(no subject)
rating: pg-13
word count: 307
summary: Remus likes to tell stories, Sirius isn't sure he entirely enjoys them.
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]
When Remus was younger and was tucked into bed, waiting for sleep to embrace him he would ask his father to tell him a story. His father would tell Remus to tell him a story instead. Remus became really good at telling stories, he conquered the art of dramatic pause and compelling character.
Remus began writing them down. There was something comforting about the black words sinking into the pages, the characters weren't real but he felt something akin to love for his ink and paper brainchildren.
Sometimes he felt so blissfully lost in a world of fantasy that he couldn't truly connect to any one person on a level that James and Sirius shared. The thought pained him. There was simmering resentment under his skin. He envied James' easy touch and smooth unbroken voice, he envied Sirius' utter trust and love for James'. The kind of love only bred from close friendship and undiluted time spent together. Time where fantasy didn't occupy the mind.
He never shared his writing with anyone. The words were too raw and honestly personal that he couldn't face criticism. He would grow to regret the secrets in time, his enigmatic personality only lending evidence for supposed betrayal.
When Sirius clutches at his shoulders, grip worryingly weak from Azkaban, asking for him to please, please explain, Remus spins tales of love and warm summer nights in each others arms. Sirius' sallow yellow skin and sunken grey eyes, all of it, is trusting him.
When Sirius winces away from Remus' greedy touch, Remus tells him that he likes it and Sirius believes him, absolutely losing himself. The true mark of a storyteller.
word count: 307
summary: Remus likes to tell stories, Sirius isn't sure he entirely enjoys them.
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]
When Remus was younger and was tucked into bed, waiting for sleep to embrace him he would ask his father to tell him a story. His father would tell Remus to tell him a story instead. Remus became really good at telling stories, he conquered the art of dramatic pause and compelling character.
Remus began writing them down. There was something comforting about the black words sinking into the pages, the characters weren't real but he felt something akin to love for his ink and paper brainchildren.
Sometimes he felt so blissfully lost in a world of fantasy that he couldn't truly connect to any one person on a level that James and Sirius shared. The thought pained him. There was simmering resentment under his skin. He envied James' easy touch and smooth unbroken voice, he envied Sirius' utter trust and love for James'. The kind of love only bred from close friendship and undiluted time spent together. Time where fantasy didn't occupy the mind.
He never shared his writing with anyone. The words were too raw and honestly personal that he couldn't face criticism. He would grow to regret the secrets in time, his enigmatic personality only lending evidence for supposed betrayal.
When Sirius clutches at his shoulders, grip worryingly weak from Azkaban, asking for him to please, please explain, Remus spins tales of love and warm summer nights in each others arms. Sirius' sallow yellow skin and sunken grey eyes, all of it, is trusting him.
When Sirius winces away from Remus' greedy touch, Remus tells him that he likes it and Sirius believes him, absolutely losing himself. The true mark of a storyteller.