![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
queenkerosene.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
small_giftsTitle: Claim Your Broken Crown
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
queenkerosene
Recipient:cackling_madly
Rating: PG-13
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *None! *
Word count: 1607
Summary: Sirius hates to be taken for the sort of bloke who can play the piano.
Remus stumbles up the last step to the flat and curses as he nearly trips. The groceries smack hard against his side and he reminds himself for the umpteenth time to remember to fix that bloody step even though he knows he’ll forget the instant he’s back through the door. He shoulders the groceries again, does a bit of wandless magic to unlock the sham of a lock on their door, and then pushes against it with his hip.
He’s about to call out Sirius’ name when he’s caught off guard by the thudding yet beautiful sound of the out-of-tune piano that sits in the middle of their living room. (They’d had to take what they could get, Remus being a werewolf, Sirius’ last name too infamous. They wound up in a flat in a Muggle part of London where the landlord had sheepishly shrugged and said that it was easier to leave the piano than to pay to have it taken out. A gift, he’d said, his tone implying that neither of them looked like the sort of blokes who knew how to play piano. That made Sirius fall in love instantly, because he hates to be taken for the sort of bloke who can play piano.)
Really, they’ve used it a as a sort of table. There are a thousand copies of the Prophet on top of it -- most of them adorned with Sirius’ more colorful comments. There’s a box of takeaway near the edge that Remus thinks is probably from only last week. Three empty mugs, and two nearly-empty mugs that hold cold tea. A small pile of books -- all Remus’.
The instant he realizes that Sirius is actually playing the piano, which struggles valiantly along to make the sort of noise a piano should, he freezes in the doorway. One of the bags drops idly to the crook of his arm, and there’s a load of wet snow melting against his scalp, but he’s not aware of any of it.
He forgets, he supposes -- not that they can ever really forget -- where Sirius comes from. Sirius is effortlessly coaxing music out of it, by memory no less. His fingers flow across each of the keys, long and deft, pushing down with the right amount of pressure. His shoulders and wrists form elegant, graceful lines. His posture is perfect, and Remus can almost see him as what he should have been, the lord of the House of Black, playing some song written by one of his ancestors for company who’ve come over for dinner.
Of course, all the posture and pretty movements in the world don’t change the fact that Sirius is barefoot, clad only in a pair of trousers that Remus thinks might be James’. He’s smoking the entire while, a thick cloud surrounding his head, ash balanced precariously at the tip. There’s a beer perspiring within reaching distance and Remus wonders if Sirius has mastered the art of playing classical music, smoking, and drinking at the same time. How proud his mother would be.
“I’m going to have to charge you if you’re just going to stand over there and gawk, Moons,” Sirius says through his cigarette. He lets one hand climb up the keys, playing a trilling scale while the other reaches up to finally remove the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He stubs it out into the ashtray beside the bench.
“I believe I can pay you in crisps,” Remus says with a smile.
“I accept,” Sirius answers cheekily. He slides down the bench and jerks his head in a distinctly Padfoot-like manner, gesturing for Remus to join him. Remus drops the groceries on the ground and then shrugs out of his too-thin jacket and threadbare scarf to join Sirius at the piano. His warmth is a relief after the biting cold of the outdoors. Sirius instantly maneuvers an arm around him and puts his hands on the keys.
“Though I do think you’re eyeing her up more than me,” Sirius teases, his voice low in Remus' ear. “A boy could get jealous, Moony.” He presses one of his fingers down lightly on top of Remus’ until the key sinks down and the piano let out a note that doesn't seem even remotely related to the beautiful song that Sirius had just been playing.
“A boy could use a little competition in his life,” Remus replies wryly without looking at Sirius. Instead, he watches the way that Sirius begins to guide his hands up and down the piano, the keys thunking along the way. They are yellowed with age, some of them giving too much resistance. Their hands make an odd pair together, Sirius’ still pale, although there's a spot of grease staining the back of his right thumb. Remus’ are red from the cold, crisscrossed with a thousand fine scars. They pick up speed as they grow more accustomed to moving together, Sirius’ hands curling over top of Remus’.
“I didn’t know you still remembered how to play,” Remus comments without thinking.
“Had to memorize a song a week for nearly seven years,” Sirius says, delivering this explanation lightly, as if it’s nothing at all. Remus knows better. Sirius avoids talking about those years in Grimmauld Place at all costs and he wonders what’s spurred Sirius to talk about it today -- to even sit down at the piano. His belly goes a little cold at the thought, because they are months out of school, but already he can feel this war grinding them down. Sirius has been rejected from Auror training three times now, mostly recently at the beginning of this month. It’s not because he doesn’t have the marks, not because he can’t pass the entrance tests, but because of his birth, because of his last name. There can be no chances in this war; they can’t take risks on werewolves and former pureblood heirs.
Sirius presses a kiss to the side of shoulder, pulling him away from his darker thoughts and into this moment.
“French music instructor, you know,” Sirius says, and he’s teasing now, the words breathed into Remus’ into his ear. “Master Black, you are not concentrating,” Sirius continues, his voice lilting with a perfect French accent. “He’d rap my knuckles when I missed a note. Had quite the collection of bruises going.”
“Sounds like you enjoyed it,” Remus responds.
“He was quite the fit bloke,” Sirius answers, his grin evident in his voice. He presses closer to Remus, their bodies fitting together. The bench creaks ominously beneath them and Remus hopes they don’t end up in a pile of splinters on the floor.
“Explains your obvious passion for piano,” Remus says.
“Jealous, Moony?” Sirius asks, and he’s shifted so close that Remus is practically sitting in his lap now. He knows beyond any doubt that if any music instructor ever heard the notes they’re playing on the piano now, they’d both have their knuckles soundly rapped.
“Of course,” Remus answers. He pulls his hand from underneath Sirius’ and merely lets it climb up the piano, playing note after note. “Think of all the pianos that man got to touch.”
He looks over his shoulder at Sirius who is entirely too amused. He’s only able to see his expression for a fraction of a second before Sirius closes the distance between them, kissing Remus intently. Remus expected the kiss to be heated and hungry -- but Sirius takes things slow, a rarity for him, and the kiss is long and thorough, a smolder instead of a burn. Remus presses his hand down too roughly and there’s a blare of convoluted notes behind them. Sirius leans his forehead against Remus’ when he’s finished, and he breathes quietly. It’s the only sound in the room, a startling contrast after the loud clanging of the piano.
He watches Sirius quietly, the clean arch of his nose and the measured line of his brow. There’s so much of his family in his appearance -- and none where it actually matters. He kisses the side of Sirius’ mouth again, a reassurance, a promise. He twines his fingers with Sirius’ and rubs his thumb across Sirius’ palm. He knows to be more afraid of the hurts that Sirius doesn’t vocally express, but he also smoothes them out the best he can by remaining steadfast.
Sirius smiles again, wrinkling his nose -- not an aristocratic action in the slightest.
“Tickles,” he says with a bark of laughter, pulling their hands up so he can kiss the back of Remus’. His eyes are alight when he opens them. He pulls Remus up off the piano bench and twirls him around once, dancing to some music that he only he can hear.
“Did you buy something tasty for Christmas dinner, Moons?” Sirius asks they swing around Remus’ coat. He’s all loose limbs -- none of the perfect form for waltzes and quadrilles that he must know.
“You’ll have to wait to find out,” Remus says. “I know better than to let you near the kitchen.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be proper for me to be in there anyway,” Sirius grins as they fly back around the room. Sirius’ bare feet slap loudly on the woodwork and then they’re back near the piano. Sirius pushes Remus against it, and kisses him roughly this time. The keys sink beneath their combined weight, letting out a cacophony of clanging and clunking noises. Sirius laughs into his mouth as their neighbor begins to pound on the wall.
Author/Artist:
queenkeroseneRecipient:
cackling_madlyRating: PG-13
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *None! *
Word count: 1607
Summary: Sirius hates to be taken for the sort of bloke who can play the piano.
Remus stumbles up the last step to the flat and curses as he nearly trips. The groceries smack hard against his side and he reminds himself for the umpteenth time to remember to fix that bloody step even though he knows he’ll forget the instant he’s back through the door. He shoulders the groceries again, does a bit of wandless magic to unlock the sham of a lock on their door, and then pushes against it with his hip.
He’s about to call out Sirius’ name when he’s caught off guard by the thudding yet beautiful sound of the out-of-tune piano that sits in the middle of their living room. (They’d had to take what they could get, Remus being a werewolf, Sirius’ last name too infamous. They wound up in a flat in a Muggle part of London where the landlord had sheepishly shrugged and said that it was easier to leave the piano than to pay to have it taken out. A gift, he’d said, his tone implying that neither of them looked like the sort of blokes who knew how to play piano. That made Sirius fall in love instantly, because he hates to be taken for the sort of bloke who can play piano.)
Really, they’ve used it a as a sort of table. There are a thousand copies of the Prophet on top of it -- most of them adorned with Sirius’ more colorful comments. There’s a box of takeaway near the edge that Remus thinks is probably from only last week. Three empty mugs, and two nearly-empty mugs that hold cold tea. A small pile of books -- all Remus’.
The instant he realizes that Sirius is actually playing the piano, which struggles valiantly along to make the sort of noise a piano should, he freezes in the doorway. One of the bags drops idly to the crook of his arm, and there’s a load of wet snow melting against his scalp, but he’s not aware of any of it.
He forgets, he supposes -- not that they can ever really forget -- where Sirius comes from. Sirius is effortlessly coaxing music out of it, by memory no less. His fingers flow across each of the keys, long and deft, pushing down with the right amount of pressure. His shoulders and wrists form elegant, graceful lines. His posture is perfect, and Remus can almost see him as what he should have been, the lord of the House of Black, playing some song written by one of his ancestors for company who’ve come over for dinner.
Of course, all the posture and pretty movements in the world don’t change the fact that Sirius is barefoot, clad only in a pair of trousers that Remus thinks might be James’. He’s smoking the entire while, a thick cloud surrounding his head, ash balanced precariously at the tip. There’s a beer perspiring within reaching distance and Remus wonders if Sirius has mastered the art of playing classical music, smoking, and drinking at the same time. How proud his mother would be.
“I’m going to have to charge you if you’re just going to stand over there and gawk, Moons,” Sirius says through his cigarette. He lets one hand climb up the keys, playing a trilling scale while the other reaches up to finally remove the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He stubs it out into the ashtray beside the bench.
“I believe I can pay you in crisps,” Remus says with a smile.
“I accept,” Sirius answers cheekily. He slides down the bench and jerks his head in a distinctly Padfoot-like manner, gesturing for Remus to join him. Remus drops the groceries on the ground and then shrugs out of his too-thin jacket and threadbare scarf to join Sirius at the piano. His warmth is a relief after the biting cold of the outdoors. Sirius instantly maneuvers an arm around him and puts his hands on the keys.
“Though I do think you’re eyeing her up more than me,” Sirius teases, his voice low in Remus' ear. “A boy could get jealous, Moony.” He presses one of his fingers down lightly on top of Remus’ until the key sinks down and the piano let out a note that doesn't seem even remotely related to the beautiful song that Sirius had just been playing.
“A boy could use a little competition in his life,” Remus replies wryly without looking at Sirius. Instead, he watches the way that Sirius begins to guide his hands up and down the piano, the keys thunking along the way. They are yellowed with age, some of them giving too much resistance. Their hands make an odd pair together, Sirius’ still pale, although there's a spot of grease staining the back of his right thumb. Remus’ are red from the cold, crisscrossed with a thousand fine scars. They pick up speed as they grow more accustomed to moving together, Sirius’ hands curling over top of Remus’.
“I didn’t know you still remembered how to play,” Remus comments without thinking.
“Had to memorize a song a week for nearly seven years,” Sirius says, delivering this explanation lightly, as if it’s nothing at all. Remus knows better. Sirius avoids talking about those years in Grimmauld Place at all costs and he wonders what’s spurred Sirius to talk about it today -- to even sit down at the piano. His belly goes a little cold at the thought, because they are months out of school, but already he can feel this war grinding them down. Sirius has been rejected from Auror training three times now, mostly recently at the beginning of this month. It’s not because he doesn’t have the marks, not because he can’t pass the entrance tests, but because of his birth, because of his last name. There can be no chances in this war; they can’t take risks on werewolves and former pureblood heirs.
Sirius presses a kiss to the side of shoulder, pulling him away from his darker thoughts and into this moment.
“French music instructor, you know,” Sirius says, and he’s teasing now, the words breathed into Remus’ into his ear. “Master Black, you are not concentrating,” Sirius continues, his voice lilting with a perfect French accent. “He’d rap my knuckles when I missed a note. Had quite the collection of bruises going.”
“Sounds like you enjoyed it,” Remus responds.
“He was quite the fit bloke,” Sirius answers, his grin evident in his voice. He presses closer to Remus, their bodies fitting together. The bench creaks ominously beneath them and Remus hopes they don’t end up in a pile of splinters on the floor.
“Explains your obvious passion for piano,” Remus says.
“Jealous, Moony?” Sirius asks, and he’s shifted so close that Remus is practically sitting in his lap now. He knows beyond any doubt that if any music instructor ever heard the notes they’re playing on the piano now, they’d both have their knuckles soundly rapped.
“Of course,” Remus answers. He pulls his hand from underneath Sirius’ and merely lets it climb up the piano, playing note after note. “Think of all the pianos that man got to touch.”
He looks over his shoulder at Sirius who is entirely too amused. He’s only able to see his expression for a fraction of a second before Sirius closes the distance between them, kissing Remus intently. Remus expected the kiss to be heated and hungry -- but Sirius takes things slow, a rarity for him, and the kiss is long and thorough, a smolder instead of a burn. Remus presses his hand down too roughly and there’s a blare of convoluted notes behind them. Sirius leans his forehead against Remus’ when he’s finished, and he breathes quietly. It’s the only sound in the room, a startling contrast after the loud clanging of the piano.
He watches Sirius quietly, the clean arch of his nose and the measured line of his brow. There’s so much of his family in his appearance -- and none where it actually matters. He kisses the side of Sirius’ mouth again, a reassurance, a promise. He twines his fingers with Sirius’ and rubs his thumb across Sirius’ palm. He knows to be more afraid of the hurts that Sirius doesn’t vocally express, but he also smoothes them out the best he can by remaining steadfast.
Sirius smiles again, wrinkling his nose -- not an aristocratic action in the slightest.
“Tickles,” he says with a bark of laughter, pulling their hands up so he can kiss the back of Remus’. His eyes are alight when he opens them. He pulls Remus up off the piano bench and twirls him around once, dancing to some music that he only he can hear.
“Did you buy something tasty for Christmas dinner, Moons?” Sirius asks they swing around Remus’ coat. He’s all loose limbs -- none of the perfect form for waltzes and quadrilles that he must know.
“You’ll have to wait to find out,” Remus says. “I know better than to let you near the kitchen.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be proper for me to be in there anyway,” Sirius grins as they fly back around the room. Sirius’ bare feet slap loudly on the woodwork and then they’re back near the piano. Sirius pushes Remus against it, and kisses him roughly this time. The keys sink beneath their combined weight, letting out a cacophony of clanging and clunking noises. Sirius laughs into his mouth as their neighbor begins to pound on the wall.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 07:58 am (UTC)I love this. The whole thing is so well-written and sexy, yet with hints of something darker in the background. And those small glimpses of Sirius' childhood and the way his Black name now stands in his way, gave so much depth to this piece. I love both of the boys here, but I especially fell in love with your Sirius.
Nice work!!
ETA: Forgot to say that you find the best titles for your stories ever! (Loved the title - as well as the story - from RS-Games too.)
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 09:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 11:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 03:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 03:30 pm (UTC)My favorite Sirius is the one who keeps trying to beat down his aristocratic upbringing, but still hauls it around in a thousand unconscious ways.
And of course, your writing is brilliant.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 07:43 pm (UTC)Lovely fic that I too hope inspires an artist to draw the imagery for.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 10:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-04 01:43 am (UTC)And this line -- "His posture is perfect, and Remus can almost see him as what he should have been, the lord of the House of Black, playing some song written by one of his ancestors for company who’ve come over for dinner." -- made me think immediately of Oscar Wilde. Because if Sirius had ever had to stay in his aristocratic life, that's who he would have ended up being, I'm sure.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-04 01:16 pm (UTC)I loved that there was a kind of simple honesty to this story, there weren't any flashy lights or great proclamations, and I think the best thing is that there didn't need to be any. You showed the effection between the so simply, and your understanding of Sirius and his upbringing was just such a lovely thing to read.
There was just so much warmth here, it's stories like this that remind me why I love them so much, so thankyou for that.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-04 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-04 05:58 pm (UTC)It's funny how much I related to Remus here, too. From the stairs and the groceries (I have tons of stuff all over that needs to be fixed, but I never remember until I'm dealing with it), to the joy of coming home to the music of a musician partner, I very much feel what he does. And, I can assure you that you captured that moment of entrance well. There is nothing like it in the world, really.
But Sirius where was truly fantastic, so subtly complex and full of secret histories he's hiding from even himself.
This was very well done!
no subject
Date: 2013-12-07 05:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-08 09:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 04:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 04:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-10 02:39 am (UTC)Seriously, this is gorgeous. I love the image of Sirius at the piano and Remus watching him, and how he notices Sirius's upbringing (and the toll it's taken on him) manifest itself in different ways. I love, too, your brief mention of the war and how it's "grinding them down." I hadn't really thought of Sirius having trouble getting into the Aurors because of his pure-blood background, but it makes perfect sense.
I love a good first war fic, and I love how in this one, the boys are still able to find beauty and happiness in each other. It made my heart ache but lift at the same time.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-21 04:15 pm (UTC)I'm so sorry it took me so long to read and comment but I'm so thrilled I finally got a quiet moment to sit and read this because it's everything I wanted and more!! I love the entire fic, the intimate scene is just perfectly done and Remus and Sirius are perfectly them.
You also hit on some things I never mentioned, like piano-playing Sirius (I, too, took lessons as a child), and the way that he chooses to remember the "aristocratic" side of himself yet can shed those ingrained lessons so easily. I particularly loved the part where the dance around the room carefree.
All the small details, like what they have laying on the piano to the way Sirius and Remus' hands look side by side just add to the aurhentic feeling of this fic, like we're getting a voyeuristic peek at their life together.
You managed to capture such an intimate moment so beautifully and I'm so grateful you chose my prompt <3333
no subject
Date: 2013-12-22 03:45 pm (UTC)I liked exploring the juxtaposition of Sirius delving into that side of himself, and it being somewhat dangerous to his mental state, but having Remus anchoring him from going too far. So, I definitely liked Remus kind of easing him away from all those dark places, and the dance literally kind of shaking off the last of it.
Anyway, thank you so much! <3
Where I Can Buying Flagyl In Louisville
Date: 2017-05-07 05:31 pm (UTC)