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small_giftsTitle: These Conversations We Aren't Having
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gyzym
Written for:woldy
Rating: PG-13, for language.
Prompt: (I can't bear to mess with the formatting)
"Silence can be a plan
rigorously executed
the blueprint to a life.
It is a presence
it has a history, a form.
Do not confuse it
with any kind of absence.
-Adrienne Rich, from "Dream of a Common Language"
Summary: In which Sirius Black sleeps past four, there is much Indian take-away, and Remus Lupin scowls at moldy peas.
Any other notes, warnings, etc.: Seriously--while there is no fucking in this story, there is a lot of the word "fuck." Consumption (and destruction) of alcoholic beverages also occurs. Be warned.
There’s fresh snowfall outside the window, lending a brilliant glow to the small flat. “Sirius!” Remus calls, dropping his keys on the nearest flat surface (a pile of unpaid bills) and moving quickly to the kitchen. “Padfoot! Wake the fuck up! I’ve got take-away!”
A head that cannot possibly be Sirius’s—or human, come to that—pokes its way around the door. “Mrrr,” it growls.
“Take-away, Sirius,” Remus says again, pulling off his coat, shivering, and putting it back on. “And it’s your turn to pay the heat, by the by.”
“’S my flat,” the thing grumbles. Remus pulls a face at it.
“That doesn’t make it any less your month. And now there’s no heat in here.”
“Fucking freezing,” the thing agrees. It rubs something that might, under all that hair, be a face. “Take away?”
“It’s Indian,” Remus says, “and it’s 5:30. Honestly, Padfoot. Go get dressed.”
The thing growls again and ducks back into the bedroom. Remus sighs under his breath and begins to unpack containers.
--
Two weeks ago, Sirius kissed Remus.
He’d been home from work—it was the second day after the full moon, and he was too shaky to go out in public, but too antsy to sit still. Sirius was away doing…whatever it was he did with his time, and Remus, unable to take it anymore, had dug some chicken out of the freezer and made himself dinner.
Or tried to, anyway. He’d never been much of a cook. He was staring at the blackened lumps in the pan with resignation when he heard the key snick in the lock.
“Bloody hell,” Sirius had yelled, slamming the door behind him and smelling the smoke, “who torched my fucking flat?” He’d poked his face into the kitchen and, confronted with the image of Remus staring forlornly at the former chicken, had promptly burst out laughing.
“Moony, oh god, Moony,” he’d gasped, and before long Remus was laughing too, because it really was ridiculous—who couldn’t make chicken?—and soon neither of them could breath, leaning on the counter for support.
“There are peas,” Remus’d said, still giggling, when they’d calmed a bit, and that had set Sirius off again, and so Remus picked them up and proffered them, brandishing them wildly in laughter, and Sirius came to take the bowl from him and slammed their mouths together instead.
Some necessary gear in Remus’s mind snapped, and after a split second of hesitation he’d shoved himself forward, opening his mouth to the kiss. Sirius had made a small noise and Remus, forever weak in the face of temptation, had moaned in response, the sound echoing down Sirius’s throat. “Moony,” Sirius had choked out, pushing Remus into the counter, slipping two fingers under Remus’s shirt, and Remus—Remus had—
Remus had dropped the bowl.
It made a truly spectacular noise when it hit ground; they’d both jumped as the peas flew everywhere, as shards of glass scattered in all directions. “Fuck,” Remus’d hissed, and then Sirius had looked at him with panic wild in his eyes, and he’d left.
There hadn’t been anything dramatic about it, afterward; Sirius had come home the next morning and waved hello, and they just—hadn’t spoken of it. If things were a little awkward between them, it was only to be expected. In any case, there wasn’t time to worry about such things. There was a war on. Remus’s feelings, or lack thereof, were unlikely to make the morning papers.
And, after all, there was no reason to bring it up if Sirius wasn’t going to.
--
Five minutes and several crashes later, Sirius emerges from the bedroom, looking marginally more alive and quite a bit more human. “Wotcher, Moony,” he says, slipping behind Remus to grab a beer from the fridge, and, for a second, things are alright.
And then a voice that decidedly is not Sirius’ sounds, jarring and unwelcome. “I found my pants,” says the girl, a surprisingly small-chested brunette, as she emerges from the bedroom. “They were caught on the ceiling fan.” She sidles into the room and puts her arms around Sirius’s waist. “Can’t imagine how they got up there,” she says innocently, adding in what she clearly imagines to be a discreet undertone, “you animal.”
You’ve no idea, Remus thinks viciously. He grips the container harder and doesn’t look up.
“Didn’t find your shirt, I see,” Sirius says, and Remus sees him finger the cuff of his own white button down, draped loosely over her thin frame.
The interloper giggles. “Didn’t figure you’d mind,” she says, and she’s far too close, far too close to Siri—to the window. Which could open unexpectedly at any time, allowing her to fall through, and wouldn’t that be a bloody tragedy.
“Oi, Remus!” Sirius snaps, and Remus whips around, aware that this is probably not the first time his name has been called. “This is Melanie—“
“Melinda,” she snaps, put out, and Sirius winces at Remus over her head.
“Melinda,” he agrees. “And she’s, uhm—she’s—“
“She’s leaving,” Melinda says, her voice decidedly colder than it was a moment ago. She storms to the door, grabs her shoes—how had Remus not noticed the shoes?—and struts out.
“She’s not returning my shirt, is what she is,” Sirius grumbles. “I fucking liked that shirt.” He takes a long draught from the beer bottle and turns to Remus with a grimace, or maybe a grin. “Women, huh?”
“Sure, Sirius,” Remus says, trying not to let too much ice creep into his voice. Sirius tilts his head and stares at him, eyes narrowed, but says nothing. Eventually he sighs and takes a plate from the draining board, grabbing the curry from Remus without preamble.
“This from the place down the street?” Sirius asks, snatching a dirty fork from the sink and stabbing at his curry with a violence Remus hasn’t seen since their schooldays. Remus nods, and pours some of the curry onto his own plate.
They eat in silence for a few minutes and then, unable to help himself: “It was my shirt,” Remus says.
Sirius drops his fork and glares at him, his mouth half open. There is some curry caught between his bottom teeth and that’s really disgusting; Remus tries to focus on it and not his desire to slam Sirius to the floor and beat his head against it.
“Bloody hell, Moony,” Sirius snaps finally. He shoves back from the table and grabs his coat from the rack, his shoes from under the couch. “Finish the damn curry yourself.”
The door slams behind him, irritatingly loud. Remus sighs and stands, and a errant moldy pea from two weeks ago squelches unpleasantly under his socked foot. He scowls at it.
--
It’s a little past three in the morning when Sirius slams back into the flat, soaked with sleet and bristling. Remus, occupied with staring blindly at the diagram he’s been going over for hours, starts when he comes in.
“Should have known you’d be out here,” Sirius growls at him, shaking his head like the dog he is and dropping his sopping coat unceremoniously on the floor. “Doing your fucking deskwork again, like the bloody civilian you are.” He shakes his head violently, adding “Fuck,” for good measure. Remus groans and rubs his face with the back of his hand.
“It’s not that I wouldn’t like to be in army proper, Sirius, you know that,” he snaps, and then—maybe it’s the look in his eyes, or the water on his face—Remus hesitates, and softens. “Hard night?” he asks, and when Sirius makes a small but ferocious noise of assent, Remus picks up the nearly-full beer bottle at his feet and holds it out as a peace offering.
Sirius reaches him in two strides and rips the damn thing from his hands, tossing it back in one painfully large gulp. He makes that noise again, that ferocious pained sound that reminds Remus of the full moon, and his grip goes white-knuckled on the bottle. “Padfoot,” Remus starts, wary, but he’s too late; Sirius whirls around and hurls the bottle at the wall with all his weight.
The silence echoes in the wake of the shattering, and then Remus says “I didn’t actually think it was that bad,” because he has to say something. Sirius manipulates his mouth into an expression that is decidedly not a smile, and he barks out a short laugh that sounds more like a cough.
“Fucking awful,” he says, and his voice is—strange in his mouth, like he’s choking on his own words. “Fucking awful beer, Moony,” and then, before he can start punching the walls, Remus opens his mouth and says:
“What happened,” and Sirius looks at him, just looks at him, like the world is ending.
“What the fuck do you even care,” he chokes out and Remus opens his mouth to say something, something that isn’t stupid, but then Sirius smiles horribly and Remus’s potential for speech dies in his throat.
“I’ve been out killing people,” Sirius says. He doesn’t yell—this is a surprise—but his words are horribly flat, and it’s almost worse. “Three people. I killed them. They died. Tonight.”
Remus stares at him, because he can’t help it—he’s soaking wet and his face is all twisted in on itself and it’s, it’s terrifying, and then Sirius yells “Aren’t you going to SAY ANYTHING” and the volume is so comforting, so familiar, that Remus kind of grins.
And then he stops grinning, because of course that’s horribly inappropriate, and he opens his mouth and says “It’ll get easier,” which is not what he means to do at all.
Sirius’s face is a picture, but not one he’d want to take. “It’ll get easier?” he repeats, glaring at Remus with unbridled fury and advancing. “And what the fuck do you know about it, huh, sitting here with your bloody diagrams and not doing anything, nothing, you haven’t killed anybody—”
And Remus is on his feet because he’s so angry, and he knows better but he’s been so angry, for so long, and he snaps “Oh, because I don’t understand what it’s like to be something awful, like that’s fucking fair, Sirius, you know I want to be fighting out there, you fucking know they won’t let me and it’s because I might do something terrible, like I don’t bloody well get it—”
“This was never a part of you I wanted to fucking understand!” Sirius yells. Remus falls back onto the couch like he’s been punched and tries to hide it, but Sirius notices, and the anger drains from his face as quickly as it’d built.
“Fuck, Moony, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t, it’s fine—”
“It’s not, I shouldn’t have—”
“Padfoot!” Remus snaps, sharp in exhaustion. “Shut up. I know what you meant. It’s fine.”
Sirius growls and collapses on the couch next to him. “I’m so fucking tired, Moony,” he says, and Remus glances over at him, at his shaking hands and wild eyes, and suddenly doesn’t care about the fuss anymore. He’s so sick of it, and really it’s the easier thing to thread his fingers through Sirius’s soaking wet hair and kiss him, so he does.
“I killed people,” Sirius says, pulling away, “I killed people, I killed them, you shouldn’t be—I don’t –“
“I don’t know the right things to say to you,” Remus says faintly, kissing him again. This time Sirius leans into it, pushes his tongue out in typical exploratory fashion, and Remus makes a rather desperate and pathetic noise from somewhere deep in his chest.
And then Sirius pulls away again and says “What about,” and makes a frustrated sound. Remus looks at him and looks at him and could knock his stupid head against the wall.
“I don’t—this is so much easier than talking,” Remus answers, finally, “and we—can’t we not talk about it? I’ll still—we can—maybe we should just go to bed.” He’s resigned himself to defeat and is about to get up when:
“Moony,” Sirius says, his fists balled in Remus’s t-shirt, “Moony, don’t,” and Remus lunges forward, pushing Sirius to the floor by the mouth, because it’s a war. It’s a war, and he can’t fight, and Sirius has killed people, and their feelings are never going to make the morning paper or even a coherent sentence, but they’re something. They’re something, and everybody needs something to hold onto while the world falls apart, and besides Sirius’s hand are shaking and everywhere, and if Remus is careful they might still be here in the morning, bloodstained or not.
Author:
gyzymWritten for:
woldyRating: PG-13, for language.
Prompt: (I can't bear to mess with the formatting)
"Silence can be a plan
rigorously executed
the blueprint to a life.
It is a presence
it has a history, a form.
Do not confuse it
with any kind of absence.
-Adrienne Rich, from "Dream of a Common Language"
Summary: In which Sirius Black sleeps past four, there is much Indian take-away, and Remus Lupin scowls at moldy peas.
Any other notes, warnings, etc.: Seriously--while there is no fucking in this story, there is a lot of the word "fuck." Consumption (and destruction) of alcoholic beverages also occurs. Be warned.
There’s fresh snowfall outside the window, lending a brilliant glow to the small flat. “Sirius!” Remus calls, dropping his keys on the nearest flat surface (a pile of unpaid bills) and moving quickly to the kitchen. “Padfoot! Wake the fuck up! I’ve got take-away!”
A head that cannot possibly be Sirius’s—or human, come to that—pokes its way around the door. “Mrrr,” it growls.
“Take-away, Sirius,” Remus says again, pulling off his coat, shivering, and putting it back on. “And it’s your turn to pay the heat, by the by.”
“’S my flat,” the thing grumbles. Remus pulls a face at it.
“That doesn’t make it any less your month. And now there’s no heat in here.”
“Fucking freezing,” the thing agrees. It rubs something that might, under all that hair, be a face. “Take away?”
“It’s Indian,” Remus says, “and it’s 5:30. Honestly, Padfoot. Go get dressed.”
The thing growls again and ducks back into the bedroom. Remus sighs under his breath and begins to unpack containers.
--
Two weeks ago, Sirius kissed Remus.
He’d been home from work—it was the second day after the full moon, and he was too shaky to go out in public, but too antsy to sit still. Sirius was away doing…whatever it was he did with his time, and Remus, unable to take it anymore, had dug some chicken out of the freezer and made himself dinner.
Or tried to, anyway. He’d never been much of a cook. He was staring at the blackened lumps in the pan with resignation when he heard the key snick in the lock.
“Bloody hell,” Sirius had yelled, slamming the door behind him and smelling the smoke, “who torched my fucking flat?” He’d poked his face into the kitchen and, confronted with the image of Remus staring forlornly at the former chicken, had promptly burst out laughing.
“Moony, oh god, Moony,” he’d gasped, and before long Remus was laughing too, because it really was ridiculous—who couldn’t make chicken?—and soon neither of them could breath, leaning on the counter for support.
“There are peas,” Remus’d said, still giggling, when they’d calmed a bit, and that had set Sirius off again, and so Remus picked them up and proffered them, brandishing them wildly in laughter, and Sirius came to take the bowl from him and slammed their mouths together instead.
Some necessary gear in Remus’s mind snapped, and after a split second of hesitation he’d shoved himself forward, opening his mouth to the kiss. Sirius had made a small noise and Remus, forever weak in the face of temptation, had moaned in response, the sound echoing down Sirius’s throat. “Moony,” Sirius had choked out, pushing Remus into the counter, slipping two fingers under Remus’s shirt, and Remus—Remus had—
Remus had dropped the bowl.
It made a truly spectacular noise when it hit ground; they’d both jumped as the peas flew everywhere, as shards of glass scattered in all directions. “Fuck,” Remus’d hissed, and then Sirius had looked at him with panic wild in his eyes, and he’d left.
There hadn’t been anything dramatic about it, afterward; Sirius had come home the next morning and waved hello, and they just—hadn’t spoken of it. If things were a little awkward between them, it was only to be expected. In any case, there wasn’t time to worry about such things. There was a war on. Remus’s feelings, or lack thereof, were unlikely to make the morning papers.
And, after all, there was no reason to bring it up if Sirius wasn’t going to.
--
Five minutes and several crashes later, Sirius emerges from the bedroom, looking marginally more alive and quite a bit more human. “Wotcher, Moony,” he says, slipping behind Remus to grab a beer from the fridge, and, for a second, things are alright.
And then a voice that decidedly is not Sirius’ sounds, jarring and unwelcome. “I found my pants,” says the girl, a surprisingly small-chested brunette, as she emerges from the bedroom. “They were caught on the ceiling fan.” She sidles into the room and puts her arms around Sirius’s waist. “Can’t imagine how they got up there,” she says innocently, adding in what she clearly imagines to be a discreet undertone, “you animal.”
You’ve no idea, Remus thinks viciously. He grips the container harder and doesn’t look up.
“Didn’t find your shirt, I see,” Sirius says, and Remus sees him finger the cuff of his own white button down, draped loosely over her thin frame.
The interloper giggles. “Didn’t figure you’d mind,” she says, and she’s far too close, far too close to Siri—to the window. Which could open unexpectedly at any time, allowing her to fall through, and wouldn’t that be a bloody tragedy.
“Oi, Remus!” Sirius snaps, and Remus whips around, aware that this is probably not the first time his name has been called. “This is Melanie—“
“Melinda,” she snaps, put out, and Sirius winces at Remus over her head.
“Melinda,” he agrees. “And she’s, uhm—she’s—“
“She’s leaving,” Melinda says, her voice decidedly colder than it was a moment ago. She storms to the door, grabs her shoes—how had Remus not noticed the shoes?—and struts out.
“She’s not returning my shirt, is what she is,” Sirius grumbles. “I fucking liked that shirt.” He takes a long draught from the beer bottle and turns to Remus with a grimace, or maybe a grin. “Women, huh?”
“Sure, Sirius,” Remus says, trying not to let too much ice creep into his voice. Sirius tilts his head and stares at him, eyes narrowed, but says nothing. Eventually he sighs and takes a plate from the draining board, grabbing the curry from Remus without preamble.
“This from the place down the street?” Sirius asks, snatching a dirty fork from the sink and stabbing at his curry with a violence Remus hasn’t seen since their schooldays. Remus nods, and pours some of the curry onto his own plate.
They eat in silence for a few minutes and then, unable to help himself: “It was my shirt,” Remus says.
Sirius drops his fork and glares at him, his mouth half open. There is some curry caught between his bottom teeth and that’s really disgusting; Remus tries to focus on it and not his desire to slam Sirius to the floor and beat his head against it.
“Bloody hell, Moony,” Sirius snaps finally. He shoves back from the table and grabs his coat from the rack, his shoes from under the couch. “Finish the damn curry yourself.”
The door slams behind him, irritatingly loud. Remus sighs and stands, and a errant moldy pea from two weeks ago squelches unpleasantly under his socked foot. He scowls at it.
--
It’s a little past three in the morning when Sirius slams back into the flat, soaked with sleet and bristling. Remus, occupied with staring blindly at the diagram he’s been going over for hours, starts when he comes in.
“Should have known you’d be out here,” Sirius growls at him, shaking his head like the dog he is and dropping his sopping coat unceremoniously on the floor. “Doing your fucking deskwork again, like the bloody civilian you are.” He shakes his head violently, adding “Fuck,” for good measure. Remus groans and rubs his face with the back of his hand.
“It’s not that I wouldn’t like to be in army proper, Sirius, you know that,” he snaps, and then—maybe it’s the look in his eyes, or the water on his face—Remus hesitates, and softens. “Hard night?” he asks, and when Sirius makes a small but ferocious noise of assent, Remus picks up the nearly-full beer bottle at his feet and holds it out as a peace offering.
Sirius reaches him in two strides and rips the damn thing from his hands, tossing it back in one painfully large gulp. He makes that noise again, that ferocious pained sound that reminds Remus of the full moon, and his grip goes white-knuckled on the bottle. “Padfoot,” Remus starts, wary, but he’s too late; Sirius whirls around and hurls the bottle at the wall with all his weight.
The silence echoes in the wake of the shattering, and then Remus says “I didn’t actually think it was that bad,” because he has to say something. Sirius manipulates his mouth into an expression that is decidedly not a smile, and he barks out a short laugh that sounds more like a cough.
“Fucking awful,” he says, and his voice is—strange in his mouth, like he’s choking on his own words. “Fucking awful beer, Moony,” and then, before he can start punching the walls, Remus opens his mouth and says:
“What happened,” and Sirius looks at him, just looks at him, like the world is ending.
“What the fuck do you even care,” he chokes out and Remus opens his mouth to say something, something that isn’t stupid, but then Sirius smiles horribly and Remus’s potential for speech dies in his throat.
“I’ve been out killing people,” Sirius says. He doesn’t yell—this is a surprise—but his words are horribly flat, and it’s almost worse. “Three people. I killed them. They died. Tonight.”
Remus stares at him, because he can’t help it—he’s soaking wet and his face is all twisted in on itself and it’s, it’s terrifying, and then Sirius yells “Aren’t you going to SAY ANYTHING” and the volume is so comforting, so familiar, that Remus kind of grins.
And then he stops grinning, because of course that’s horribly inappropriate, and he opens his mouth and says “It’ll get easier,” which is not what he means to do at all.
Sirius’s face is a picture, but not one he’d want to take. “It’ll get easier?” he repeats, glaring at Remus with unbridled fury and advancing. “And what the fuck do you know about it, huh, sitting here with your bloody diagrams and not doing anything, nothing, you haven’t killed anybody—”
And Remus is on his feet because he’s so angry, and he knows better but he’s been so angry, for so long, and he snaps “Oh, because I don’t understand what it’s like to be something awful, like that’s fucking fair, Sirius, you know I want to be fighting out there, you fucking know they won’t let me and it’s because I might do something terrible, like I don’t bloody well get it—”
“This was never a part of you I wanted to fucking understand!” Sirius yells. Remus falls back onto the couch like he’s been punched and tries to hide it, but Sirius notices, and the anger drains from his face as quickly as it’d built.
“Fuck, Moony, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t, it’s fine—”
“It’s not, I shouldn’t have—”
“Padfoot!” Remus snaps, sharp in exhaustion. “Shut up. I know what you meant. It’s fine.”
Sirius growls and collapses on the couch next to him. “I’m so fucking tired, Moony,” he says, and Remus glances over at him, at his shaking hands and wild eyes, and suddenly doesn’t care about the fuss anymore. He’s so sick of it, and really it’s the easier thing to thread his fingers through Sirius’s soaking wet hair and kiss him, so he does.
“I killed people,” Sirius says, pulling away, “I killed people, I killed them, you shouldn’t be—I don’t –“
“I don’t know the right things to say to you,” Remus says faintly, kissing him again. This time Sirius leans into it, pushes his tongue out in typical exploratory fashion, and Remus makes a rather desperate and pathetic noise from somewhere deep in his chest.
And then Sirius pulls away again and says “What about,” and makes a frustrated sound. Remus looks at him and looks at him and could knock his stupid head against the wall.
“I don’t—this is so much easier than talking,” Remus answers, finally, “and we—can’t we not talk about it? I’ll still—we can—maybe we should just go to bed.” He’s resigned himself to defeat and is about to get up when:
“Moony,” Sirius says, his fists balled in Remus’s t-shirt, “Moony, don’t,” and Remus lunges forward, pushing Sirius to the floor by the mouth, because it’s a war. It’s a war, and he can’t fight, and Sirius has killed people, and their feelings are never going to make the morning paper or even a coherent sentence, but they’re something. They’re something, and everybody needs something to hold onto while the world falls apart, and besides Sirius’s hand are shaking and everywhere, and if Remus is careful they might still be here in the morning, bloodstained or not.
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no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 03:59 pm (UTC)far too close to Siri—to the window. Which could open unexpectedly at any time, allowing her to fall through, and wouldn’t that be a bloody tragedy.
love it. lots of emotions. it's very real.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 04:00 pm (UTC)I need some time to recover now ahhhhh. Brilliantly written, painful fic.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 04:14 pm (UTC)Siriusly, though, you had a marvelous blend of humor and tension and I enjoyed this very, very much!
Ohioans must be great writers!!!
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Date: 2008-12-05 04:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 04:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 05:06 pm (UTC)The last paragraph is fucking striking: and their feelings are never going to make the morning paper or even a coherent sentence, but they're something. That is such a wonderful line. It manages to convey everything they are feeling and still feel like their feelings are bursting out in little tufts around the edges.
I absolutely love the angst and the general anger of war and especially Sirius' reaction to everything.
Really well done, my favorite piece so far!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 05:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 05:49 pm (UTC)So raw and real.
I love the desperation, the anger, and the way they just...fit without fitting. They're so imperfectly perfect for each other.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 06:10 pm (UTC)You really got the frustration of both of the boys across, and angst was absolutely electric!
The hints of humour were a nice touch...I particularly liked the window line quoted by the first commenter.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 06:36 pm (UTC)But then there was the scene when Sirius returns! The drama, my heart aching, bleeding for them, the kind of fight that you can only have with someone you know so well. This is fantastic writing. I don't believe I've ever read anything more perfect than that last paragraph.
Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 07:15 pm (UTC)I loved Remus dropping the bowl and then the peas, especially the one under Remus' sock - a subtle reminder of that kiss they're not talking about, which might be why he didn't clean them up properly.
& the girl is fabulous, what concise, funny, painful dialogue & Remus delightful reflection that Which could open unexpectedly at any time, allowing her to fall through, and wouldn’t that be a bloody tragedy. Really, this is so well done. I love, love, love it & it's a wonderful use of the prompt! Thank you! *bounces up and down with glee*
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 07:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 07:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 09:53 pm (UTC)Angst. Oh, the bloody unglorious realities of war.
I, too, seem to have lost the ability for complete sentences, so I'll just say, Lovely. Simply lovely.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-06 01:22 am (UTC)This was brilliant. I just love that line. Your Sirius is perfect, and that's exactly how I see him. He has way too much emotion and tries to let it all out at once, shouting and throwing bottles and then realizing what he's doing four seconds later. I love that they punctuate everything with "fuck."
Angsty and lovely and great.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-06 01:41 am (UTC)And....
woaaaaaaaah, that was intense and full of ngghhh and emotion and rawness. I really liked it. Really. Siriusly.
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Date: 2008-12-06 04:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-06 04:43 am (UTC)Spotted a wee typo: and soon neither of them could breath
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Date: 2008-12-06 05:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-06 06:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-06 11:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-06 04:46 pm (UTC)I also just loved the last paragraph, how their relationship and its confusions finally comes together completely with the war, and it doesn't matter if "it's a war" means "outside us there is a war and we hate it and we have to take out these feelings on each other" or "it's a war between us so we must be violent." And the phrases "their feelings aren't going to make the morning paper" (the new bent it has since it was used earlier) and "Sirius's hands are shaking and everywhere"--love.
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Date: 2008-12-06 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-07 12:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-07 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-07 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-22 07:11 pm (UTC)I think it's easy to relate to as well. The way that people act, when things are horribly, irreversibly wrong and everything is tense, I think it's sort of universal.
Great job. And sorry to respond so late, I got caught up in exams!
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Date: 2009-02-13 04:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-13 07:18 pm (UTC)This is fantastic.
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Date: 2009-02-13 09:12 pm (UTC)