AU: I was reading a mag when I came across an ad for London Fog where a couple are kissing in the rain. She had a short pixie haircut and plaid wellies, he looked gentlemanly with a hint of shabby. Thus my inspiration for this one shot was born, that and all the amazing one shots I've come across. This is my first fanfic in ages so I'd appreciate reviews as do all budding writers and what not. Thank you to all who have read, and or reviewed..
Disclaimer: Although I sort of find it funny when people put a disclaimer saying their not Jk Rowling, lol.. I mustn't break with tradition.. its bad luck.
At twenty and three you'd never been in love. You fancied blokes whom you swapped saliva with behind musty broom closets, but love nope nada.
Romantic love may as well have been words from a foreign language for all you understood its meaning. True eternal love that people harp on about until you feel nauseated you could not fathom. Like pondering infinity it bloody well drives you spare.
All that babble had been dribble to you, because its like hearing someone ramble on about their kid or pet keazle, irrelevant and a touch tedious. You somehow end up asking why anyone would want to know this.
Despite this, while their talking in rapturous spurts, pausing every few minutes to sigh. You pause as well, peering into their eyes brimming and you wonder. Perhaps you simply find it endearing like when a newly deigned parent rambles on about their newborn their vocubulary running along but you really doubt that. Somewhere in the back of your mind you know you're dying to know.
This warrants a toast to now being in love. A toast and a curse. The state of being in love has rendered you a simpering, grinning idiot with a distinclty unhuman need for sleep or food. Food and sleep are such trivial things. But after several consecutive nights of being in a state of sleplessness well you feel a touch tired. You're too tired from staying up till three, then analyzing till five. You make a toast with coffee, feeling envigorated as the substance slips down your throat. Ahh cofee is an amazing beverage. Almost magical.
Now you're in the know. This newly acquired knowledge leaves you dazed. So dazed that you're sitting there clutching your head because suddenly those daft overly sentimental one liners make a startling and profound amount of sense.
You curse him silently as you've spend yet another sleepless night brooding over him. Sanity has left your mind, madness ensues.
Let it come.
Its the sort of madness that tinged and liberally sprinkled in mania; in euphoria.
However this being euphorically in love and complacantly platonic mates has created a state of befuddlement. It has thus caused you to evaluate your relationship dynamic. In doing so your damned as you've been floating in a sea of Remus.
All things Remus float in your mind. Your feelings are muddled in the idiosyncrasies of this thing, and it rushes forward like a toppled potion of Amoretentia (which has happended by the way) causing a state of high.
His manner of walking, long limbs swaying gently as he manoevers with the most sublime elegance. Good Merlin help me, his hands, the most beautiful hands ever made, carrying equal grace of limbs as they ever so smoothly tuck a pink strand behind an ear.
The elegant manner in his stride when he walks into a room and ever so surely like a gravatational force causes all to be pulled by his easy manner.
Lost in that wildly euphoric state of high which all thing giddy and love-sick collide.
When he flashes you that mesmerizing grin over several pints of butterbeer and hours of mindless chatter you're lost, utterly, totally, and spectacularly lost. Lost and just a touch sloshed, when he carries you up narrow shadowy stairs you snuggle closer as he smells so nice. You can't help but smile and you realize you must now kill Sirius and his stupid drinking games as you are really quite drunk. He sees the smile but says nothing, you can feel him grinning a wide grin. The patented Remus grin of pure amusement. You swear you fell in love with him one afternoon when he looked at you and smiled.
Lost in his scent, sweet and woodsy at the same time. His eyes, blue with dashes of pure amber gleaming golden in sun's kiss, saint like and wicked. An angel and devil juxtaposition you're quite fascinated by.
Lost in watching his long slender hands tug at a stray bit of string on his thread bare coat: the break in his composed mannerism has you staring, aware that his mind is elsewhere.
Lost in the moments of suspended animation when you quite believe he will kiss you; his eyes are burning, he frowns and check mates you as he does every game.
You frown, he smiles innocently.
You and he are back to the games, the touches, smiles, and jokes.
This "just mates nonsense" is total rubbish because it has long slipped into love. Epic love, the kind of love that people harp on about, the kind that makes the world go round.
You're quite certain you are in love with him, that you love him. Past the point of thinking otherwise because you can't fight it and you wouldn't want to. Fighting takes way too much effort and nights tossing about with his face scarred in your mind. The feeling expands within like a hot ballon until you feel you can't breathe.
Although you'd be lying if you said it was simple. Just a kiss and an exchange of "I love you's" away from a happy ending. You know that a relationship takes effort on the side of both parties but he is worth it.
Loving him, scares you to the core of you're soul. For you fear that you may never be the same, rendered half of a soul which are you and he.
Presently you are restless, with the pressing need to be more than mates or whatever you are. Your at the point where you'd rather jump off the edge of self inflicted madness then play the "we're just mates game."
A fire will ignite and burn number twelve Grimmauld Place to the ground if you don't break this mad dance, this trance like state, this stalemate. Either check mate or surrender.
Your sick of watching from rickety door frames, which offer a fleeting widow to the gazes you cannot bestow a mate.
With every erratic beat reverberating in bone and limb you walk towards him. He smiles a steady smile. You smile back, its shaky at best.
You grin brightly and divulge your usual cheery greeting "Wotcher, Remus. Mind talking a stroll, its right stuffy in there?"
With a curt nod you're off, down the narrow street with its cramped flats, its ancient cobble stone roads. London's decrepit once stately homes encompass you in dreary greys and faded royal blues so that you feel yourself lose a breathe amidst the oppressive faded monochromatic hues. You smile a little, he smiles back in his easy fashion, and your breath slips once more into London's wispy, foggy air.
You predict imminent rain as you look up at a grey sky. You spare a glance at you plaid purple and pink wellies and smile a self satisfied smile. The rain begins its downwards trickle you breathe deeply.
Droplets of rain clings to your shoulder length bright pink hair. It clings to your face nearly skimming your lips. His long hands reach to remove the offending strand. He brushes it aside with a look of concentration, grazing your lips with those long stately hands of his.
Droplets of rain freeze mid drop, the wind seizes its frenzied dance, every particle becomes sedentary as you two freeze, heat emitting from your bodies, you cast a longing glance at his lips. Mustering courage you hold his gaze, and seize your chance. Your lips meet in a heated embrace. He is holding you, slender elegant hands stroking your face, his fingers massaging circles on your neck. Kissing him lingers for several minutes, you're not sure how long its been. Time is a funny thing; a relative thing which although constant is never constant because we never are. Time lapses in waves around the two of you, and you shiver at the passion electrifying heated passing from his lips, his tongue to yours.
It feels divine. You know then, truly know that your absolutely fucked. Truly, wholly without a doubt fucked, because your heart will forever belong to Remus John Lupin. Instinctively you know this, and you almost laugh at the absurdity of it, as it reminds you of the those muggle fairy tales her father insisted on imparting on you; true love firsts kiss. You at once realize it hilariously childish and monumentally serious.
He breaks the kiss looking simultaneously pleased and shocked, evidently shock wins as he sputter something. Your pleased you can affect him so.
Before he can say another word you explain.
"Remus," you begin but he interrupts.
"How long?" there's an eerie pause to his question.
"Long enough to know we can't be like this. Forever dancing around each other its not sane," you realize your voice has risen in pitch.
"Why?" the question carries an echo as is this question has been asked before without being sorted.
You gape at him, piecing together fragile pieces of your love, and attempting to find a coherent answer. Your voice comes out in a tiny whisper.
"Why do I feel this way?" You search his face as if attempting to read his expression, deep rooted pain mingled with desperation. There's no answer for several prolonged time stretching seconds.
" Merlin its just your this beautiful lively Auror and I'm an unemployed, shabby werewolf, fourteen years your senior," there's a deeply apologetic air to this admission yet resolute all the same.
Your insides clench painfully, forcing a light smile you answer.
"One that's bollocks, your not employed because of that stupid law, two I don't care if your a werewolf, three have you met blokes my age?"
You playfully tug at his sleeve willing his grey blue eyes to meet your gaze.
"Can we give this," you make a sweeping gesture with your hand and he finally meets your eyes. "Whatever we have going on a proper go?"
Burning eyes, and hungry lips you read with crystal clarity. His expression however is riddled with a myriad of emotions you can't pinpoint, and suddenly as from the depths of a darkness there's a light; a slight shift in expression
You sigh, and smile cheekily. " I'll have you know I'm ace at cajoling others, have them thinking they've been imperioused"
The marauderish grin is back along with a slackening of his shoulders "Is that so? Is there the slightest chance the sorting hat got you wrong?"
You pretend to be outrage "Are you insinuating that I belong in Slytherin?"
And so the banter continues, through the fog and London smog. Past the ancient gloom of silhouetted manors peering in gaps of fogged vision, past the caravan of umbrellas on London streets, the grinding of rubber on asphalt, to the London Bridge which appears to be suspended on a cloud. It lends another worldliness to the moments passing so when you shift in bed you wonder if it was a dream.