Of The
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Remus/Sirius
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,557
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
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Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Remus/Sirius
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,557
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Of The 3/31
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB.
Notes: Summary is a Winston Churchill quote. This is being written for the BlanketForts challenge at the LiveJournal Community of the same name. While some parts are not R or NC-17, overall the story is rated NC-17. The story will be updated regularly throughout the month, as this is a daily challenge lasting the month of January. The story begins at the end and will end at the beginning. Along the way, we'll be jumping back and forth in time. There are 31 parts in this story. The Roman Numerals at the beginning of each section give you an indication of 'when' in the course of Remus's and Sirius's history together these things happen.
xxiv.
"Don't," says Regulus, all dark and lithe and gypsy mystique, with eyes like uncut onyx and mouth wicked wet with secrets, leaning against the door as though he's blocking the way out his fucking cell so Saviour Sirius can't save the sodding day.
"Shut up and listen. Christ," Sirius snaps, flipping the still-smouldering butt of his cigarette end-over-end at Regulus. "It isn't too late."
"It is." Regulus catches the butt in the palm of his hand, dropping it to the ground, stamping it out. He looks away and Sirius wants to scream, so he screams.
"Christ," he roars, moving lunging pinning Regulus to the door, hand on either side of his face trapping him there, keeping him there, suspending time for even the briefest of moments perhaps because Sirius knows. Sirius knows and yet he denies the knowledge, the notion, the image in his mind of brother once had brother lost brother gone forever. "It isn't too late and don't you fucking say it again. I'm your fucking brother, you fuck, and I'm trying to help you." Breath comes quick like death and judgement, each inhalation and exhalation recycling, rejecting, recycling, rejecting spirit and essence and Sirius wants to out those sharp, dark accusing eyes himself because he feels lost drowning dying dead.
"Don't push me. I know what I'm doing," Regulus chokes, and Sirius is shocked, so shocked at how hollow and broken and void he is.
He steps away, but not before ghosting his fingers over twisted skull and snake branding his brother a fool. "So do it."
******
"What?"
Remus winces, refusing to meet his eyes and it hacks him the merry fuck off.
"WHAT?" Sirius explodes, turning away from Moony to pound his fists against the already-beaten keyboard, ivories and ebonies long ago splintered and spitting everywhere, a loud discordant sound rising in the air, grating and wailing and taunting like some sly malevolent spirit.
"They found his body in Ilfracombe," Remus says quietly, and Sirius laughs.
"Ilfracombe. He's never liked Ilfracombe. Sorry sod's thought ever since he was a babby that a dragon'd carry him off too one day if Mother made us go there for holiday."
"Did you hear me, Sirius?"
There is a hand on his shoulder, long-fingered slight light comfort, and Sirius doesn't want it. Doesn't need it. He laughs again because he cannot think of anything to do - I don't know what I'm doing. - and he laughs long and hard, starting low deep down in the belly up through the diaphragm out the lungs shoulders jiggling wracking carrying the burden carrying the weight and oh God--
The floor fucking hurts when his knees hit the boards, old splintery and rotting.
"Dearborn found him on the wayside. In the snow."
"Face-up?" Sirius manages, voice wavering, eyes closing.
"Face-up."
He exhales slowly. Regulus having been found face-up meant he died a fair death, died defending himself, died trying, died doing.
Sirius can picture his brother plainly, aged six, lying in the snow, face glowing flushed-pink-promises, standing out against the stark white powder. He likes to imagine that this is how Regulus looked when Dearborn found him on the wayside. Had. Lost. Gone. Dead.
"Oh fucking Christ. Oh fucking Christ."
Taking that dead nasty Skele-Gro shit is cake compared to the pain racing through veins nerves essence to every last part of him. It's as though one of those fucking cowardly Death Eaters is killing each of his organs one-by-one, burning him alive from the inside, splintering his bones, drawing and quartering and filleting and erasing him all at once.
He tried he tried he tried he failed, oh, he failed, Reg is dead, and Remus's hands on his shoulders, on his face, sicken him.
"Stopstopstop leave me BE let me AT THEM oh--" Up is down down is up north west south east directionless leaden feet root to floor while gentle hands soothe heated skin.
There aren't any words, none that he can hear save for the imprints of words and folly and misguided youth branded on his brain and Remus comforts, fingers and mouth and arms moving, touching, calming until cries Sirius didn't know he had been making still with the ticking of time.
Oh, time.
Notes: Summary is a Winston Churchill quote. This is being written for the BlanketForts challenge at the LiveJournal Community of the same name. While some parts are not R or NC-17, overall the story is rated NC-17. The story will be updated regularly throughout the month, as this is a daily challenge lasting the month of January. The story begins at the end and will end at the beginning. Along the way, we'll be jumping back and forth in time. There are 31 parts in this story. The Roman Numerals at the beginning of each section give you an indication of 'when' in the course of Remus's and Sirius's history together these things happen.
xxiv.
"Don't," says Regulus, all dark and lithe and gypsy mystique, with eyes like uncut onyx and mouth wicked wet with secrets, leaning against the door as though he's blocking the way out his fucking cell so Saviour Sirius can't save the sodding day.
"Shut up and listen. Christ," Sirius snaps, flipping the still-smouldering butt of his cigarette end-over-end at Regulus. "It isn't too late."
"It is." Regulus catches the butt in the palm of his hand, dropping it to the ground, stamping it out. He looks away and Sirius wants to scream, so he screams.
"Christ," he roars, moving lunging pinning Regulus to the door, hand on either side of his face trapping him there, keeping him there, suspending time for even the briefest of moments perhaps because Sirius knows. Sirius knows and yet he denies the knowledge, the notion, the image in his mind of brother once had brother lost brother gone forever. "It isn't too late and don't you fucking say it again. I'm your fucking brother, you fuck, and I'm trying to help you." Breath comes quick like death and judgement, each inhalation and exhalation recycling, rejecting, recycling, rejecting spirit and essence and Sirius wants to out those sharp, dark accusing eyes himself because he feels lost drowning dying dead.
"Don't push me. I know what I'm doing," Regulus chokes, and Sirius is shocked, so shocked at how hollow and broken and void he is.
He steps away, but not before ghosting his fingers over twisted skull and snake branding his brother a fool. "So do it."
******
"What?"
Remus winces, refusing to meet his eyes and it hacks him the merry fuck off.
"WHAT?" Sirius explodes, turning away from Moony to pound his fists against the already-beaten keyboard, ivories and ebonies long ago splintered and spitting everywhere, a loud discordant sound rising in the air, grating and wailing and taunting like some sly malevolent spirit.
"They found his body in Ilfracombe," Remus says quietly, and Sirius laughs.
"Ilfracombe. He's never liked Ilfracombe. Sorry sod's thought ever since he was a babby that a dragon'd carry him off too one day if Mother made us go there for holiday."
"Did you hear me, Sirius?"
There is a hand on his shoulder, long-fingered slight light comfort, and Sirius doesn't want it. Doesn't need it. He laughs again because he cannot think of anything to do - I don't know what I'm doing. - and he laughs long and hard, starting low deep down in the belly up through the diaphragm out the lungs shoulders jiggling wracking carrying the burden carrying the weight and oh God--
The floor fucking hurts when his knees hit the boards, old splintery and rotting.
"Dearborn found him on the wayside. In the snow."
"Face-up?" Sirius manages, voice wavering, eyes closing.
"Face-up."
He exhales slowly. Regulus having been found face-up meant he died a fair death, died defending himself, died trying, died doing.
Sirius can picture his brother plainly, aged six, lying in the snow, face glowing flushed-pink-promises, standing out against the stark white powder. He likes to imagine that this is how Regulus looked when Dearborn found him on the wayside. Had. Lost. Gone. Dead.
"Oh fucking Christ. Oh fucking Christ."
Taking that dead nasty Skele-Gro shit is cake compared to the pain racing through veins nerves essence to every last part of him. It's as though one of those fucking cowardly Death Eaters is killing each of his organs one-by-one, burning him alive from the inside, splintering his bones, drawing and quartering and filleting and erasing him all at once.
He tried he tried he tried he failed, oh, he failed, Reg is dead, and Remus's hands on his shoulders, on his face, sicken him.
"Stopstopstop leave me BE let me AT THEM oh--" Up is down down is up north west south east directionless leaden feet root to floor while gentle hands soothe heated skin.
There aren't any words, none that he can hear save for the imprints of words and folly and misguided youth branded on his brain and Remus comforts, fingers and mouth and arms moving, touching, calming until cries Sirius didn't know he had been making still with the ticking of time.
Oh, time.