orange_crushed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
orange_crushed) wrote2006-12-27 03:42 pm
orange_crushed) wrote2006-12-27 03:42 pm
FIC: Innocence, PG (R/S)
Innocence, rated PG for suggestion. This is my one concession to holiday fic.... Remus and Sirius, in the snow, are too fabulous to be ignored. Takes place during PoA.
But one day when the snow falls around the windowsill like gentle handprints, feeling their crystalline palms against the tower glass, touching, exploring every line of tree and school and eyelash; he unties the ribbons and slits the yellowing tape.
He finds it in folds of socks and undershirts; swaddled in the manger of a dresser drawer, not holy, not even loved.
It weighs less than his heart. More than his fingers, which tremble, and he drops it. He had expected to find, and has found thus far, only trash and leftovers. Wrapped in red and green paper, with purple and gold ribbons and the insipid plastic head of a jolly snowman; it jingles at him from the bedroom floor. It has all the singular charm and bad taste of the man who tied the knots. Remus stares at it. He doesn't know, can't understand. Sirius has been in Azkaban since before the first snow fell.
And here, in his rubbish, is a gift.
It spends twelve years at the bottom of a shoebox in the dark.
The paper molders and dries; the plastic snowman's orange nose is rubbed down to white, and his rolling eyes chip off. The ribbons flatten and lose their sheen. Remus feels the process working within and without him has been much the same.
But one day when the snow falls around the windowsill like gentle handprints, feeling their crystalline palms against the tower glass, touching, exploring every line of tree and school and eyelash; he unties the ribbons and slits the yellowing tape. What unfolds in his hands is a scarf. It is brown, the softest shade, the brown of clay riverbanks and old pennies. The color of Remus's eyes. He holds it up against the firelight and an envelope slips from the creases.
Dear Remus, the plain card says. It's not just a scarf, you berk.
He wraps it around his neck.
When he opens his eyes, it is ninteen-seventy-eight. He knows this because he remembers the day, down to the minute, to the second, to the heartbeat that fluttered beneath Sirius's outstretched hand.
"Catch me," he says, and lights up the rise into the woods, feet flying, snow kicked up only to scatter against the wind. Remus can feel the sensation of the cold but not the sting, and in his mind he's carried through the fading pine trees, under the delicate arches of antique elm and oak, knobbled twig and branch showing like bone against the winter light. There's no sound but the rushing in his ears, the muffled thumps of booted feet, and Sirius's laughter.
He is caught. "Ruffian !" Sirius calls out, and bearhugs him, knocking them both into a bank of snow. They stay like that, warm and solid, snow against their backs, for a long minute. Sirius watches his face, smiles at him, rubs his nose into the fringe of hair escaping Remus's hat. Remus watches this, desperate, outside time, feeling at once the heat of the fire in the room and the chill of the air on his bare neck, fifteen years ago.
Sirius bends his mouth over Remus's, touches his lips, warms them with a breath, kisses him, loves him. The feeling has lasted this long, tucked inside paper and string.
The memory fades.
The office returns; books and parchments scattered at his elbow, a stout Hogwarts fire before his feet, and a cup of tea forgotten. The scarf sits firmly and comfortably at his throat, run out of charmed visions for the moment. He glances back down at the card in his hands, and turns it over.
Guaranteed to last forever, it says.
And at last, he knows it will.
But one day when the snow falls around the windowsill like gentle handprints, feeling their crystalline palms against the tower glass, touching, exploring every line of tree and school and eyelash; he unties the ribbons and slits the yellowing tape.
He finds it in folds of socks and undershirts; swaddled in the manger of a dresser drawer, not holy, not even loved.
It weighs less than his heart. More than his fingers, which tremble, and he drops it. He had expected to find, and has found thus far, only trash and leftovers. Wrapped in red and green paper, with purple and gold ribbons and the insipid plastic head of a jolly snowman; it jingles at him from the bedroom floor. It has all the singular charm and bad taste of the man who tied the knots. Remus stares at it. He doesn't know, can't understand. Sirius has been in Azkaban since before the first snow fell.
And here, in his rubbish, is a gift.
It spends twelve years at the bottom of a shoebox in the dark.
The paper molders and dries; the plastic snowman's orange nose is rubbed down to white, and his rolling eyes chip off. The ribbons flatten and lose their sheen. Remus feels the process working within and without him has been much the same.
But one day when the snow falls around the windowsill like gentle handprints, feeling their crystalline palms against the tower glass, touching, exploring every line of tree and school and eyelash; he unties the ribbons and slits the yellowing tape. What unfolds in his hands is a scarf. It is brown, the softest shade, the brown of clay riverbanks and old pennies. The color of Remus's eyes. He holds it up against the firelight and an envelope slips from the creases.
Dear Remus, the plain card says. It's not just a scarf, you berk.
He wraps it around his neck.
When he opens his eyes, it is ninteen-seventy-eight. He knows this because he remembers the day, down to the minute, to the second, to the heartbeat that fluttered beneath Sirius's outstretched hand.
"Catch me," he says, and lights up the rise into the woods, feet flying, snow kicked up only to scatter against the wind. Remus can feel the sensation of the cold but not the sting, and in his mind he's carried through the fading pine trees, under the delicate arches of antique elm and oak, knobbled twig and branch showing like bone against the winter light. There's no sound but the rushing in his ears, the muffled thumps of booted feet, and Sirius's laughter.
He is caught. "Ruffian !" Sirius calls out, and bearhugs him, knocking them both into a bank of snow. They stay like that, warm and solid, snow against their backs, for a long minute. Sirius watches his face, smiles at him, rubs his nose into the fringe of hair escaping Remus's hat. Remus watches this, desperate, outside time, feeling at once the heat of the fire in the room and the chill of the air on his bare neck, fifteen years ago.
Sirius bends his mouth over Remus's, touches his lips, warms them with a breath, kisses him, loves him. The feeling has lasted this long, tucked inside paper and string.
The memory fades.
The office returns; books and parchments scattered at his elbow, a stout Hogwarts fire before his feet, and a cup of tea forgotten. The scarf sits firmly and comfortably at his throat, run out of charmed visions for the moment. He glances back down at the card in his hands, and turns it over.
Guaranteed to last forever, it says.
And at last, he knows it will.
no subject