f: Sweet (Spontaneous) (R/S, G)
Sweet (Spontaneous), so G it hurts, 300+ words. For Day 2 of wellymuck.
Spring swept away the morning frosts in mid-March and began sweeping them, too, swiftly toward the end of term -- but before that, exams, too many of them for one boy to handle, much less one who was neither spectacularly bright nor spectacularly healthy.
Remus always had a book in his arms, even in the hospital wing, when Sirius had to lean over and turn the pages for him because his fingers were bandaged together. His shoulders took on a constant hunch, but "I need them," he always said. "I need everything. I have to."
He circled the lake, collecting plant specimens for Herbology, which he hated, which he would probably never use. After a week he hated every flower that bloomed on Hogwarts' grounds, but he knew all of their pieces, and he knew that outside Hogwarts there was a war, suspicion, hunger. Herbology could somehow be worth the effort.
"I miss the frost," he said one Saturday morning, pulling on his boots. "It would kill the flowers." And Sirius stared at him with wide, Spring-fevered eyes, uncomprehending; and Sirius followed him out to the lake in his pajamas, with wet Spring mud rising up between his toes in every step.
"That's all wrong," Sirius told him as he counted the petals on a red blossom. "You're doing it wrong. Of course you're going to hate them. Here, let me --" He took it away and brushed it beneath Remus's nose once, twice, three times, until Remus smiled and raised a hand to rub away the tickle-itch.
"You've got mud between your toes," Remus said, "and I'm not learning anything."
Sirius took him by the shoulders and turned him around to face the lake, pressed his chest up against Remus's back and breathed into his ear. "Are too," he said, one hand curled around the flower, against Remus's shoulder, and he kept breathing slow and deep until Remus relaxed against him. Then, "Take off your boots," he said, squelching one bare foot in the mud, "and I'll teach you something else."
Spring swept away the morning frosts in mid-March and began sweeping them, too, swiftly toward the end of term -- but before that, exams, too many of them for one boy to handle, much less one who was neither spectacularly bright nor spectacularly healthy.
Remus always had a book in his arms, even in the hospital wing, when Sirius had to lean over and turn the pages for him because his fingers were bandaged together. His shoulders took on a constant hunch, but "I need them," he always said. "I need everything. I have to."
He circled the lake, collecting plant specimens for Herbology, which he hated, which he would probably never use. After a week he hated every flower that bloomed on Hogwarts' grounds, but he knew all of their pieces, and he knew that outside Hogwarts there was a war, suspicion, hunger. Herbology could somehow be worth the effort.
"I miss the frost," he said one Saturday morning, pulling on his boots. "It would kill the flowers." And Sirius stared at him with wide, Spring-fevered eyes, uncomprehending; and Sirius followed him out to the lake in his pajamas, with wet Spring mud rising up between his toes in every step.
"That's all wrong," Sirius told him as he counted the petals on a red blossom. "You're doing it wrong. Of course you're going to hate them. Here, let me --" He took it away and brushed it beneath Remus's nose once, twice, three times, until Remus smiled and raised a hand to rub away the tickle-itch.
"You've got mud between your toes," Remus said, "and I'm not learning anything."
Sirius took him by the shoulders and turned him around to face the lake, pressed his chest up against Remus's back and breathed into his ear. "Are too," he said, one hand curled around the flower, against Remus's shoulder, and he kept breathing slow and deep until Remus relaxed against him. Then, "Take off your boots," he said, squelching one bare foot in the mud, "and I'll teach you something else."