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small_giftsTitle: These, Our Bodies, Possessed by Light
Author/Artist:human_veil
Recipient:blanketed_in_stars
Rating: G.
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *None.*
Word count: 1,340.
Summary: Winter, 1979. A moment before dawn.
Notes: Thank you to A. for the beta.blanketed_in_stars , I hope this meets your expectations!
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
Richard Siken; Scheherazade.
December, 1979.
Remus wakes early, these days.
His eyes will flutter open as the first whisper of dawn paints the horizon, as the sky outside is still cast in darkness, a hint of pink or orange or a dull greyish blue peeking out in the distance. He’ll stare, sometimes. Will look out the tiny window of their apartment, a mug of tea warming his hands, and watch as the colour grows, as the darkness is swallowed up by light.
On these mornings, he’ll open the window. The chill morning air will sweep into their apartment, the frost on the still falling as it’s disturbed. Brightness will cascade across the sitting room, will light up his favourite armchair, will show him the coat thrown haphazardly across the back, the pair of boots untied and discarded at its side.
The air here is crisp, cold, clear. It penetrates Remus’ skin with a distinct sharpness, it’s prickle refreshing and not yet tainted by what the day has to offer.
On these mornings, Sirius will wake not long after the sun has risen. Remus will hear him stumble around, will hear the bathroom tap, the flush of a toilet. Will hear the gentle pitter-patter of feet against the carpet as he treads through their home, out to where he is. On these mornings, Sirius will wrap Remus in his arms from behind, will bury his face against Remus’ shoulder, the tip of his nose freezing against the flesh. His breath will come in warm, gentle puffs that send goosebumps down Remus’ arms, and when Sirius speaks, lips moving in a mumble against his neck, a shiver will make its way down Remus’ spine.
Sirius will kiss him here, will groan and grumble until Remus turns in his arms, until they’re face to face, until the both of them can see each other smile, can see the happiness, pure and clean and much, much too rare. Here, Sirius will lean forward, slowly, teasingly, will capture his lips in sleepy kisses, in warm, wet presses of his mouth, will hold him closer still as they fall apart, will keep their bodies intertwined as they stand there, blanketed in the early morning light, their cheeks pressed together in a terrible, horrible, breathtakingly beautiful display of affection.
On these mornings, things are okay. Not great, or good, or brilliant, but okay. It is safe to hope, here; is safe to dream, to plan a future, to think of what will come. Here is where the war can be forgotten, where the ever-present thought of impending doom can be cast aside, if only for a moment. Here is where they can talk, joke, love; where Sirius can whisper words about Christmas plans and Remus doesn’t have to wonder if they’ll make it there alive.
Here is the calm before the chaos, the peace within the storm, the lull in a fight.
Today is not one of these mornings, though perhaps it’s something similar.
Today, exhausted, brittle-boned, and bleary-eyed, Remus blinks himself awake; is greeted by darkness, by nothing but the tiniest hint of moonlight. In his clouded consciousness, Remus has a fleeting thought that he’d see the stars if he looked, that, if he climbed the building of their flat, if he made it to the snow covered rooftop, he’d be able to map out every constellation, that, if Sirius came with him, if he held Remus’ hand, if he lifted it up toward the night sky, out to the sea of stars, he’d see the same smile, would hear the same whispered sentence, the familiar exclamation of brightest one in the sky, Moony. And the most beautiful.
As it is, he gets no romantic getaway, no kiss under the stars. What he gets is a heaviness, is a denseness, is his body acting as if its sole purpose is to sink into the mattress, to embed itself into goose feathers and stained fabric and lie there for the rest of eternity.
He groans, grunts, grumbles, his body shifting with lazy, drawn out movements. He’s barely passed twenty, and he already thinks he’s too old for this, all of this—the war, the stress, the transformations. Thinks he’d much prefer sleeping the next few years away if he could, thinks it’d be a wonderful way to spend his time if his conscious would bloody well let him.
A pity, then, that it won’t.
The bed around him is emptier than what he’s used to, Sirius’ usual space left bare. It takes Remus a moment to realise that he’s still there, that he hadn’t just disappeared halfway through the night, that there’s the distinct and welcome pressure of a snout pressed to his hip, a paw brushing his leg. He reaches out in his half-awakened state, hand dropping to silken fur, his fingers threading through it absentmindedly, slowly, his nails scratching the spot behind Padfoot’s right ear. Padfoot shifts in his sleep, leans into the touch, and Remus rolls his head against the pillows, tilts his chin down to look. He smiles, soft and slow and sweet, love and adoration seen in every unguarded line of his face.
It’s not so much of a surprise, to find Sirius like that. He does it, sometimes, does it when things get too much, when there’s too much going on, when the stress is too much to bear. Padfoot can calm him in a way little else can, and Remus gets it, or at least he thinks he does. It can calm him, too.
On nights like tonight, he’s always careful not to wake Sirius. There’s no good reason to, he thinks. Rest, pure rest, without nightmares or worry or interruption, is so hard to come by, and to ruin it seems cruel, seems unnecessary, no matter how much he adores the feel of human Sirius wrapped around him, or how nice it is to have their position reversed, to have Sirius’ fingers trail over his scalp in a calming gesture. Besides, Padfoot likes to cuddle just as much as his human counterpart, perhaps even more so, and Remus enjoys that, too, cherishes the way Padfoot curls around him, the way he settles in his lap, keeps him seated, the way he’ll press against Remus’ palm with his snout, a silent demand for pets.
He gives in, always. Will pet him just as he does now, his nimble fingers digging through fur, scratching and massaging until Padfoot is practically purring, until he’s a puddle of content goo. It always brings a smile to Remus’ face, to see him like that; always makes him wonder how in the living hell he can hold so much love for just one person.
It’s a question he doesn’t think he’ll ever get an answer to, but Remus doesn’t mind, not really—he’s not entirely sure there’s an answer that’ll make sense.
On nights like tonight, where the early winter chill is barely bearable, where it sinks into flesh and bone alike, where it has them burrowing under blankets and covers, where the only real source of warmth comes from each other, Remus will lie awake, silent until Sirius wakes, and probably still silent then, too. He’ll watch as Padfoot slowly stirs, as his tail starts to wag with tired, lazy thumps, will watch as that quickly turns to Sirius shifting back, as a paw against his leg changes to a body, bigger than his own, covering him from head to toe.
Sirius will smile at him here, too, with that lazy, early morning grin; will hold himself up above Remus’ body and whisper a good morning, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, and Remus will fall in love six times over before the sun has even resurfaced, before their bedroom is cast in light.
It’s what he waits for, now, as he lies still in bed, as he keeps his hand planted in Padfoot’s fur. What he looks forward to.
In times like these, dark as they are, it’s those moments that keep him going.
Author/Artist:
human_veil Recipient:
blanketed_in_stars Rating: G.
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *None.*
Word count: 1,340.
Summary: Winter, 1979. A moment before dawn.
Notes: Thank you to A. for the beta.
blanketed_in_stars , I hope this meets your expectations!Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
Richard Siken; Scheherazade.
December, 1979.
Remus wakes early, these days.
His eyes will flutter open as the first whisper of dawn paints the horizon, as the sky outside is still cast in darkness, a hint of pink or orange or a dull greyish blue peeking out in the distance. He’ll stare, sometimes. Will look out the tiny window of their apartment, a mug of tea warming his hands, and watch as the colour grows, as the darkness is swallowed up by light.
On these mornings, he’ll open the window. The chill morning air will sweep into their apartment, the frost on the still falling as it’s disturbed. Brightness will cascade across the sitting room, will light up his favourite armchair, will show him the coat thrown haphazardly across the back, the pair of boots untied and discarded at its side.
The air here is crisp, cold, clear. It penetrates Remus’ skin with a distinct sharpness, it’s prickle refreshing and not yet tainted by what the day has to offer.
On these mornings, Sirius will wake not long after the sun has risen. Remus will hear him stumble around, will hear the bathroom tap, the flush of a toilet. Will hear the gentle pitter-patter of feet against the carpet as he treads through their home, out to where he is. On these mornings, Sirius will wrap Remus in his arms from behind, will bury his face against Remus’ shoulder, the tip of his nose freezing against the flesh. His breath will come in warm, gentle puffs that send goosebumps down Remus’ arms, and when Sirius speaks, lips moving in a mumble against his neck, a shiver will make its way down Remus’ spine.
Sirius will kiss him here, will groan and grumble until Remus turns in his arms, until they’re face to face, until the both of them can see each other smile, can see the happiness, pure and clean and much, much too rare. Here, Sirius will lean forward, slowly, teasingly, will capture his lips in sleepy kisses, in warm, wet presses of his mouth, will hold him closer still as they fall apart, will keep their bodies intertwined as they stand there, blanketed in the early morning light, their cheeks pressed together in a terrible, horrible, breathtakingly beautiful display of affection.
On these mornings, things are okay. Not great, or good, or brilliant, but okay. It is safe to hope, here; is safe to dream, to plan a future, to think of what will come. Here is where the war can be forgotten, where the ever-present thought of impending doom can be cast aside, if only for a moment. Here is where they can talk, joke, love; where Sirius can whisper words about Christmas plans and Remus doesn’t have to wonder if they’ll make it there alive.
Here is the calm before the chaos, the peace within the storm, the lull in a fight.
Today is not one of these mornings, though perhaps it’s something similar.
Today, exhausted, brittle-boned, and bleary-eyed, Remus blinks himself awake; is greeted by darkness, by nothing but the tiniest hint of moonlight. In his clouded consciousness, Remus has a fleeting thought that he’d see the stars if he looked, that, if he climbed the building of their flat, if he made it to the snow covered rooftop, he’d be able to map out every constellation, that, if Sirius came with him, if he held Remus’ hand, if he lifted it up toward the night sky, out to the sea of stars, he’d see the same smile, would hear the same whispered sentence, the familiar exclamation of brightest one in the sky, Moony. And the most beautiful.
As it is, he gets no romantic getaway, no kiss under the stars. What he gets is a heaviness, is a denseness, is his body acting as if its sole purpose is to sink into the mattress, to embed itself into goose feathers and stained fabric and lie there for the rest of eternity.
He groans, grunts, grumbles, his body shifting with lazy, drawn out movements. He’s barely passed twenty, and he already thinks he’s too old for this, all of this—the war, the stress, the transformations. Thinks he’d much prefer sleeping the next few years away if he could, thinks it’d be a wonderful way to spend his time if his conscious would bloody well let him.
A pity, then, that it won’t.
The bed around him is emptier than what he’s used to, Sirius’ usual space left bare. It takes Remus a moment to realise that he’s still there, that he hadn’t just disappeared halfway through the night, that there’s the distinct and welcome pressure of a snout pressed to his hip, a paw brushing his leg. He reaches out in his half-awakened state, hand dropping to silken fur, his fingers threading through it absentmindedly, slowly, his nails scratching the spot behind Padfoot’s right ear. Padfoot shifts in his sleep, leans into the touch, and Remus rolls his head against the pillows, tilts his chin down to look. He smiles, soft and slow and sweet, love and adoration seen in every unguarded line of his face.
It’s not so much of a surprise, to find Sirius like that. He does it, sometimes, does it when things get too much, when there’s too much going on, when the stress is too much to bear. Padfoot can calm him in a way little else can, and Remus gets it, or at least he thinks he does. It can calm him, too.
On nights like tonight, he’s always careful not to wake Sirius. There’s no good reason to, he thinks. Rest, pure rest, without nightmares or worry or interruption, is so hard to come by, and to ruin it seems cruel, seems unnecessary, no matter how much he adores the feel of human Sirius wrapped around him, or how nice it is to have their position reversed, to have Sirius’ fingers trail over his scalp in a calming gesture. Besides, Padfoot likes to cuddle just as much as his human counterpart, perhaps even more so, and Remus enjoys that, too, cherishes the way Padfoot curls around him, the way he settles in his lap, keeps him seated, the way he’ll press against Remus’ palm with his snout, a silent demand for pets.
He gives in, always. Will pet him just as he does now, his nimble fingers digging through fur, scratching and massaging until Padfoot is practically purring, until he’s a puddle of content goo. It always brings a smile to Remus’ face, to see him like that; always makes him wonder how in the living hell he can hold so much love for just one person.
It’s a question he doesn’t think he’ll ever get an answer to, but Remus doesn’t mind, not really—he’s not entirely sure there’s an answer that’ll make sense.
On nights like tonight, where the early winter chill is barely bearable, where it sinks into flesh and bone alike, where it has them burrowing under blankets and covers, where the only real source of warmth comes from each other, Remus will lie awake, silent until Sirius wakes, and probably still silent then, too. He’ll watch as Padfoot slowly stirs, as his tail starts to wag with tired, lazy thumps, will watch as that quickly turns to Sirius shifting back, as a paw against his leg changes to a body, bigger than his own, covering him from head to toe.
Sirius will smile at him here, too, with that lazy, early morning grin; will hold himself up above Remus’ body and whisper a good morning, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, and Remus will fall in love six times over before the sun has even resurfaced, before their bedroom is cast in light.
It’s what he waits for, now, as he lies still in bed, as he keeps his hand planted in Padfoot’s fur. What he looks forward to.
In times like these, dark as they are, it’s those moments that keep him going.
no subject
Date: 2017-12-10 07:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-10 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-10 10:48 pm (UTC)This is honestly one of those pieces that makes me want to quote back every lovely word. But this bit did stand out: Sirius will kiss him here, will groan and grumble until Remus turns in his arms, until they’re face to face, until the both of them can see each other smile, can see the happiness, pure and clean and much, much too rare. Here, Sirius will lean forward, slowly, teasingly, will capture his lips in sleepy kisses, in warm, wet presses of his mouth, will hold him closer still as they fall apart, will keep their bodies intertwined as they stand there, blanketed in the early morning light, their cheeks pressed together in a terrible, horrible, breathtakingly beautiful display of affection.
The entire piece was poignant and moving, emotions weaving their way through the flowing prose.
no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-10 11:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 12:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 04:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 04:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 11:34 am (UTC)“pure and clean and much, much too rare” i know i asked for the harsh realities of war but it still hurts goddammit
“today is not one of those mornings” GREAT mood change, also i’m ready to die
“brightest one in the sky, Moony” awWWW SHIT
“It always brings a smile to Remus’ face, to see him like that; always makes him wonder how in the living hell he can hold so much love for just one person.”
“and Remus will fall in love six times over before the sun has even resurfaced, before their bedroom is cast in light.”
particularly those last two - i mean, damn, you really killed it. the whole fic is infused for me with a tenuous peace and a very tentative brightness. in the beginning it's very evident but even later in the fic, as it gets a little more nuanced, you can feel that hope - and over it all there is such sweetness, it's so clear that they love each other, even more so against the backdrop of the war (which you made very present despite never showing anything other than their apartment). god, i don't even know if i'm making any sense but i love it so much!!! thank you a thousand times over for this beautiful, wonderful gift, every word is perfect <3
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Date: 2017-12-11 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 01:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 03:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 08:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-12 03:28 am (UTC)This whole thing is amazing. I thought that opening bit at the window was gorgeous but you just kept going with more and more reality and live and the prose -swoon-
ARTISTS I NEED A RENDERING OF WINDOW GAZING WOLFSTAR PLS
no subject
Date: 2017-12-12 04:54 am (UTC)and i would so die (in the good way) if anyone ever did art for this *eye emoji*
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Date: 2017-12-12 02:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-12 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-14 02:51 pm (UTC)causefuckcanon.no subject
Date: 2017-12-19 09:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-23 05:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-27 11:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-30 01:45 am (UTC)