This isn't quite the story I'd planned on posting; in fact, this isn't that story at all, as that one is still unfinished and I just wrote this one today.
Happy Lupercalia. I know Sirius and Remus are celebrating somewhere with nekkidity and whips.
This is the third year I've done this; last year it was
your skin like a whole almond, and the
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*offers tissues*
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One hundred and forty-eight.
Sirius knows the number, sees it carved on Remus's skin, the way he'd carved it into the walls of his cell in Azkaban, into his own flesh with ragged, dirty fingernails, the recurrence of the full moon the only way he knew that time was passing at all, the earth still spinning while he was locked away.
I am dead from these paragraphs - just *great* stuff, and rhythm, and pulsing melancholy.
now they take their time
And this is great, too, for what it says explicitly and how it implicitly contrasts to all the time spent apart.
Thank you so much for this fic. Oz wishes Remus a good, lusty Lupercalia. :)
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Oz wishes Remus a good, lusty Lupercalia.
Remus thanks him kindly and wishes him the same in return. *g*
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