Little Boys Don't
Summary: A series of mini stories mapping the awkward journey from boy to man - and all the pit stops in between. Slash, SB/RL.
The first, Ebony and Ivory, recounts a moment just after Remus has forgiven Sirius for the incident with Snape.
Rating: G, I think.
Distribution: I don't see why anyone would want it, but if you do, just give me a yell as to where it is, so I can grin and point when I visit.
Disclaimer: Well, I certainly don't own them grumble. All praise JKR and all her slashy undertones g.
One: Ebony and Ivory
Warm orange light of morning filters through the parted curtains of Remus' bed. The calming hum of the now moonless sky is a powerfully abrupt contrast to the endless thrall he is subjected to with each sunset.
Beside him, ebony winds over ivory with the sultry grace of water as Sirius moves in his slumber, as his hair caresses his skin. Eyelashes flutter but the lids never part to reveal the silver underneath.
He had crept between those same sheets once again, with the familiarity of a lover, as he often did since their friendship had begun its slow revival. Remus was glad for this routine, no longer did his presence - in his bed or otherwise - cause Remus that bleak, burning pain. No longer did Sirius stir in Remus a wolf seeking a retaliation it had every right to claim.
Each time his companion's milky skin skimmed Remus' own marred surface he would pretend Sirius was offering a drop of his soul - a fragment of the beauty that dwells beneath the miles of ivory skin. He hopes with something between innocence and hopelessness that Sirius will neither demand it back nor attempt to steal any of Remus' own - for the latter has already promised half to the wolf and fears divulging more. Perhaps it is his selfish human nature. Or the wolf's; they are lonely creatures.
Sirius snakes an arm through the rivers of red bedclothes to rest upon Remus' bare chest - who reminds himself that oxygen is, after all, a vital life requirement. These are the moments when he wishes to join Sirius in sweet sleep so he could tuck this memory where his analytical conscious mind cannot find it - lost within the confinements of the sleeping mind, captured in time. Where he cannot question why this is wrong and unnatural and shouldn't feel so honestly, blissfully right. The skin beneath Sirius' hands is blindingly hot, searing with temptation.
Little boys don't hold each other with such naked desperation in the night.