N/A: Ridiculous musings on Remus and Sirius' inability to part from each other. An old, rediscovered drabble, as an apology for the lack of activity recently (Uni is making my life a tad topsy turvy)
Disclaimer: Remus, Sirius and all other characters mentioned at the property of J. K. Rowling. William Thackeray is the author of Vanity Fair.
Weathering
"I'm leaving."
Remus glanced up from Thackeray and said, "Right. Well, remember to lock the door behind you then," and returned to his page. He was about half way down, Sirius noticed.
He moved toward the hallway and then stopped and from the bottom of the stairs called, "I forgot my wallet."
It was on the arm of the sofa. He glanced once more towards Remus, who was still half way down the 81st page. For a moment, they both remained utterly still and then Remus said, "You'll be late."
Sirius, as he crossed the room and pulled the book from Remus' unprotesting grasp, didn't think about that. In fact, as he slid onto Remus' lap, and placed the first of the night's kisses against his lips (slightly chapped. It was getting colder and the cold was showing) he was thinking of very little at all, save the taste of Darjeeling and the soft pop as their lips parted.
"You'll be late," Remus repeated, slightly breathless now, hands already caught up in Sirius' illustrious hair. He struggled to bring his mind round to Moody's inevitable fury. To a bad start to a bad mission, one that already looked as if it would go wrong. One, when you looked at it objectively, worked out parameters, possibilities, percentages, it was very unlikely Sirius was going to return unscathed from…he groaned, as Sirius' hands popped the buttons of his shirt and pushed it from his shoulders. Goosebumps already forming. Groin already throbbing. Thought ceased.
"I love you," Sirius gasped, between kisses, the phrase still delightfully new, "I love you."
Remus moaned, as his belt was clicked open and the world narrowed in the planes of Sirius' face, and the feel of his lips, still aching soft (all that Vaseline) and his breath, ragged and hot against his cheeks. There was nothing new here. Nothing that would surprise him. Nothing he did not understand. A miasma of love and lust and longing and the knowledge of the nearness of death.
For a moment, he stilled them, rested his forehead on Sirius' and stared hungrily, adoringly, reverently in his eyes and found the look reflected back at him. "Go," he said, finally, "You'll be late."
"Don't-" Sirius reached down, having decided gentle persuasion was necessary, his hand about to vanish beneath the waistband of Remus' jeans, but it was stopped dead in its tracks, caught around the wrist by Remus' slightly trembling fingers.
"Go," he murmured, stealing one last kiss (not so much to ask. Not really), "I love you. Now go."