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I've conquered the LAN! In celebration of being online with my own computer, I offer my first-ever bit of HP fic, a decidedly odd Sirius snippet. Medium naughty, pairing, um, odder than it initially appears, and unbetaed, with apologies for the title. The Hip made me do it.
Sirius keeps his eyes open as they kiss. All his senses are starved for this, and as his tongue explores a hot sweet mouth, his eyes take in the unruly black hair - getting messier by the moment - ardent green eyes, and the scar, livid as ever, standing out on the fair skin of his forehead.
“Harry,” he whispers, when he has to stop kissing him to breathe. “Harry.” His own hoarse voice in his ears makes this real, more real than anything else.
The boy is small for his age, skinny even though he’s starting to get his height, and doesn’t weigh much. Sirius plants his hands on narrow hips and pulls down til that wiry weight settles solidly on his thighs. It holds him in place so long as he holds it in place, which seems only fair. He has something to hold, and something anchoring him in this chair, in this life. This is real.
He slides one hand around and up. His fingertips drag on soft hot skin stretched tight over hipbones, quivering muscles, the ridge of vertebrae, but he lets the boy’s t-shirt drop, slides his hand up on the outside, outside, until his callused palm rests between the sharp angles of shoulder blades. The cotton under his fingers is hot from the boy’s body, a little dampened with sweat. Sirius can feel his heart hammering double time.
His own heart is beating nearly as fast, for all he’s an adult, in the admittedly dubious sanctuary of his own home. He drags his mouth away so that he can hear the boy gasping, and drops kisses along his flushed face and his straining throat. *It’s real,* he tells himself, *This is real.*
He leans back a little, tilts his head against the slim-fingered hands tangled in his hair. Thumbs press against his scalp, and the weight in his lap lifts and shifts, and he looks up at the familiar half-grin, long black lashes fluttering half-shut over pretty green eyes, as the boy leans close. “I love you, Sirius,” he whispers. “Love you.”
Sirius snugs his arms tight around the boy, lets his eyes shut for a moment. “Love you,” he whispers back raggedly, and then open his eyes wide. “Harry. Love you so.”
The boy lifts his head and smiles brilliantly, an expression which does not dim even when his gaze is drawn up over Sirius’s head. At the same moment, another hand joins the two in his hair. A chill runs through Sirius, and he clears his throat and says, “That’s enough now, Harry.”
Warmth and weight and sweet clinging hands all vanish. Only one hand, cold-chapped as from a long walk out of doors, remains, and its mate slides down Sirius’ shoulder to investigate his shirt pocket, drawing out the tiny figure of a boy with tousled black hair, pulling his jumper back on. The miniature smiles sunnily and impartially at Sirius and at Remus, who brushes a thumb gently over his hair, then returns him to the shirt pocket.
“You gave it Lily’s eyes,” he says softly. “Harry’s eyes. And Harry’s scar.”
Sirius can only nod, staring at his knees. This too, searing and chilly as it is, is real, and something to cling to.
“Did you actually teach it to answer to his name?”
Sirius smiles bleakly, where Remus cannot see, and lets no hint of self-pity into his voice. “It wasn’t hard to find the time.”
Remus takes his hands away and steps back, so that Sirius is entirely alone and adrift. Nothing to cling to, and the not-real comes easily to mind: the awful-wonderful day, in sixth year, when James cornered him in the dormitory and gave him a present.
It had been a week, by then, since Sirius had screwed up his courage and confessed himself, only to be rejected as kindly and gently as any straight sixteen-year-old best friend could manage. It had been a ridiculous hope, of course - anyone could see he and Evans were meant for each other - but Sirius had had to try.
James had handed him a small box, and whispered to him, almost managing to keep the blush from his fair cheeks, “I don’t know if this will make it worse, but I wanted to give you something.” Then he’d fled, leaving Sirius alone to swipe the library books from under his pillow, to work out the care and feeding of the simulacrum. He’d worked out from James’ notes, scrawled in a familiar sloppy hand on pages tucked into the books, how the imitation was made, and spent days simply contemplating James spilling blood and tears and spit and sweat and come, for him, to give him something. James had given as much as he could, as much as his nature allowed, and Sirius could only love him more, for that.
Remus clears his throat, drawing Sirius abruptly back to reality. “It was on the tip of my tongue to ask you whether this is what James would have wanted, but I suppose–-” he breathes a bitter laugh, “I supposed the answer to that is yes.”
Sirius closes his eyes and nods. Far better an image of Harry than Harry himself, and James would have wanted his son safe and Sirius a little happy, if both could be managed. Still, Remus does not return to him, and Sirius, clinging to what is real, can only bear the chill for a very little time. He turns in his seat to look at Remus.
He’s come straight up, still in his coat and muffler, snow dusted on his hair and shoulders, the tips of his ears bright with the cold. Sirius likes to be able to smell the streets on him, to know the weather without asking when he sees him. Remus likes to do these small things for Sirius, coming in quietly to surprise him with snow. Sirius stares at him, willing him to look up, but he cannot bear the silence for long. “It’s just that it’s better,” he whispers, his voice a little broken, and Remus finally looks up with a weary smile.
“I know it’s better,” he says, and Sirius nods quickly. He spends too much of his time talking to the children, either in reality or in his mind, and has become too much accustomed to explaining himself. Remus knows as well as he does, the danger of fixing one’s passions on a dead man. A wizard must be careful what he wishes for.
Remus stays still, his smile fading into unrelieved weariness, and then with brisk motions he unwinds his muffler and unbuttons his coat. He tosses both on the bed, and turns toward the door.
When Sirius jumps to his feet, Remus does not turn back, but raises a hand which has the power to still Sirius where he stands. “I’ve some work to do, Sirius. Just give me a few hours to - to forget a little.”
Sirius nods his wholly unnecessary assent to the empty doorframe, and sinks into his seat. He is alone again. The scent of damp wool, chilled by a fresh wind and warmed by Remus’ body, tempts him only a little. The substitute he is offered is nothing to this, which is real. He is alone, in this house of darkness, never more so than when his best living friend is near.
Later, lying warm in bed with Remus sprawled at his side, Sirius thinks only of his lover, and of safeguarding the children. This is real, too, and it is selfish to think that he is alone when he is merely lonely. But when he dreams, he is searching for James, and when he wakes without finding him, he knows morning has come too soon.
Sirius keeps his eyes open as they kiss. All his senses are starved for this, and as his tongue explores a hot sweet mouth, his eyes take in the unruly black hair - getting messier by the moment - ardent green eyes, and the scar, livid as ever, standing out on the fair skin of his forehead.
“Harry,” he whispers, when he has to stop kissing him to breathe. “Harry.” His own hoarse voice in his ears makes this real, more real than anything else.
The boy is small for his age, skinny even though he’s starting to get his height, and doesn’t weigh much. Sirius plants his hands on narrow hips and pulls down til that wiry weight settles solidly on his thighs. It holds him in place so long as he holds it in place, which seems only fair. He has something to hold, and something anchoring him in this chair, in this life. This is real.
He slides one hand around and up. His fingertips drag on soft hot skin stretched tight over hipbones, quivering muscles, the ridge of vertebrae, but he lets the boy’s t-shirt drop, slides his hand up on the outside, outside, until his callused palm rests between the sharp angles of shoulder blades. The cotton under his fingers is hot from the boy’s body, a little dampened with sweat. Sirius can feel his heart hammering double time.
His own heart is beating nearly as fast, for all he’s an adult, in the admittedly dubious sanctuary of his own home. He drags his mouth away so that he can hear the boy gasping, and drops kisses along his flushed face and his straining throat. *It’s real,* he tells himself, *This is real.*
He leans back a little, tilts his head against the slim-fingered hands tangled in his hair. Thumbs press against his scalp, and the weight in his lap lifts and shifts, and he looks up at the familiar half-grin, long black lashes fluttering half-shut over pretty green eyes, as the boy leans close. “I love you, Sirius,” he whispers. “Love you.”
Sirius snugs his arms tight around the boy, lets his eyes shut for a moment. “Love you,” he whispers back raggedly, and then open his eyes wide. “Harry. Love you so.”
The boy lifts his head and smiles brilliantly, an expression which does not dim even when his gaze is drawn up over Sirius’s head. At the same moment, another hand joins the two in his hair. A chill runs through Sirius, and he clears his throat and says, “That’s enough now, Harry.”
Warmth and weight and sweet clinging hands all vanish. Only one hand, cold-chapped as from a long walk out of doors, remains, and its mate slides down Sirius’ shoulder to investigate his shirt pocket, drawing out the tiny figure of a boy with tousled black hair, pulling his jumper back on. The miniature smiles sunnily and impartially at Sirius and at Remus, who brushes a thumb gently over his hair, then returns him to the shirt pocket.
“You gave it Lily’s eyes,” he says softly. “Harry’s eyes. And Harry’s scar.”
Sirius can only nod, staring at his knees. This too, searing and chilly as it is, is real, and something to cling to.
“Did you actually teach it to answer to his name?”
Sirius smiles bleakly, where Remus cannot see, and lets no hint of self-pity into his voice. “It wasn’t hard to find the time.”
Remus takes his hands away and steps back, so that Sirius is entirely alone and adrift. Nothing to cling to, and the not-real comes easily to mind: the awful-wonderful day, in sixth year, when James cornered him in the dormitory and gave him a present.
It had been a week, by then, since Sirius had screwed up his courage and confessed himself, only to be rejected as kindly and gently as any straight sixteen-year-old best friend could manage. It had been a ridiculous hope, of course - anyone could see he and Evans were meant for each other - but Sirius had had to try.
James had handed him a small box, and whispered to him, almost managing to keep the blush from his fair cheeks, “I don’t know if this will make it worse, but I wanted to give you something.” Then he’d fled, leaving Sirius alone to swipe the library books from under his pillow, to work out the care and feeding of the simulacrum. He’d worked out from James’ notes, scrawled in a familiar sloppy hand on pages tucked into the books, how the imitation was made, and spent days simply contemplating James spilling blood and tears and spit and sweat and come, for him, to give him something. James had given as much as he could, as much as his nature allowed, and Sirius could only love him more, for that.
Remus clears his throat, drawing Sirius abruptly back to reality. “It was on the tip of my tongue to ask you whether this is what James would have wanted, but I suppose–-” he breathes a bitter laugh, “I supposed the answer to that is yes.”
Sirius closes his eyes and nods. Far better an image of Harry than Harry himself, and James would have wanted his son safe and Sirius a little happy, if both could be managed. Still, Remus does not return to him, and Sirius, clinging to what is real, can only bear the chill for a very little time. He turns in his seat to look at Remus.
He’s come straight up, still in his coat and muffler, snow dusted on his hair and shoulders, the tips of his ears bright with the cold. Sirius likes to be able to smell the streets on him, to know the weather without asking when he sees him. Remus likes to do these small things for Sirius, coming in quietly to surprise him with snow. Sirius stares at him, willing him to look up, but he cannot bear the silence for long. “It’s just that it’s better,” he whispers, his voice a little broken, and Remus finally looks up with a weary smile.
“I know it’s better,” he says, and Sirius nods quickly. He spends too much of his time talking to the children, either in reality or in his mind, and has become too much accustomed to explaining himself. Remus knows as well as he does, the danger of fixing one’s passions on a dead man. A wizard must be careful what he wishes for.
Remus stays still, his smile fading into unrelieved weariness, and then with brisk motions he unwinds his muffler and unbuttons his coat. He tosses both on the bed, and turns toward the door.
When Sirius jumps to his feet, Remus does not turn back, but raises a hand which has the power to still Sirius where he stands. “I’ve some work to do, Sirius. Just give me a few hours to - to forget a little.”
Sirius nods his wholly unnecessary assent to the empty doorframe, and sinks into his seat. He is alone again. The scent of damp wool, chilled by a fresh wind and warmed by Remus’ body, tempts him only a little. The substitute he is offered is nothing to this, which is real. He is alone, in this house of darkness, never more so than when his best living friend is near.
Later, lying warm in bed with Remus sprawled at his side, Sirius thinks only of his lover, and of safeguarding the children. This is real, too, and it is selfish to think that he is alone when he is merely lonely. But when he dreams, he is searching for James, and when he wakes without finding him, he knows morning has come too soon.