Solstice (Harry Potter, G)
Solstice
[ Harry Potter: Marauders-era | rated G | word count: 288 ]
Notes: Originally written in July, 2007. Features Marauders-era Sirius and Remus.
Outside, in the pale April sunlight, with a winter frost-ridden breeze that belies the approaching summer holiday, Remus sits with his back against a large oak tree and his knees pulled into his chest. Remus is a studier of people.
Sirius is beside him like always, cross-legged and round-backed in the wet grass. His hair is unwashed and tangled, and he's lost his jacket, Remus notices, though he is pretending to be warm. He always gets a kind of hollow look about him toward the end of term; it rather suits him, Remus thinks, that sort of James Dean-melancholy.
There is a cigarette, unlit, precariously balanced in the open space between Sirius' top and bottom lips: it's his sometimes-trademark, the half-secret he wishes his mother would learn of. Inwardly, Remus smiles because it is the exact picture of Sirius that he recalls from memory when he thinks of his friend.
A sudden burst of wind disturbs the grass, and Sirius rubs his hands briskly over the gooseflesh on his upper arms. "Hey, Moony."
From somewhere behind him, Remus can smell lavender. "Hmm?"
Sirius lights his cigarette, a somewhat unusual occurrence in and of itself, though it is only for nicotine warmth and because dramatic pause requires it. He rather hates the taste. In a fight to keep his nose decidedly un-crinkled, he heaves a greatly melodramatic sigh and falls back against his tree, hooking an elbow over the top of his head. Peripherally, he catches Remus’ eye and a roguish grin dimples one of his cheeks.
Remus laughs through his nose, though he isn't sure why. There are so many things Sirius wants to say, but on days like this, none of them really matter.
Remus already knows.
[ Harry Potter: Marauders-era | rated G | word count: 288 ]
Notes: Originally written in July, 2007. Features Marauders-era Sirius and Remus.
Outside, in the pale April sunlight, with a winter frost-ridden breeze that belies the approaching summer holiday, Remus sits with his back against a large oak tree and his knees pulled into his chest. Remus is a studier of people.
Sirius is beside him like always, cross-legged and round-backed in the wet grass. His hair is unwashed and tangled, and he's lost his jacket, Remus notices, though he is pretending to be warm. He always gets a kind of hollow look about him toward the end of term; it rather suits him, Remus thinks, that sort of James Dean-melancholy.
There is a cigarette, unlit, precariously balanced in the open space between Sirius' top and bottom lips: it's his sometimes-trademark, the half-secret he wishes his mother would learn of. Inwardly, Remus smiles because it is the exact picture of Sirius that he recalls from memory when he thinks of his friend.
A sudden burst of wind disturbs the grass, and Sirius rubs his hands briskly over the gooseflesh on his upper arms. "Hey, Moony."
From somewhere behind him, Remus can smell lavender. "Hmm?"
Sirius lights his cigarette, a somewhat unusual occurrence in and of itself, though it is only for nicotine warmth and because dramatic pause requires it. He rather hates the taste. In a fight to keep his nose decidedly un-crinkled, he heaves a greatly melodramatic sigh and falls back against his tree, hooking an elbow over the top of his head. Peripherally, he catches Remus’ eye and a roguish grin dimples one of his cheeks.
Remus laughs through his nose, though he isn't sure why. There are so many things Sirius wants to say, but on days like this, none of them really matter.
Remus already knows.