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small_giftsTitle: Almost Dark Again
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
paulamcg
Written for:daphnaea
Beta: My incredibleishonn. Thank you so much again for all your… spring buds!
Rating: PG
Prompt: The prompt I claimed was an Order mission (first war), but perhaps this fulfils a bit better the ambiguous request for ambiguity (bonus: some degree of resolution). Someone also receives an owl and received one off-stage.
Summary: December 1979 has defeated Remus to the point of taking up quarters at Sirius’s, whom he can’t expect back from an Order mission yet.
Almost Dark Again
When I wake up on the comfortable couch I’m sweating under the quilt I found in his closet. Perhaps I should have taken off some of my clothes, but at least the fever stopped rising while I was sleeping, and I slept better than ever since… I can’t remember since when. It’s got almost dark again.
He’d left the lights on in the tree, and I decided not to touch them or anything else I wouldn’t need to. Of course, he’s been impatient enough to decorate early and done it with perfect, expensive taste. In the gloom the twinkle of the stars on the branches is clear but subtle, nothing like the blinking of the garish multicoloured garlands adorning the cheap shops, those I hoped could hire me. Oh, a star on the top would be too conventional for him. Perhaps he’s charmed the moon to show the real one’s phases, and I’m not sure how funny or charming that is. At least it’s a waning crescent now. This should be the best part of the month.
I must have closed my eyes again for more than a moment, as now all I can see in the window besides black is the reflection of his stars. An unerring owl’s frantic tapping on the screen has drawn my attention to this picture straight from a dream I’m determined to forget immediately. If this is the beginning of another nightmare, my caricature of a life is getting a bit too repetitive.
After seeing that the letter is in his handwriting – and dated today, not something he’d prepared to be sent in case… I lean my forehead against the glass in relief. Still, I can’t savour the cheerful wishes, the playful questions, the vivid descriptions of any non-confidential details he’s been able to think of. Reassurances that he’s safe and sound. Promises to ask me for a visit as soon as he’s finally back from this prolonged mission. There’s the face of a ghost in front of me, surrounded by darkness. The letter was written to someone who could still feed himself and pay the rent of a room, with a little help from parents, who had not yet been…
He’ll be disappointed with my lack of spirit when he finally returns. At least he won’t have to ever invite me again. Perhaps I’m defeated enough to open his kitchen cupboards without permission, too. It can actually be clever to start preparing a bath first.
If only the water doesn’t end up left running and leaking over onto this luxurious rug. These days I keep forgetting what I’m doing.
Having found the tea, I’m going through his selection of tinned food, wondering if I should start with something gentle, like soup, when I hear the keys. It can’t be him now, but only his best friends also know his personal charms for sealing and unsealing the door. I rush out of the kitchen, not fumbling for my wand, so as to defend myself, any more urgently than I hurry to hide the signs that I’ve come to seek shelter and slept here.
Too slow, with the quilt still pressed against my chest, I watch how my Sirius almost falls through the doorway, then stays with his back against the wall beside it. He’s wearing only thin Muggle garments, no cloak. After the rest it has just enjoyed, my body’s soon quicker than his – or my mind. Without hesitation I’ve taken the few steps and wrapped my arms – and the quilt – around him before he’s properly registered my presence.
He leans on me, presses his cold face to my neck and inhales deeply through his nose. “Oh, God,” he says in a breath out, then draws another shuddering breath in, and continues, “Don’t wake me.”
Perhaps he thinks I’m holding him in a dream. At the end of his nightmare.
I won’t have the strength to hold him standing, or to carry him, if he collapses. Besides, smelling that he’s dirtier than me makes me remember that the hot water will soon flood the floor, so I guide him towards the bathroom.
Here the light switches on magically, as always when anyone enters, and now its yellow warmth brings him closer to his senses. He stares at me through the mirror, until I sit him on the toilet lid and reach to turn off the tap.
“You are here,” he says, first knitting his brows. “What are you doing here?” Now there’s joy in his eyes, while he’s still trembling and pulling the quilt tighter around himself.
I turn away again, looking for the soap. “Giving you a bath.” Then I remember that he’s freezing and I kneel to take off his drenched shoes.
“How did you know?” he asks in awe.
“I didn’t. I prepared it for myself. I mean… I could ask you the same. What are you doing here? In the letter you said you wouldn’t…”
“You got it? Great! I told James to keep kicking me awake so I could finish it on the train. You know, we weren’t in the condition to Apparate, and then I walked…”
This time I manage not to say anything about myself. “But why did you write that…?”
“To gain some time to shape up a bit. To surprise you.”
While peeling the damp clothes off, then my clothes – dryer but not much cleaner – I leave the talking for him. He’ll say that now I can shape him up. I don’t know about that, but I support him and step into the bath with him.
I’ve looked forward to submerging into the water. Without him I’d perhaps forget to keep my head up.
Until I got him back now, I hadn’t touched anyone after being summoned to see… something for the very last time. To see the ancient house, the bare apple trees. Not to take anything with me. Hardly a final memory of caressing their cold cheeks.
But now the bliss of this warmth turns into a womb, and here his body needs mine. I’ll agree to still live, and as fully as possible.
I rub the dirt off his arms; he traces my scars, even the one on my shoulder, and I hardly wince. He can see how much thinner I’ve become, but he’s lost weight as well.
Perhaps later, after making the soup, in the benevolent glow of his moon, I’ll let him know that since a week ago, if I remember correctly, there’s no other home.
Author:
paulamcgWritten for:
daphnaeaBeta: My incredible
ishonn. Thank you so much again for all your… spring buds!Rating: PG
Prompt: The prompt I claimed was an Order mission (first war), but perhaps this fulfils a bit better the ambiguous request for ambiguity (bonus: some degree of resolution). Someone also receives an owl and received one off-stage.
Summary: December 1979 has defeated Remus to the point of taking up quarters at Sirius’s, whom he can’t expect back from an Order mission yet.
Almost Dark Again
When I wake up on the comfortable couch I’m sweating under the quilt I found in his closet. Perhaps I should have taken off some of my clothes, but at least the fever stopped rising while I was sleeping, and I slept better than ever since… I can’t remember since when. It’s got almost dark again.
He’d left the lights on in the tree, and I decided not to touch them or anything else I wouldn’t need to. Of course, he’s been impatient enough to decorate early and done it with perfect, expensive taste. In the gloom the twinkle of the stars on the branches is clear but subtle, nothing like the blinking of the garish multicoloured garlands adorning the cheap shops, those I hoped could hire me. Oh, a star on the top would be too conventional for him. Perhaps he’s charmed the moon to show the real one’s phases, and I’m not sure how funny or charming that is. At least it’s a waning crescent now. This should be the best part of the month.
I must have closed my eyes again for more than a moment, as now all I can see in the window besides black is the reflection of his stars. An unerring owl’s frantic tapping on the screen has drawn my attention to this picture straight from a dream I’m determined to forget immediately. If this is the beginning of another nightmare, my caricature of a life is getting a bit too repetitive.
After seeing that the letter is in his handwriting – and dated today, not something he’d prepared to be sent in case… I lean my forehead against the glass in relief. Still, I can’t savour the cheerful wishes, the playful questions, the vivid descriptions of any non-confidential details he’s been able to think of. Reassurances that he’s safe and sound. Promises to ask me for a visit as soon as he’s finally back from this prolonged mission. There’s the face of a ghost in front of me, surrounded by darkness. The letter was written to someone who could still feed himself and pay the rent of a room, with a little help from parents, who had not yet been…
He’ll be disappointed with my lack of spirit when he finally returns. At least he won’t have to ever invite me again. Perhaps I’m defeated enough to open his kitchen cupboards without permission, too. It can actually be clever to start preparing a bath first.
If only the water doesn’t end up left running and leaking over onto this luxurious rug. These days I keep forgetting what I’m doing.
Having found the tea, I’m going through his selection of tinned food, wondering if I should start with something gentle, like soup, when I hear the keys. It can’t be him now, but only his best friends also know his personal charms for sealing and unsealing the door. I rush out of the kitchen, not fumbling for my wand, so as to defend myself, any more urgently than I hurry to hide the signs that I’ve come to seek shelter and slept here.
Too slow, with the quilt still pressed against my chest, I watch how my Sirius almost falls through the doorway, then stays with his back against the wall beside it. He’s wearing only thin Muggle garments, no cloak. After the rest it has just enjoyed, my body’s soon quicker than his – or my mind. Without hesitation I’ve taken the few steps and wrapped my arms – and the quilt – around him before he’s properly registered my presence.
He leans on me, presses his cold face to my neck and inhales deeply through his nose. “Oh, God,” he says in a breath out, then draws another shuddering breath in, and continues, “Don’t wake me.”
Perhaps he thinks I’m holding him in a dream. At the end of his nightmare.
I won’t have the strength to hold him standing, or to carry him, if he collapses. Besides, smelling that he’s dirtier than me makes me remember that the hot water will soon flood the floor, so I guide him towards the bathroom.
Here the light switches on magically, as always when anyone enters, and now its yellow warmth brings him closer to his senses. He stares at me through the mirror, until I sit him on the toilet lid and reach to turn off the tap.
“You are here,” he says, first knitting his brows. “What are you doing here?” Now there’s joy in his eyes, while he’s still trembling and pulling the quilt tighter around himself.
I turn away again, looking for the soap. “Giving you a bath.” Then I remember that he’s freezing and I kneel to take off his drenched shoes.
“How did you know?” he asks in awe.
“I didn’t. I prepared it for myself. I mean… I could ask you the same. What are you doing here? In the letter you said you wouldn’t…”
“You got it? Great! I told James to keep kicking me awake so I could finish it on the train. You know, we weren’t in the condition to Apparate, and then I walked…”
This time I manage not to say anything about myself. “But why did you write that…?”
“To gain some time to shape up a bit. To surprise you.”
While peeling the damp clothes off, then my clothes – dryer but not much cleaner – I leave the talking for him. He’ll say that now I can shape him up. I don’t know about that, but I support him and step into the bath with him.
I’ve looked forward to submerging into the water. Without him I’d perhaps forget to keep my head up.
Until I got him back now, I hadn’t touched anyone after being summoned to see… something for the very last time. To see the ancient house, the bare apple trees. Not to take anything with me. Hardly a final memory of caressing their cold cheeks.
But now the bliss of this warmth turns into a womb, and here his body needs mine. I’ll agree to still live, and as fully as possible.
I rub the dirt off his arms; he traces my scars, even the one on my shoulder, and I hardly wince. He can see how much thinner I’ve become, but he’s lost weight as well.
Perhaps later, after making the soup, in the benevolent glow of his moon, I’ll let him know that since a week ago, if I remember correctly, there’s no other home.
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no subject
Date: 2008-05-02 01:35 am (UTC)"But now the bliss of this warmth turns into a womb, and here his body needs mine. I’ll agree to still live, and as fully as possible."
Absolutely a perfect line, in every way possible. I love how you command the emotion between them. I rarely read first person, but this - this story was worth it in every possible way.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-02 08:13 am (UTC)I’m thrilled you like this piece so much – particularly when the first person must have given you some reservations to start with. I now write all my short stories in the first person (and present tense), and I wonder if I could command the emotion or make the text flow beautifully without this technique.
It’s reassuring you find the line you quoted so perfect. I was afraid my Remus got a bit too melodramatic at that point. The phrase about a womb is perhaps better justified (and more natural as a spontaneous, genuine thought) in the context of my Remus’s whole story, as I’ve shown elsewhere how he learnt to regard the regaining of his human body after each transformation as some kind of a rebirth.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 10:09 pm (UTC)I love that Sirius thinks he's dreaming here - it shows just how glad he is to see Remus, and establishes the significance of physical touch in this fic.
Your descriptions are so vivid throughout, and your attention to detail is wonderful. I really like the image of Sirius tracing Remus's scars, and I also like the fact that you don't sexualise their bathing together.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 11:54 pm (UTC)Oh, you’ve made me realise that Sirius is, indeed, the first one to become aware of benefiting from physical touch here. My Remus is usually more eager for physical demonstration of affection than my Sirius (whereas I think the opposite is more common in fanon). Remus’s state here, however, makes it too hard for him to hope for a touch – no matter how much he needs it – or to first fully understand its value. First of all, of course, I’m glad that Sirius’s “Don’t wake me” says so much to you.
And I’m thrilled you actually like the lack of sexualising. I remember being happy to offer to the readers a least something as erotic as the pair naked in a bathtub, and I’ve assumed that readers want to continue and sexualise, when I close my stories with the first subtle touches. Now that I look at this text more carefully again, I notice that Remus sticks to focusing on their getting clean and fed – and continuing to breathe – after the mere ambiguous mention of living fully. And this must be appropriate and realistic in his situation. In turn, Sirius – who doesn’t know about Remus’s loss yet – probably finds pleasure in tracing the scars, perhaps ready to make the most of their intimacy, even though it’s the result of bathing together as a necessity.
Thank you so much also for praising my descriptions. Here I tried my best to insert the vivid details gradually enough – at moments when Remus could plausibly pay attention to them.
no subject
Date: 2010-02-19 08:45 pm (UTC)Sorry, I'm sleepy and inarticulate. This is a love confession to your Sirius :)
no subject
Date: 2010-02-19 09:20 pm (UTC)Oh, it warms my heart to hear that this story managed to be evocative in the sense you describe. And I’m thrilled you’re eager to meet my Sirius again. While in most of my fanfic he’s sadly absent (although someone’s said that his absence is almost like a presence), I’ve used Sirius’s pov a few times, but mainly in post-Azkaban fic.