A/N: Just something incredibly small because Remus was feeling left out. This was intended as Sirius' POV c. 1981 but really i suppose it could be interpreted as you find fitting. Also, my apologies to smittyloveshpfic because this clearly isn't Sirius/Harry. The very obvious title is from the song Hallelujah (( and Jeff Buckley's version if you're asking )).
Thank You: to Danni for the impromptu beta. And darling, you don't even read fic!
Warnings: The slash is so implicit it's barely even there.
Because his eyes are heavy with the burn of black kisses and the rasp of wicked whispers.
The Baffled King, Composing
Here, this is our hand of cards, the spread that we keep close to our chest and fan over our heartbeat; the King of Hearts, the Jack of Spades. Here are our broken hearts that we lay down like shards of red glass and the slip of your sweat-licked fingertips encourages the stinging trickle of blood over white hands and slow smiles. I hold this delicate veil to my face and I won't let you see my eyes, those dark bloodshot eyes that are unable to block out the full curve of your lips, the graceful arc of your spine and this mask is slipping, slipping.
Your fingers crawl up my thigh and I am a warrior stripped of his war paint; I am a child in your arms, trembling bones afraid of the thunder storm. Your mouth is a twist of sweet agony and your tongue traces your trail of whispered lies over my damp skin and like this it is easy to forget how breakable we are, just like this as your eyelids flutter like the beating of moth wings and then you gasp I love you as if you aren't spouting lines of poisoned poetry that turn to cinders in your dark mouth.
We lie in the dark like carved marble, hushed by the soft shadows and heated by the lick of flames spreading up from the crook of your legs, spreading and spilling from your cupped palms like liquid fire until all I can do is pin your wrists and swallow down the choked cries that curl around your sharp teeth. Afterwards, you turn away and I know that your heart is bleeding because I can see the deep jewels of red hurt scattered across the bed and I know that your throat is tight and your breaths rough because your pulse is a metallic click of raw pain in the dark.
Your hands are heavy with the thick webs of trickery that you can barely hold, that spill over and fall like hard marbles to the cold floor and my eyes are heavy with the burn of black kisses and the rasp of wicked whispers; this is the weight of deceit and these are the lies we have to tell.
Peractio