nekare

I like the idea of this quite a bit, and the whole thing turned out okay, if anything. And now I'd really, really want to get my fortune told. XD (next fic should be jadis31 thank you fic, because I really have to stop stalling :3)

Title: Minor Arcana
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 989
Author Notes:This is a pretty lose interpretation of tellmeakiss's first prompt, Swords. I know nothing about Tarot but for what I researched for this, and the meaning of each card is on parenthesis.

Day: 1

Sirius will always be Cups on Remus’ mind, aristocracy trailing after him like a thick scent that tricks his senses, calls him close, pushes him farther. Impulsive, sensorial, brash. Remus watches, and realizes just how different they really are. Opposites, really.

Remus is Swords.

And Swords are all about Opposites.

ii.
King of Swords.

(Analytical, intellectual, authoritative). Their Divination Professor once tells Remus that the King is to be his representative card in the Tarot. Remus protests, saying that surely that was too of an important card to be him, and she had stared at him with a frown, thin mouth pressed together. “The knight is marked by aggressiveness and logical thinking, wouldn’t that be more fitting?” he says, and Professor Kettley laughs with her ninety years sounding on her throat.

“You underestimate yourself boy, but the cards never lie.” The woman gives him what clearly is intended to be an enigmatic smile, and leaves him to his own devices. Remus decides he’ll take the best of both, and tries forgetting about it.

Three years later, after the full moon, he thinks he’d definitely rather like being the King, if the Knight is to be as savage as he had been last night. He apologizes, still eying Sirius’ teeth marks on his neck, bruises, not cuts, heavy on his conscience nevertheless; and Sirius touches them with eyes far too bright in the dim-lighted room with a smile that takes his breath away and never gives it back.

(He tries shaking the pleasure in his mind that is screaming from joy of having marked him, but he fails utterly when he dreams about it every single night, sweaty and panting; and on the next moon it happens again, to both is elation and chagrin.)

iii.
Eight of Swords.

(Restriction, fear). Sirius starts touching the almost dissolved bruises as a kind of a nervous tic, and Remus suddenly takes to have his baths freezing cold. Something’s changed between them, a sudden spark passed along by too sharp wolf-teeth, or so it seems. Sirius stares right into his eyes every time pale fingers linger on the now barely pink marks, and they stay like that, for a few seconds, staring and doing nothing else, lips open and breath slightly out of control.

Remus realizes it’s foreplay after two weeks, and then he misses sleep for two nights.

iv.
Ace of Swords.

(Beginnings). Sirius presses Remus against the fridge in a bright April morning, and Remus drops the plastic glass filled with juice he’d been holding with shaky fingers, orange color (the complement of his own coloring) soaking their toes and spreading along the kitchen unnoticed. Both of them swallow, trying (and failing) to breathe while getting lost in the closeness, the warmth, the fear of fucking everything up with no point of return, the longing Remus never thought he’d one day see in Sirius’ eyes.

They stay like that for a minute, two, and when Sirius starts biting his lower lip (temptation made flesh) with hesitance, Remus makes the decision for him.

He kisses him, too nervous to even try to be gentle, and when Sirius moans against his lips his knees sag with relief, and then there’s Sirius’ hands on his hair, on his neck, and he stops thinking at all. He drowns willingly into the addictive heat of the other man’s mouth, pressing close, not close enough, and Sirius bites him on the neck and he growls, vision going the same color as his boiling blood.

First kiss, smelling like artificial orange in his mind.

v.
Two of Swords.

(Avoidance, choices). Remus starts working odd hours, staying away from the flat with lame excuses that sound pathetic even to his own ears, a bubble of regret caught on his throat since the moment he had untangled from Sirius’ embrace, claiming insanity, delirium, impossibility; his senses cursing at his brain.

Sirius stares at him throughout dinner at Peter’s place, and he can almost feel his fingers being burnt from the intensity. He wants, that he knows, but he can’t allow himself to lose everything he’s built over the years.

(It sounds hypocritical to him too, but he tries not to linger on that. He fails, usually.)

vi.
Three of Swords.

(Broken heart, loneliness). He plays with children in the park, sometimes, and glares at couples strolling hand in hand for the unforgivable sin of daring to parade their love in front of him. Life’s settled back to routine with Sirius, and he no longer winces every time he catches his eye. He tears the grass to uncountable pieces, and imagines it’s his treacherous desire for Sirius that just refuses to die as it should.

He can hear Sirius dreaming in the bedroom next to him that night, and when Sirius sighs his name in a tone so close to despair he wants to sink on the mattress and become inexistent for a second. Maybe he wouldn’t have to feel that way (lies, he thinks, as he jerks off in the same rhythm as Sirius next door).

The next day, he imagines the grass on his hands to be his doubts, and he blows the away, tiny flecks of vibrant green flying away with the help of the wind.

vii.
Ace of Cups .

(Happiness, new love). Remus drags Sirius out of the Potters’ house that night, feeling the tense wrist under his fingers, and he knows Sirius is so angry that he’s actually shivering. “What do you--” starts saying Sirius, and Remus swallows the words with his mouth, cupping Sirius’ face with his hands, eyes closed as if not to see Sirius’ reaction.

Then there are Sirius’ fingertips on his stomach, Sirius’ lips moving with his, and he finally allows himself to release the breath he’s been holding since what it seems like forever.

(He exhales Sirius’ name into the kiss, and he can feel the other man smile).