Brighton Rock (dogdaysofsummer Day 01)
*flailing dance of glee* dogdaysofsummer! dogdaysofsummer! dogdaysofsummer!
Title: Brighton Rock
Rating: G/PG
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Prompt: warm stones
Summary: Brighton beach, 1979-ish. 232 words.
The shingle is warm beneath his aching feet, soothing out the weariness of too many hours on his feet; of sleepless nights bracketing the full moon; of the remaking of brawn and bone.
The midsummer moon has been and gone.
“Nights are drawing in,” he says wryly, but Sirius has vanished again.
Not far along the beach a man is setting up deckchairs, each one springing into shape with a clack. The cafes and art shops along the back of the beach have swung their doors open, welcoming in the sun. There’s the steady wheeze of a trampoline, punctuated with childish screams, and the occasional shrill wail from the rollercoaster on the end of the pier.
A dreamy-eyed boy is wandering along the pebbles, handing out flyers. He thrusts one into Remus’ hand and smiles invitingly, long eyelashes dipping down to brush his cheeks.
Remus thanks him, politely, and shakes his head.
There’s a crash of stones behind him, and warm arms wrap around his waist, slick with suncream.
“Bike rally,” Sirius says, as if that explains everything, and rests his chin on Remus’ shoulder. Remus can tell he’s glaring.
The boy laughs and winks before moving on.
“Your neck is burning,” Sirius says, and brushes his lips against it.
Remus leans back against him, closing his eyes. He can feel the sun washing over him, warmth surrounding him, sunlight, Sirius, stone.
Title: Brighton Rock
Rating: G/PG
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Prompt: warm stones
Summary: Brighton beach, 1979-ish. 232 words.
The shingle is warm beneath his aching feet, soothing out the weariness of too many hours on his feet; of sleepless nights bracketing the full moon; of the remaking of brawn and bone.
The midsummer moon has been and gone.
“Nights are drawing in,” he says wryly, but Sirius has vanished again.
Not far along the beach a man is setting up deckchairs, each one springing into shape with a clack. The cafes and art shops along the back of the beach have swung their doors open, welcoming in the sun. There’s the steady wheeze of a trampoline, punctuated with childish screams, and the occasional shrill wail from the rollercoaster on the end of the pier.
A dreamy-eyed boy is wandering along the pebbles, handing out flyers. He thrusts one into Remus’ hand and smiles invitingly, long eyelashes dipping down to brush his cheeks.
Remus thanks him, politely, and shakes his head.
There’s a crash of stones behind him, and warm arms wrap around his waist, slick with suncream.
“Bike rally,” Sirius says, as if that explains everything, and rests his chin on Remus’ shoulder. Remus can tell he’s glaring.
The boy laughs and winks before moving on.
“Your neck is burning,” Sirius says, and brushes his lips against it.
Remus leans back against him, closing his eyes. He can feel the sun washing over him, warmth surrounding him, sunlight, Sirius, stone.