I think I've reached an all time low for word count (laughs) but ah well. This is a short drabble, which contains slash, and is also my first posting of a Harry Potter fanfiction. Thanks to Ace for giving this an a-okay!
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Hands
Even at the age of thirty-five, Remus Lupin couldn't help but marvel at how great it felt to hold hands. And not just anyone's hands: Sirius' hands. It was a simple, affectionate habit, which the two had steadily fallen back into, despite the thirteen years apart, and it pleased Remus immensely to twine his fingers with Sirius'.
Sirius' hands had changed, however. Once, they were smooth and creamy, with slender fingers and boyish awkwardness. Now, while still hesitant, his hands were rough and calloused, forever the hands of a fugitive. At the age of twenty, the only grim on Sirius' hands had been motorcycle oil. The slick black substance had always stained Sirius' hands come dinner time, and he use to grab Remus' clean hands to purposely annoy the other man. Now, blisters marred the perfect skin, and dirt was caked up under Sirius' short nails. When he took Remus' clean hands, it wasn't for annoyance, but fear; they didn't want to be ripped apart again.
Remus supposed his own hands had changed, too. Certainly the passing decade or so had affected him. Sirius had once proclaimed Remus' hands to be 'the softest, most pleasant hands in all of the wizarding world'. Yet when he looked at them now, his hands contained multiple papers cuts and scratches accumulated from the war effort, and a giant ink stain could be found on his right index finger.
Still, late at night when the Order and the children were sleeping, Sirius would join their hands together and gaze at Remus wistfully, because things had changed -they had changed- and they could never be naive lovers again.
"Remus?" Brown eyes flickered over to the doorway, where one of Sirius' pale hands curled around the ancient woodwork. The man himself was gazing evenly at the former professor, his feet taking him further into the room.
"Sirius."
Hearing his name, Sirius paused where he was, halfway between the door and Remus' seat at the kitchen table. "Everything all right?" He asked as he picked up his step again, settling into the chair across from Remus.
The werewolf didn't answer right away, instead focusing intently on the way Sirius' hand crept across the distance between them; the way his own fingers sought out the comfort of the familiar hand. Flesh met flesh and they sighed in unison, Sirius rubbing his thumb on the back of his lover's hand.
"I missed this." It was unclear which of them had uttered the thought aloud, but it didn't matter because both agreed. Remus gave Sirius' hand a light squeeze and settled back in his chair, ignoring the discomfort caused by the stiff wooden back. All he felt was the warm palm pressed against his own, and the hazy memories of thirteen years prior clouding his mind.
Yes, Remus reflected, holding hands was nice.
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Hands
Even at the age of thirty-five, Remus Lupin couldn't help but marvel at how great it felt to hold hands. And not just anyone's hands: Sirius' hands. It was a simple, affectionate habit, which the two had steadily fallen back into, despite the thirteen years apart, and it pleased Remus immensely to twine his fingers with Sirius'.
Sirius' hands had changed, however. Once, they were smooth and creamy, with slender fingers and boyish awkwardness. Now, while still hesitant, his hands were rough and calloused, forever the hands of a fugitive. At the age of twenty, the only grim on Sirius' hands had been motorcycle oil. The slick black substance had always stained Sirius' hands come dinner time, and he use to grab Remus' clean hands to purposely annoy the other man. Now, blisters marred the perfect skin, and dirt was caked up under Sirius' short nails. When he took Remus' clean hands, it wasn't for annoyance, but fear; they didn't want to be ripped apart again.
Remus supposed his own hands had changed, too. Certainly the passing decade or so had affected him. Sirius had once proclaimed Remus' hands to be 'the softest, most pleasant hands in all of the wizarding world'. Yet when he looked at them now, his hands contained multiple papers cuts and scratches accumulated from the war effort, and a giant ink stain could be found on his right index finger.
Still, late at night when the Order and the children were sleeping, Sirius would join their hands together and gaze at Remus wistfully, because things had changed -they had changed- and they could never be naive lovers again.
"Remus?" Brown eyes flickered over to the doorway, where one of Sirius' pale hands curled around the ancient woodwork. The man himself was gazing evenly at the former professor, his feet taking him further into the room.
"Sirius."
Hearing his name, Sirius paused where he was, halfway between the door and Remus' seat at the kitchen table. "Everything all right?" He asked as he picked up his step again, settling into the chair across from Remus.
The werewolf didn't answer right away, instead focusing intently on the way Sirius' hand crept across the distance between them; the way his own fingers sought out the comfort of the familiar hand. Flesh met flesh and they sighed in unison, Sirius rubbing his thumb on the back of his lover's hand.
"I missed this." It was unclear which of them had uttered the thought aloud, but it didn't matter because both agreed. Remus gave Sirius' hand a light squeeze and settled back in his chair, ignoring the discomfort caused by the stiff wooden back. All he felt was the warm palm pressed against his own, and the hazy memories of thirteen years prior clouding his mind.
Yes, Remus reflected, holding hands was nice.