boy named autumn
title: boy named autumn
author: dustywillow
pairing: remus lupin/caradoc dearborn
rating: PG-13, implies things.
disclaimer: I have no background information on caradoc dearborn. this is the way I picture him.
notes: summarizing the years between remus' first year and his early order years.
Caradoc reminded Remus of autumn.
It was because Remus first met him in autumn, barely shivering but warrant enough for a scarf around his neck. Of course, it was always nippy by the sea where Caradoc came from, so he stood in the courtyard, bare-necked, eyes searching across the landscape. They almost shouted, ‘come ask me what I’m looking for’ to Remus. It was so fascinating to him that day, how he could shove his hands in his jacket pockets and seem so smushed and shut up, difficult to approach or even notice, and Caradoc had his hands in his pockets too, but his shoulders were extended out like a grand tree and the sweetest, shyest songbirds would approach him without hesitance. Remus never did ask Caradoc what he was looking for, but he knew in an instant as his eyes flashed at Remus.
It was because his hair was orange, ever light like a pumpkin. Caradoc was always being mistaken for a Prewett, and Remus could tell Caradoc was never bitter about it because he shared a curious, familiar smile with Molly in the corridors. It was a different sort of orange to the untrained eye, not that Remus would admit his eye was rather trained. It didn’t spindle in a sort of barn red into the threads, it was light and airy and loomingly dark at the same time. He could swear it smelled like candy corn, but it was just as soft and smooth as chocolate. Even when it was windblown, which was most of the time, and remarkably straight, as natural as if Caradoc wished it. Somehow it made Remus blush, to see Caradoc’s bedhead, wondering how lovely it could be messy.
It was because of his voice, a hollow elegance to it like the wind in the emptying trees. The way he sung gheall le deatach as eorna éiri to his most loved song, somehow translatable in some unspoken language to Remus. Caradoc’s tongue wrapped around his brogue like it was natural, well it was natural, but as pretty as a mother’s voice to a baby. Caradoc breathed the words mo chroí, mo buachaill to Remus, a sly smile because he knew Remus couldn’t guess at the meaning. It stirred up something in his own chest, but Remus didn’t know what it meant until he translated the words, rolling them off his own fumbled and horrid British tongue. They could only be spoken by Caradoc: my heart, my boy.
It was because Halloween was meant for costumes, and Caradoc wore his well. The boys decided to run amuck the death-stricken night outside, stories of ghosts and goblins more authentic than the Muggle stories. Caradoc dressed as Fionn mac Cumhaill, the iconic Irish hero who Caradoc seemed to embody flawlessly. Remus hid himself as the terrible Dr. Jekyll, keeping his Hyde at bay. It must have been true, the story, when Fionn fought off the wolves of the forest for two weeks to reach his true love. It took a hell of a long time for Caradoc to fight off Remus’ own demons, finding him shriveled and cold in the forest while the other boys ate candy until their mouths were sugar saturated. Remus found his own sweet of Irish whiskey and caramel, dancing on Caradoc’s tongue.
It was because of his skin, ever smelling of autumn earth. It was as fragrant as softly mulling leaves, piles and piles of them, all different colors and patterns, as paint-spattered as his freckles. It always retained the last warmth of the sun, yet every breath drawn was crisp and cool. His fingers brushed across Remus like dry wheat, swaying from his cheek to his neck gracefully. His skin always tasted gritty and natural, of soy and soil and vanilla. By candlelight, heat emanated from both bodies, and Remus could swear the heap of blankets smelled of an autumn fire, the crook of Caradoc’s neck the warmest spot in the flames.
It was because Caradoc was dark and haunting. His fingers were like spiders on the fiddle, spinning out spooky and dark, lulling reels. He could creep into any crack, crevice, and cleft. Caradoc was master at finding the black spaces they could crawl into together, just to disappear for a moment. The golden stubble on his sharp jaw scraped at Remus, causing emanating and echoing moans from Remus and a return call of growls from Caradoc. His image was perpetually burned into the back of Remus’ eyelids when he closed them. Caradoc’s beautiful, nude shape could whisper into Remus’ room without a single solidity to assure Remus he was real, dripping in shadows from head to toe.
It was because Caradoc seemed to disappear as fast as autumn did. The cold hit Remus hard, longing for the weeks before when it was warm and lazy and too tragically happy. When the fiery red flames and leaves died, blew out and away, when frost crept into Remus’ life. The snow melted on his flaming cold face, dripping down like tears. Maybe they were, for all Remus could tell. Color drained out of the world, giving way to grey, empty branches and a barren land. Caradoc was gone, vanished, autumn was over, and the winter was a long season to bear. Remus was waiting again for autumn to return, so he could bury his face into a scarf, Caradoc’s scarf, and wake up to a bedheaded redhead, drink in the taste of a cinnamon mouth and hear once more how a smile can say stad anseo, mo ghrá, tá me féithuar, Remus not needing a translation to know the arm around his waist meant ‘stay’. Remus had too much treat and it was time for the trick, a nasty one leaving him to wonder, to cry why? why? where was his boy named autumn and why did he have to disappear?
author: dustywillow
pairing: remus lupin/caradoc dearborn
rating: PG-13, implies things.
disclaimer: I have no background information on caradoc dearborn. this is the way I picture him.
notes: summarizing the years between remus' first year and his early order years.
Caradoc reminded Remus of autumn.
It was because Remus first met him in autumn, barely shivering but warrant enough for a scarf around his neck. Of course, it was always nippy by the sea where Caradoc came from, so he stood in the courtyard, bare-necked, eyes searching across the landscape. They almost shouted, ‘come ask me what I’m looking for’ to Remus. It was so fascinating to him that day, how he could shove his hands in his jacket pockets and seem so smushed and shut up, difficult to approach or even notice, and Caradoc had his hands in his pockets too, but his shoulders were extended out like a grand tree and the sweetest, shyest songbirds would approach him without hesitance. Remus never did ask Caradoc what he was looking for, but he knew in an instant as his eyes flashed at Remus.
It was because his hair was orange, ever light like a pumpkin. Caradoc was always being mistaken for a Prewett, and Remus could tell Caradoc was never bitter about it because he shared a curious, familiar smile with Molly in the corridors. It was a different sort of orange to the untrained eye, not that Remus would admit his eye was rather trained. It didn’t spindle in a sort of barn red into the threads, it was light and airy and loomingly dark at the same time. He could swear it smelled like candy corn, but it was just as soft and smooth as chocolate. Even when it was windblown, which was most of the time, and remarkably straight, as natural as if Caradoc wished it. Somehow it made Remus blush, to see Caradoc’s bedhead, wondering how lovely it could be messy.
It was because of his voice, a hollow elegance to it like the wind in the emptying trees. The way he sung gheall le deatach as eorna éiri to his most loved song, somehow translatable in some unspoken language to Remus. Caradoc’s tongue wrapped around his brogue like it was natural, well it was natural, but as pretty as a mother’s voice to a baby. Caradoc breathed the words mo chroí, mo buachaill to Remus, a sly smile because he knew Remus couldn’t guess at the meaning. It stirred up something in his own chest, but Remus didn’t know what it meant until he translated the words, rolling them off his own fumbled and horrid British tongue. They could only be spoken by Caradoc: my heart, my boy.
It was because Halloween was meant for costumes, and Caradoc wore his well. The boys decided to run amuck the death-stricken night outside, stories of ghosts and goblins more authentic than the Muggle stories. Caradoc dressed as Fionn mac Cumhaill, the iconic Irish hero who Caradoc seemed to embody flawlessly. Remus hid himself as the terrible Dr. Jekyll, keeping his Hyde at bay. It must have been true, the story, when Fionn fought off the wolves of the forest for two weeks to reach his true love. It took a hell of a long time for Caradoc to fight off Remus’ own demons, finding him shriveled and cold in the forest while the other boys ate candy until their mouths were sugar saturated. Remus found his own sweet of Irish whiskey and caramel, dancing on Caradoc’s tongue.
It was because of his skin, ever smelling of autumn earth. It was as fragrant as softly mulling leaves, piles and piles of them, all different colors and patterns, as paint-spattered as his freckles. It always retained the last warmth of the sun, yet every breath drawn was crisp and cool. His fingers brushed across Remus like dry wheat, swaying from his cheek to his neck gracefully. His skin always tasted gritty and natural, of soy and soil and vanilla. By candlelight, heat emanated from both bodies, and Remus could swear the heap of blankets smelled of an autumn fire, the crook of Caradoc’s neck the warmest spot in the flames.
It was because Caradoc was dark and haunting. His fingers were like spiders on the fiddle, spinning out spooky and dark, lulling reels. He could creep into any crack, crevice, and cleft. Caradoc was master at finding the black spaces they could crawl into together, just to disappear for a moment. The golden stubble on his sharp jaw scraped at Remus, causing emanating and echoing moans from Remus and a return call of growls from Caradoc. His image was perpetually burned into the back of Remus’ eyelids when he closed them. Caradoc’s beautiful, nude shape could whisper into Remus’ room without a single solidity to assure Remus he was real, dripping in shadows from head to toe.
It was because Caradoc seemed to disappear as fast as autumn did. The cold hit Remus hard, longing for the weeks before when it was warm and lazy and too tragically happy. When the fiery red flames and leaves died, blew out and away, when frost crept into Remus’ life. The snow melted on his flaming cold face, dripping down like tears. Maybe they were, for all Remus could tell. Color drained out of the world, giving way to grey, empty branches and a barren land. Caradoc was gone, vanished, autumn was over, and the winter was a long season to bear. Remus was waiting again for autumn to return, so he could bury his face into a scarf, Caradoc’s scarf, and wake up to a bedheaded redhead, drink in the taste of a cinnamon mouth and hear once more how a smile can say stad anseo, mo ghrá, tá me féithuar, Remus not needing a translation to know the arm around his waist meant ‘stay’. Remus had too much treat and it was time for the trick, a nasty one leaving him to wonder, to cry why? why? where was his boy named autumn and why did he have to disappear?