fic: Perhaps
Wrote this on a train a billion years ago.
Title: Perhaps
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 512
Disclaimer: Not my boys
Summary: A goodbye. Post-Azkaban angst.
Every goodbye is like every other goodbye. It seems that they are built from goodbyes, now, but that doesn't make any easier to deal with. The pain is not quite a sharp as it once was; it doesn't sting - and hey, that's something, at least. But they've got goodbye written on their bones now, the ink soaked right through to the marrow. Sirius has got a 'Soon, then?' in his veins, and Remus has a 'Perhaps' in his gut.
There's been a sighting, apparently, of Sirius in an area not too far from here. There's not a chance in hell it's real - Sirius hasn't left this house in months - but, as Dumbledore insists on telling them, they can't take any chances. If the Ministry don't come then the Death Eaters might, and it's time for Sirius to go.
"Go where?" Remus asks, his knuckles on the kitchen worktop a little whiter than usual.
Sirius shrugs, his face stoney cold as he shoves shirts and socks into a tattered black rucksack. "Somewhere warm," he mutters, and makes a half-hearted stab at bitter humour with - "Get out of this igloo you call home."
The tiniest of smiles tugs at Remus' mouth as he asks Sirius what kind of man is he, not being able to stand a little ice. It's the sort of thing that, once upon a time, Sirius would have quirked an eyebrow at and declared that he was the mightiest of men, thank you very much. But once upon a time was a very long time ago, now, and once upon a time Sirius wouldn't have complained about the cold, because once upon a time Remus could afford proper heating. Once upon a time Sirius might not have even felt the cold - but now the cold is all he feels.
When Sirius doesn't reply, Remus swallows hard the lump in his throat, and nods.
They're stood on the rooftop of Remus' shabby apartment block, and London is predictably sprawled out before them. The bitter December wind makes whips out of Sirius' hair, and sends them lashing against his cheek. Remus is stood shivering, hugging his thin and threadbare sweater tight around his thin and threadbare bones. "You'll be alright?" he asks, tentatively.
Sirius nods. "'Course," he murmurs, and swings his leg over the ancient broomstick that he's borrowed from Mundungus Fletcher. It immediately attempts to throw it off, and in a manner that is sort of sickly comical, Sirius wrestles with it for a moment. "So long as I survive this fucking thing."
Remus smiles. He looks at Sirius carefully, and Sirius looks back (which is a rare enough feat in itself, these days). Remus is still, so Sirius leans in and -- hesistantly, as if it's not something they've done a thousand times over -- kisses the side of his mouth. It doesn't last, because these days, what does?
"Soon, then?" Remus asks, a dull ache thudding somewhere in his ribs.
Sirius looks at him with lingering eyes. "Perhaps."
Title: Perhaps
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 512
Disclaimer: Not my boys
Summary: A goodbye. Post-Azkaban angst.
Every goodbye is like every other goodbye. It seems that they are built from goodbyes, now, but that doesn't make any easier to deal with. The pain is not quite a sharp as it once was; it doesn't sting - and hey, that's something, at least. But they've got goodbye written on their bones now, the ink soaked right through to the marrow. Sirius has got a 'Soon, then?' in his veins, and Remus has a 'Perhaps' in his gut.
There's been a sighting, apparently, of Sirius in an area not too far from here. There's not a chance in hell it's real - Sirius hasn't left this house in months - but, as Dumbledore insists on telling them, they can't take any chances. If the Ministry don't come then the Death Eaters might, and it's time for Sirius to go.
"Go where?" Remus asks, his knuckles on the kitchen worktop a little whiter than usual.
Sirius shrugs, his face stoney cold as he shoves shirts and socks into a tattered black rucksack. "Somewhere warm," he mutters, and makes a half-hearted stab at bitter humour with - "Get out of this igloo you call home."
The tiniest of smiles tugs at Remus' mouth as he asks Sirius what kind of man is he, not being able to stand a little ice. It's the sort of thing that, once upon a time, Sirius would have quirked an eyebrow at and declared that he was the mightiest of men, thank you very much. But once upon a time was a very long time ago, now, and once upon a time Sirius wouldn't have complained about the cold, because once upon a time Remus could afford proper heating. Once upon a time Sirius might not have even felt the cold - but now the cold is all he feels.
When Sirius doesn't reply, Remus swallows hard the lump in his throat, and nods.
They're stood on the rooftop of Remus' shabby apartment block, and London is predictably sprawled out before them. The bitter December wind makes whips out of Sirius' hair, and sends them lashing against his cheek. Remus is stood shivering, hugging his thin and threadbare sweater tight around his thin and threadbare bones. "You'll be alright?" he asks, tentatively.
Sirius nods. "'Course," he murmurs, and swings his leg over the ancient broomstick that he's borrowed from Mundungus Fletcher. It immediately attempts to throw it off, and in a manner that is sort of sickly comical, Sirius wrestles with it for a moment. "So long as I survive this fucking thing."
Remus smiles. He looks at Sirius carefully, and Sirius looks back (which is a rare enough feat in itself, these days). Remus is still, so Sirius leans in and -- hesistantly, as if it's not something they've done a thousand times over -- kisses the side of his mouth. It doesn't last, because these days, what does?
"Soon, then?" Remus asks, a dull ache thudding somewhere in his ribs.
Sirius looks at him with lingering eyes. "Perhaps."