nekare

Well aren't I the productive one? I actually like this loads for some strange reason. :) I've a thing for Smitten!Sirius, and I should really write him more often.

Title: Shadows
Rating: PG
Word Count: 563
Summary: Playing with shadows on the ceiling, flirting in the darkness.
Author Notes: Written for wellymuck's second prompt. Un-betaed.

Day: | 1 | 2 |

(but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover


thou answerest

them only with

spring)

- e. e. cummings

The night has fallen, and Remus’ wand is the only source of light in the flat, caught between two cushions on the ground, a bright circle of light in the middle of the ceiling as the first rain of the season echoes from the window.

Remus, sitting with his legs crossed just by his wand, moves his long fingers with his eyes looking up, and the shadows flickering on the ceiling become a duck become a dog become a fable of everything that’s wrong with what Sirius wants (he can almost imagine the dog with a companion, and he bites his lip). Sirius stares at him from the ornament-less couch, dark hair falling over his eyes as he wishes the fingers would create stories over his own skin, to tattoo one plus one equals two on his chest (or on his shoulder?). The dog is eaten by a rabbit, and Sirius rolls his eyes.

One arm stretched out, Sirius makes rude gestures that imprint themselves onto the white ceiling, looking dark and magnified, and Remus swats his hand away while laughing, saying he has no right to defile such an innocent game (and little does he know he wants to defile someone else), and Sirius laughs too, with the vodka he had earlier making his lips shine. “You git,” says Remus, shaking his head. “At least leave some space for me.”

He pushes Sirius on the chest, corners him to the end of the couch with the strength he seldom shows and always contains, and Sirius’ eyes widen as Remus lifts himself up to the couch, laying on his back and taking most of the space as Sirius is pressed tight on his side against the back of the couch, Remus’ throat on his direct line of vision. “Maybe we could have your star painted on the ceiling, Padfoot. Or would that be too tacky?”

“Definitely. We could write ‘Fuck’ in big black letters, though. Would you like that?” Breathe, Sirius tells himself, breathe and this damn torture in closeness will be over soon.

“Nah, it’s been used before.” Remus turns to him, deep shadows over his cheekbones, looking for all intents like the Wolf that has just eaten little Red’s grandma. “I could write ‘Love You’, but I’m sure you won’t like the romanticism.”

Sirius is quite the bright boy, yes, but he’s drank more than half a bottle of vodka (the other part is flowing in Moony’s bloodstream), and his brain just isn’t up for the ride. “What?”

Remus laughs, eyes becoming slits, and gets closer until they’re nose to nose (touching too much and not nearly much enough), presses him to the back of the couch and throws a careless leg on top of Sirius’; and then he just smiles as Sirius’ heart goes too fast for his ribcage to manage, for his thin t-shirt to hold back. He kisses Sirius, sudden and fast and angled, sloppy from the alcohol they both taste like. He pulls apart just a second away of a moan on Sirius’ part, and lifts himself with his elbows, his body stepping on the way of the light and creating a Moony-(heart)shaped figure on the ceiling, head cocked to the side and staring at Sirius.

“Whatever was that?” A breathless voice.

“Spring,” says Remus with a shrug, the corners of his mouth tilted up.

Sirius smiles.