statelines: fic: "rise like lions (you sons of cain)" [PG 13, remus/sirius]
title: rise like lions (you sons of cain)
author: beans! (statelines)
pairing: remus/sirius
rating: PG 13
words: 700
notes: for a_humumentathon, and my recipient, riverflame, from this prompt. inspired by copious amounts of the jam, some shelley verses printed on the jacket of the sound affects LP, a continuing obsession with ted leo/rx, and a whole lot of other obscure, poorly constructed references. collect them all!
Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number --
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you --
Ye are many -- they are few.
--Percy B. Shelley, the Call to Freedom (1819)
*
Sirius reads from the yellowing pages, dog-eared, curling, tea stains ringing the corners like a bleeding sun, because Remus, sleeping beside him, quiet, swaddled, leaves cups like mismatched floral-printed pigeons roosting all over his bed-sit. His feet are tucked under Sirius' knees, his long, chubby pink toes, wrinkled from the bath they took together in a tub that should have never, ever had to accommodate two graceless, skinny boys: he in Remus' lap, as the water drained, rutting against his stomach, and Remus' ankle hooked over the edge.
Over the bells in the distance, the river, the city that breathes beyond these walls, Sirius' voice is barely a whisper.
---
Remus goes with him down the supermarket on Tuesday; Sirius has nothing but bread in the cupboards, a few turquoise tins of beans, some cheap wine. (He likes to think if he keeps his cabinets full, if he gets rid that manky smell in the ice-box, Remus will stay the night, the month: to save the seven-stop tube ride, and take the other half of the wardrobe Sirius leaves empty, on purpose. That maybe Remus will call the flat in Islington with the yellow door, populated by twelve sorts of mould and one scared, scared boy with scabbed elbows -- he will call it home, like the way he cupped his palms and told Sirius about fireflies; like the swell of Lily's stomach.)
---
Every winter since third year Mrs Potter has given Sirius a pair of wool socks, scarlet and gold, with knobbly heels and lions, charmed, roaring from the ankles to match their scarves. Remus hasn't paid his electricity in a fortnight, blames the mid-November cold on insulation, the landlord, waddling around the room in two jumpers, putting on the kettle in his mittens. His feet are freezing against Sirius' thigh, so he tugs a pair, rough and petulant, of Mrs Potter's socks over Remus' own holey ones, curled toes peeking out. You arse, he thinks, you noble fucking icicle, but Remus just frowns in sleep and makes a small noise, like a mewl, a bloody hungry kitten.
(Later, Sirius will break a teapot; he's so tired of everything Remus owns being chipped, second-hand, so he'll replace it tomorrow, buy the most expensive, hideous hunk of porcelain in the shops, and leave it on Remus' window-sill like a peace offering. And when Remus finds his electricity has been turned back on, Sirius will lie and scowl and say it must have been James: the wanker never could rough the cold.)
---
Remus stands in front of the frozen peas for two full minutes, with marmalade and potatoes, hair in his eyes, and chews on the pad of his thumb, because he's tried to quit smoking again, this week. (Sirius still remembers how Remus' fingertips tasted Sunday morning, slick in his mouth, nicotine, ink stains, the day's first cup of tea.) Cradling the eggs in his hands, he wants to say, Lupin, you sodding idiot, I love you, now let's the beer and go, but all he says is, "Birds Eye, yeah?" And before Remus can tell him it's seventeen pence more than the store brand, Sirius grabs the bag and grins (coward, he thinks, bloody coward).
---
He raised his head and roared "Now it is time!" then louder "Time!"; then so loud that it could have shaken the stars, "TIME."[1]
---
It's all right, though, on the bus route home, twenty-four minutes, eleven stops, three bags of groceries and some sweets when Remus wasn't looking, because Remus falls asleep on his shoulder, in the sticky vinyl seats. Sirius will fatten him this winter, fill his belly, those ribs that show through t-shirts, let him never go hungry: with his hands full of milk and fish fingers and biscuits and two boxes of tea, and, Sirius thinks, the London half-light sliding over Remus' face like a film reel, and love.
---
(they are too young, nineteen, on the cusp of twenty, fumbling, facing west, war, with their round bellies, their open palms and interlocking limbs, their deaths of long words, their oyster cheeks. i know, he whispers, smelling sweat, soap, fierce and trembling; and i am not resigned.)
*
[1] c.s. lewis, the last battle: chapter thirteen.
author: beans! (statelines)
pairing: remus/sirius
rating: PG 13
words: 700
notes: for a_humumentathon, and my recipient, riverflame, from this prompt. inspired by copious amounts of the jam, some shelley verses printed on the jacket of the sound affects LP, a continuing obsession with ted leo/rx, and a whole lot of other obscure, poorly constructed references. collect them all!
Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number --
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you --
Ye are many -- they are few.
--Percy B. Shelley, the Call to Freedom (1819)
*
Sirius reads from the yellowing pages, dog-eared, curling, tea stains ringing the corners like a bleeding sun, because Remus, sleeping beside him, quiet, swaddled, leaves cups like mismatched floral-printed pigeons roosting all over his bed-sit. His feet are tucked under Sirius' knees, his long, chubby pink toes, wrinkled from the bath they took together in a tub that should have never, ever had to accommodate two graceless, skinny boys: he in Remus' lap, as the water drained, rutting against his stomach, and Remus' ankle hooked over the edge.
Over the bells in the distance, the river, the city that breathes beyond these walls, Sirius' voice is barely a whisper.
---
Remus goes with him down the supermarket on Tuesday; Sirius has nothing but bread in the cupboards, a few turquoise tins of beans, some cheap wine. (He likes to think if he keeps his cabinets full, if he gets rid that manky smell in the ice-box, Remus will stay the night, the month: to save the seven-stop tube ride, and take the other half of the wardrobe Sirius leaves empty, on purpose. That maybe Remus will call the flat in Islington with the yellow door, populated by twelve sorts of mould and one scared, scared boy with scabbed elbows -- he will call it home, like the way he cupped his palms and told Sirius about fireflies; like the swell of Lily's stomach.)
---
Every winter since third year Mrs Potter has given Sirius a pair of wool socks, scarlet and gold, with knobbly heels and lions, charmed, roaring from the ankles to match their scarves. Remus hasn't paid his electricity in a fortnight, blames the mid-November cold on insulation, the landlord, waddling around the room in two jumpers, putting on the kettle in his mittens. His feet are freezing against Sirius' thigh, so he tugs a pair, rough and petulant, of Mrs Potter's socks over Remus' own holey ones, curled toes peeking out. You arse, he thinks, you noble fucking icicle, but Remus just frowns in sleep and makes a small noise, like a mewl, a bloody hungry kitten.
(Later, Sirius will break a teapot; he's so tired of everything Remus owns being chipped, second-hand, so he'll replace it tomorrow, buy the most expensive, hideous hunk of porcelain in the shops, and leave it on Remus' window-sill like a peace offering. And when Remus finds his electricity has been turned back on, Sirius will lie and scowl and say it must have been James: the wanker never could rough the cold.)
---
Remus stands in front of the frozen peas for two full minutes, with marmalade and potatoes, hair in his eyes, and chews on the pad of his thumb, because he's tried to quit smoking again, this week. (Sirius still remembers how Remus' fingertips tasted Sunday morning, slick in his mouth, nicotine, ink stains, the day's first cup of tea.) Cradling the eggs in his hands, he wants to say, Lupin, you sodding idiot, I love you, now let's the beer and go, but all he says is, "Birds Eye, yeah?" And before Remus can tell him it's seventeen pence more than the store brand, Sirius grabs the bag and grins (coward, he thinks, bloody coward).
---
He raised his head and roared "Now it is time!" then louder "Time!"; then so loud that it could have shaken the stars, "TIME."[1]
---
It's all right, though, on the bus route home, twenty-four minutes, eleven stops, three bags of groceries and some sweets when Remus wasn't looking, because Remus falls asleep on his shoulder, in the sticky vinyl seats. Sirius will fatten him this winter, fill his belly, those ribs that show through t-shirts, let him never go hungry: with his hands full of milk and fish fingers and biscuits and two boxes of tea, and, Sirius thinks, the London half-light sliding over Remus' face like a film reel, and love.
---
(they are too young, nineteen, on the cusp of twenty, fumbling, facing west, war, with their round bellies, their open palms and interlocking limbs, their deaths of long words, their oyster cheeks. i know, he whispers, smelling sweat, soap, fierce and trembling; and i am not resigned.)
*
[1] c.s. lewis, the last battle: chapter thirteen.