Fic: In My Sky at Twilight
Title: In My Sky at Twilight
Author: snow_blossoms
Characters and pairings: Remus/Sirius (sort of) and Remus/Tonks (if you squint)
Rating and warnings, if any: PG
Prompt, if any: Remus grieving Sirius by cookiedough
Summary: Remus dealing with the aftermath of Sirius' death. Title from Pablo Neruda's poem of the same name.
In My Sky at Twilight
Grief comes in stages.
Like falling in love. With your best friend. Turned traitor. Turned not traitor. Turned lover. Turned - dead.
It’s been three weeks, two days and seventeen hours and it stills hurt like a hot knife against the inside of his wrist.
These days Tonks wanders in and out his life like a traveling salesman. Sometimes they catch matinee shows at the muggle cinema. They sit in the dark and laugh and cry at all the right moments and consider themselves great successes. Afterwards, the surprise sunlight of the day burns their eyes.
She never talks about him. Which is probably for the best because she is young and vibrant and has the rest of her life ahead of her and he is old and bookish and wintered and bruised and half alive, at best.
But life goes on. He goes on.
He eats, he sleeps, he takes cold showers and dresses meticulously. He writes letters he cannot send. He does not cry.
Every day he says the words. Like a prayer, like a song, like a tribal chant, until it becomes foreign and heavy on his tongue. Sirius. And come back.
He keeps his grief clutched tightly to his chest like a hard-won prize while those around him, one by one, stop saying his name.
Author: snow_blossoms
Characters and pairings: Remus/Sirius (sort of) and Remus/Tonks (if you squint)
Rating and warnings, if any: PG
Prompt, if any: Remus grieving Sirius by cookiedough
Summary: Remus dealing with the aftermath of Sirius' death. Title from Pablo Neruda's poem of the same name.
In My Sky at Twilight
Grief comes in stages.
Like falling in love. With your best friend. Turned traitor. Turned not traitor. Turned lover. Turned - dead.
It’s been three weeks, two days and seventeen hours and it stills hurt like a hot knife against the inside of his wrist.
These days Tonks wanders in and out his life like a traveling salesman. Sometimes they catch matinee shows at the muggle cinema. They sit in the dark and laugh and cry at all the right moments and consider themselves great successes. Afterwards, the surprise sunlight of the day burns their eyes.
She never talks about him. Which is probably for the best because she is young and vibrant and has the rest of her life ahead of her and he is old and bookish and wintered and bruised and half alive, at best.
But life goes on. He goes on.
He eats, he sleeps, he takes cold showers and dresses meticulously. He writes letters he cannot send. He does not cry.
Every day he says the words. Like a prayer, like a song, like a tribal chant, until it becomes foreign and heavy on his tongue. Sirius. And come back.
He keeps his grief clutched tightly to his chest like a hard-won prize while those around him, one by one, stop saying his name.