, as if it will make Remus fall asleep again.
He can lie, with six blankets because the heat doesn’t always work, and watch the kaledescope-whirl of the city lights through the snow-covered window, dark grey and blue, dull around the edges, and with Sirius’s heat still in the bed, he can pretend that he’ll never have to leave this quiet morning light, Sirius’s dull noise, muffled through the wood of the door, creaking floorboards and whistling kettle and the low roar of the blowdryer, used because magic doesn’t always work either, this close to the heart of the city. Life swallows it up.
This morning, however, there is only the click-click-click of a stove that won’t go on, the up-down-up-down of a light switch that doesn’t provide any light, and the slam of a door before Sirius is back in bed behind him, freezing feet and too-large hands, shivering.
“Power’s out,” he chatters, cold against Remus’s back, fingers sliding beneath Remus’s jumper, against his stomach, to warm them. “Too much snow.”
Remus realizes, without opening his eyes, that the usual clatter of city noise is gone, only the dull silence of snow to remain, heavy and muffled here.
Remus rolls over to curl into Sirius’s body, fingers just beneath his jaw, and Sirius sighs, softly, content. “Morning,” Remus whispers, awake, now, and Sirius murmurs agreement and leans back in for a kiss, slow and long. Sirius tucks his face against Remus’s neck and his breathing evens as he warms, the in-out-in-out rhythm of security, fingers curling against Remus’s chest, one-two-three-inhale-one-two-three-exhale.
His breath is warm against Remus’s face.
Remus kisses him again, almost, nuzzling along his jaw, mouth to the corner of Sirius’s sleepy smile, and Sirius shifts to tangle a hand in Remus’s hair, shifting to curl his fingers around the back of his neck.
Sirius rolls, easily, pressing close on top of Remus, with another lazy, Black smile and Remus arches against him, half hard already, pressing close into the warm, solid weight of Sirius’s stomach as Sirius bends his head to kiss along Remus’s shoulder, fingers tangling in the hem of Remus’s jumper to pull it over his head, touch warm against Remus’s stomach.
This is familiar, the slam-stutter rhythm of his heartbeat under Sirius’s fingers, the way Sirius’s mouth feels against his skin, the constant need to remind himself to breathe.
“Moony,” Sirius murmurs, with a soft laugh against his ribs.
“Morning,” Remus repeats, head tilting back with a smile, and lets the world slip away.
I am obviously the latest of all the people, seeing as how I cannot meet deadlines. I win all sorts of awards.
Title: The Long Division of Tuesday Mornings
Author: setissma
Rating: PG-13. Ish. PUPS!
Words: five hundred and eighty-four
Notes: Congratulations! It would be, you know, longer. Except I kept having these giant, epic things come up, and then it was spontaneously Sunday at four and oh shit. You know how it goes. Therefore, I obviously owe you one sex scene, claimable when life is back to normal.
There are four minutes and seventeen seconds between when Remus wakes up and when Sirius gets out of bed, writing January with muffled swearing at the cold of the floor against bare feet, in carefully-counted thumps (one for each step) as he tumbles downstairs, almost puppy-eager. There’s the morning noise of the kettle, the slam of the cupboard door.
Sirius always makes excuses to cut corners, this time of the month, to go to bed early and give Remus an extra twenty minutes of sleep, and Remus hasn’t the heart to break it to him that when Sirius is up, Remus wakes, to the inevitable clang of the kitchen door as he goes to get their newspaper, the creaking noise of the shower. It’s not Sirius’s kisses, shower-damp and soap-clean, that wake him, it’s Sirius himself, who opens his eyes and pours noise (clatter crash thud) into every corner of the flat, who turns on the wrong light four times and apologizes for each one, as if it will make Remus fall asleep again.
He can lie, with six blankets because the heat doesn’t always work, and watch the kaledescope-whirl of the city lights through the snow-covered window, dark grey and blue, dull around the edges, and with Sirius’s heat still in the bed, he can pretend that he’ll never have to leave this quiet morning light, Sirius’s dull noise, muffled through the wood of the door, creaking floorboards and whistling kettle and the low roar of the blowdryer, used because magic doesn’t always work either, this close to the heart of the city. Life swallows it up.
This morning, however, there is only the click-click-click of a stove that won’t go on, the up-down-up-down of a light switch that doesn’t provide any light, and the slam of a door before Sirius is back in bed behind him, freezing feet and too-large hands, shivering.
“Power’s out,” he chatters, cold against Remus’s back, fingers sliding beneath Remus’s jumper, against his stomach, to warm them. “Too much snow.”
Remus realizes, without opening his eyes, that the usual clatter of city noise is gone, only the dull silence of snow to remain, heavy and muffled here.
Remus rolls over to curl into Sirius’s body, fingers just beneath his jaw, and Sirius sighs, softly, content. “Morning,” Remus whispers, awake, now, and Sirius murmurs agreement and leans back in for a kiss, slow and long. Sirius tucks his face against Remus’s neck and his breathing evens as he warms, the in-out-in-out rhythm of security, fingers curling against Remus’s chest, one-two-three-inhale-one-two-three-exhale.
His breath is warm against Remus’s face.
Remus kisses him again, almost, nuzzling along his jaw, mouth to the corner of Sirius’s sleepy smile, and Sirius shifts to tangle a hand in Remus’s hair, shifting to curl his fingers around the back of his neck.
Sirius rolls, easily, pressing close on top of Remus, with another lazy, Black smile and Remus arches against him, half hard already, pressing close into the warm, solid weight of Sirius’s stomach as Sirius bends his head to kiss along Remus’s shoulder, fingers tangling in the hem of Remus’s jumper to pull it over his head, touch warm against Remus’s stomach.
This is familiar, the slam-stutter rhythm of his heartbeat under Sirius’s fingers, the way Sirius’s mouth feels against his skin, the constant need to remind himself to breathe.
“Moony,” Sirius murmurs, with a soft laugh against his ribs.
“Morning,” Remus repeats, head tilting back with a smile, and lets the world slip away.