Fic: Dancing Shoes for eudaimon
Dec. 20th, 2006 09:58 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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small_giftsTitle: Dancing Shoes
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
beckaandzac
Written for:eudaimon
Rating: R for sexual content
Prompt: "‘And if we can't say our hands our clean, can we die in our dancing shoes?’ (The Song They Sang When Rome Fell, Anais Mitchell) - October, 1981.”
Notes: Betaed by phone. Any typos are therefore totally my fault.
October 1981
It wasn’t really like dancing; it was more like fucking upright with all their clothes on. Sirius pushed hard against him, sweaty and insistent, one thigh forcing in between Remus’, his greater height making it impossible for Remus to slide gracefully away. The music pounded on in waves, and Sirius fell in and out of time with it, until Remus felt battered from all sides. There had been nights when the rhythm got into his blood, when Sirius pulled him close and they moved together like they’d been doing it all their lives. But Sirius wasn’t really a good dancer when he wasn’t trying to be, and as his fingers dug more deeply into Remus’ hips, it was clear he wasn’t trying anymore.
Remus had a hard-on, couldn’t help it at times like this, and Sirius was doing his best to make him come, right there in the middle of the dance floor, fucking upright with all their clothes on. “Stop,” Remus wanted to say. “Stop, and let’s go home and do this in bed like sensible people.” Except that they weren’t really sensible people anymore, were they? And Remus wasn’t really going to say anything. They came to this club full of smoke and strangers precisely because everything only got worse when they talked. There was shattered crockery at home, and cruel words, and unending suspicion. Remus gave in and pushed himself hard against Sirius, coming and feeling Sirius’ teeth on the side of his neck, grinning or grimacing, he didn’t know.
March 1982
“Arthritis, Mr Lupin,” said the healer. “Very common among creatures like yourself. I’m frankly surprised that you haven’t dealt with it before.”
I’m only twenty-two, Remus wanted to say, but the word “creatures” made him swallow it. “Is there something I can do for it?”
The healer shuffled the papers on his desk, his mind already on some other, human patient. “I’ll prescribe you a potion. You’ll be dancing again in no time.” He chuckled at the ludicrous idea of a dancing werewolf. “You can pick up the brewing instructions, permits and ingredients at the apothecary downstairs.” He scribbled something on a small sheet of parchment and pushed it towards Remus. “Have a nice day.”
Standing up was more of a chore than it had been even a few weeks ago, but Remus could spare little thought for his lost dignity as he shuffled out of the healer’s office. His knees and hips ached as he forced himself with all possible speed down the stairs. The risk of meeting someone he knew at St Mungo’s had decreased over the last few months, as they’d all died or been sent home, half-mad, missing limbs. But he didn’t like to spend any more time in the hospital than necessary. Those who’d known him at school looked at him with pity now. Those who’d known him afterward mumbled apologies. “Sorry. You weren’t the one we were looking for. We were wrong, and it killed your friends. Sorry.”
The potion wasn’t especially complicated. Lily could’ve done it in her sleep. But for Remus, it was several hours of painful concentration: shaking fingers clenched around a stirring rod, as little wrist movement as possible. He nearly cried with relief when the potion turned blue and began to bubble gently. He ladled out a single dose into a glass and sipped it cautiously. Knowing what was in it didn’t make it taste any better. But the relief that followed that first sip was so great that he gulped the rest of it, regardless of the taste of old leather and cloves. His joints tingled, and Remus found that he could move again. He stretched his legs, ready for pain, and felt his body moved as fluidly as it ever had. He watched his hands curling around the cup, and remembered how it had been when he had other purposes to put his hands to, other things to curl them round.
You’ll be dancing again in no time.
Maybe he would go out, get pissed, fuck a stranger on the dance floor. For all that the Wizarding World was safe once more, there was plenty of desperation left in the rest of the populace. He was young and marginally attractive; he had had offers before. Before. That was how time seemed to be defined these days: in “before” and “after.” It was said that those people who had lived through the birth of the Christian saviour had had no idea that their lives were crossing a line that would affect how students dated their homework two thousand years later. But Remus knew the line he had crossed. He had lived through the end of his part in the story, and now he was just biding time, lonely and tired and not a little horny. There must have been a memo he had missed, back in October, maybe earlier, one saying, “The end is nigh” in flaming letters. And Voldemort had gotten it, and Sirius had passed it along to James and Lily and even inconsequential Peter. But not to him. Remus went to his closet, painless, and selected his tightest pair of jeans. Nothing to keep him home tonight, after all.
August 1980
“Let’s go dancing.”
It occurred to Remus that this was undoubtedly the first time Sirius had killed someone, even indirectly. A stunning spell that tumbled a Death Eater out into a Muggle street just in front of a passing lorry. They had all heard the crack of his neck breaking, though the screech of wheels had covered the pop of his three friends apparating. Memory charms all round, and then home again to regroup.
Remus wrestled Sirius closer on the sofa, made him stop fidgeting for the first time in three hours. “You hate dancing,” he said reasonably.
Sirius’ mouth tipped in a smile. “I like watching you.” His lips were wicked, but his eyes wanted comfort, forgetfulness. And because Remus could give those things to him, though he could give so little else, said:
“Where shall we go?”
It was a muggle club, full of men writhing against each other, despite the fact that it was the middle of the week. Remus had vaguely known that there were such places, but being in one was a little different. Sirius grabbed him hard around the waist and spun him out onto the dance floor, without so much as a by your leave or an uninhibiting vodka tonic. He moved awkwardly for a minute, but then he found his stride, and Remus watched the beautiful curve of Sirius’ neck as he shook back his hair. He licked it, thick with sweat already, and Sirius shuddered, lost his rhythm, found it again, and pulled Remus in too, mouth first.
“I love you,” Remus wanted to tell him. “You did what had to be done, and that’s all right.” But the music pulled his voice off into the depths of the club, and Sirius wouldn’t have listened anyway. The spotlights overheard flickered bloody red across Sirius’ skin, and Remus saw his eyes close guiltily. Out, out, damn spot, he thought, and pulled Sirius closer. Remus had always known that he was capable of murder, that it ran in his veins, and once a month it escaped, but maybe Sirius was different.
They danced for hours, until Sirius’ skin smelled like smoke and lust and grenadine, and their voices were hoarse from shouting. The panic in Sirius’ eyes was gone, replaced by a sort of dazed appreciation as his hands strayed down Remus’ body. The next day there would be more raids, more curses, more of the slow, numbing grind of wartime, but as Sirius folded in against him on the weaving walk home, Remus didn’t worry about any of that. He stroked his hand through Sirius’ hair and said, “Maybe we should go dancing more often.”
~fin~
Author/Artist:
beckaandzac Written for:
eudaimonRating: R for sexual content
Prompt: "‘And if we can't say our hands our clean, can we die in our dancing shoes?’ (The Song They Sang When Rome Fell, Anais Mitchell) - October, 1981.”
Notes: Betaed by phone. Any typos are therefore totally my fault.
October 1981
It wasn’t really like dancing; it was more like fucking upright with all their clothes on. Sirius pushed hard against him, sweaty and insistent, one thigh forcing in between Remus’, his greater height making it impossible for Remus to slide gracefully away. The music pounded on in waves, and Sirius fell in and out of time with it, until Remus felt battered from all sides. There had been nights when the rhythm got into his blood, when Sirius pulled him close and they moved together like they’d been doing it all their lives. But Sirius wasn’t really a good dancer when he wasn’t trying to be, and as his fingers dug more deeply into Remus’ hips, it was clear he wasn’t trying anymore.
Remus had a hard-on, couldn’t help it at times like this, and Sirius was doing his best to make him come, right there in the middle of the dance floor, fucking upright with all their clothes on. “Stop,” Remus wanted to say. “Stop, and let’s go home and do this in bed like sensible people.” Except that they weren’t really sensible people anymore, were they? And Remus wasn’t really going to say anything. They came to this club full of smoke and strangers precisely because everything only got worse when they talked. There was shattered crockery at home, and cruel words, and unending suspicion. Remus gave in and pushed himself hard against Sirius, coming and feeling Sirius’ teeth on the side of his neck, grinning or grimacing, he didn’t know.
March 1982
“Arthritis, Mr Lupin,” said the healer. “Very common among creatures like yourself. I’m frankly surprised that you haven’t dealt with it before.”
I’m only twenty-two, Remus wanted to say, but the word “creatures” made him swallow it. “Is there something I can do for it?”
The healer shuffled the papers on his desk, his mind already on some other, human patient. “I’ll prescribe you a potion. You’ll be dancing again in no time.” He chuckled at the ludicrous idea of a dancing werewolf. “You can pick up the brewing instructions, permits and ingredients at the apothecary downstairs.” He scribbled something on a small sheet of parchment and pushed it towards Remus. “Have a nice day.”
Standing up was more of a chore than it had been even a few weeks ago, but Remus could spare little thought for his lost dignity as he shuffled out of the healer’s office. His knees and hips ached as he forced himself with all possible speed down the stairs. The risk of meeting someone he knew at St Mungo’s had decreased over the last few months, as they’d all died or been sent home, half-mad, missing limbs. But he didn’t like to spend any more time in the hospital than necessary. Those who’d known him at school looked at him with pity now. Those who’d known him afterward mumbled apologies. “Sorry. You weren’t the one we were looking for. We were wrong, and it killed your friends. Sorry.”
The potion wasn’t especially complicated. Lily could’ve done it in her sleep. But for Remus, it was several hours of painful concentration: shaking fingers clenched around a stirring rod, as little wrist movement as possible. He nearly cried with relief when the potion turned blue and began to bubble gently. He ladled out a single dose into a glass and sipped it cautiously. Knowing what was in it didn’t make it taste any better. But the relief that followed that first sip was so great that he gulped the rest of it, regardless of the taste of old leather and cloves. His joints tingled, and Remus found that he could move again. He stretched his legs, ready for pain, and felt his body moved as fluidly as it ever had. He watched his hands curling around the cup, and remembered how it had been when he had other purposes to put his hands to, other things to curl them round.
You’ll be dancing again in no time.
Maybe he would go out, get pissed, fuck a stranger on the dance floor. For all that the Wizarding World was safe once more, there was plenty of desperation left in the rest of the populace. He was young and marginally attractive; he had had offers before. Before. That was how time seemed to be defined these days: in “before” and “after.” It was said that those people who had lived through the birth of the Christian saviour had had no idea that their lives were crossing a line that would affect how students dated their homework two thousand years later. But Remus knew the line he had crossed. He had lived through the end of his part in the story, and now he was just biding time, lonely and tired and not a little horny. There must have been a memo he had missed, back in October, maybe earlier, one saying, “The end is nigh” in flaming letters. And Voldemort had gotten it, and Sirius had passed it along to James and Lily and even inconsequential Peter. But not to him. Remus went to his closet, painless, and selected his tightest pair of jeans. Nothing to keep him home tonight, after all.
August 1980
“Let’s go dancing.”
It occurred to Remus that this was undoubtedly the first time Sirius had killed someone, even indirectly. A stunning spell that tumbled a Death Eater out into a Muggle street just in front of a passing lorry. They had all heard the crack of his neck breaking, though the screech of wheels had covered the pop of his three friends apparating. Memory charms all round, and then home again to regroup.
Remus wrestled Sirius closer on the sofa, made him stop fidgeting for the first time in three hours. “You hate dancing,” he said reasonably.
Sirius’ mouth tipped in a smile. “I like watching you.” His lips were wicked, but his eyes wanted comfort, forgetfulness. And because Remus could give those things to him, though he could give so little else, said:
“Where shall we go?”
It was a muggle club, full of men writhing against each other, despite the fact that it was the middle of the week. Remus had vaguely known that there were such places, but being in one was a little different. Sirius grabbed him hard around the waist and spun him out onto the dance floor, without so much as a by your leave or an uninhibiting vodka tonic. He moved awkwardly for a minute, but then he found his stride, and Remus watched the beautiful curve of Sirius’ neck as he shook back his hair. He licked it, thick with sweat already, and Sirius shuddered, lost his rhythm, found it again, and pulled Remus in too, mouth first.
“I love you,” Remus wanted to tell him. “You did what had to be done, and that’s all right.” But the music pulled his voice off into the depths of the club, and Sirius wouldn’t have listened anyway. The spotlights overheard flickered bloody red across Sirius’ skin, and Remus saw his eyes close guiltily. Out, out, damn spot, he thought, and pulled Sirius closer. Remus had always known that he was capable of murder, that it ran in his veins, and once a month it escaped, but maybe Sirius was different.
They danced for hours, until Sirius’ skin smelled like smoke and lust and grenadine, and their voices were hoarse from shouting. The panic in Sirius’ eyes was gone, replaced by a sort of dazed appreciation as his hands strayed down Remus’ body. The next day there would be more raids, more curses, more of the slow, numbing grind of wartime, but as Sirius folded in against him on the weaving walk home, Remus didn’t worry about any of that. He stroked his hand through Sirius’ hair and said, “Maybe we should go dancing more often.”
~fin~
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 03:18 pm (UTC)This was beautiful, thankyou :D
no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 05:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 08:14 pm (UTC)I actually bought The Song They Sang When Rome Fell in 2002 because Anais was friends with some friends of mine, and that was a big part of why I picked your prompt. :D But how on earth did you know about her?
no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 08:17 pm (UTC)And you did beautifully pulling it all together. Really :)
no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 09:20 pm (UTC)Oh, and this line: And Voldemort had gotten it, and Sirius had passed it along to James and Lily and even inconsequential Peter. Nicely said, but poor Remus.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 10:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-28 01:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-28 08:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-28 11:33 pm (UTC)“I love you,” Remus wanted to tell him. “You did what had to be done, and that’s all right.” But the music pulled his voice off into the depths of the club, and Sirius wouldn’t have listened anyway. The spotlights overheard flickered bloody red across Sirius’ skin, and Remus saw his eyes close guiltily. Out, out, damn spot, he thought, and pulled Sirius closer. Remus had always known that he was capable of murder, that it ran in his veins, and once a month it escaped, but maybe Sirius was different.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 01:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 03:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-31 08:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-03 03:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-04 01:31 pm (UTC)Ah, poor Remus! I love how you threaded all the scenes together, sex and love and death and anger, all in a whirl on the dancefloor....
no subject
Date: 2007-01-05 03:09 am (UTC)This is beautiful
no subject
Date: 2007-01-12 04:37 am (UTC)But the music pulled his voice off into the depths of the club, and Sirius wouldn’t have listened anyway. The spotlights overheard flickered bloody red across Sirius’ skin, and Remus saw his eyes close guiltily.
For some reason, these were my favourite lines. One thing I just realised now, though...did you mean 'overhead'?
no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:16 am (UTC)I'd be happy to upload all or part of the album for you, if you'd like. I always like to promote my friends' friends. :)
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Date: 2007-02-08 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:18 am (UTC)Thanks for commenting!
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Date: 2007-02-08 04:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:23 am (UTC)It's so nice when people I know read my fic, and even better when they like it! I hope you've found some more good stuff in my Memories. :)
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Date: 2007-02-08 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 04:38 am (UTC)Eek! A typo!
no subject
Date: 2007-02-08 06:24 pm (UTC)