Disclaimer: I do not have: the patience to learn how to knit, the rights to Harry Potter, an impeccable sense of fashion, or my own zen garden. I do, however, have Obi-Wan Kenobi and several million wombats hiding in my closet and at my beck and call. So watch out.
"I wish you wouldn't."
"Hm?" His fingers tightening and the little grin he makes both make it clear that he heard the words perfectly.
"I said, I wish you wouldn't."
He doesn't let go and he doesn't react at all. It is not really very surprising. "Why not?"
"Because I asked you not to and . . . because I asked you not to."
The grin becomes a little wider and a little less strained and shows that he knows what might've been the original postlude to and. He opens the book and begins to peruse.
"Please, Remus. It's only that – I mean – you might not –" but the words that make perfect sense fall apart once they turn into sound, and no point is made besides general protesting.
"I'm sure that you haven't written anything in here that would not be fit for my mature eyes to read, Nymphadora." The mention of his age is ignored, but pokes at a wound that refuses to heal and nothing is said about his use of a first name. "Now let's see. September 17 – "
"Please, Remus." And they aren't the same words that were spoken before. He shuts the book quietly, setting it on the table, and his eyes are back to their normal seriousness.
"I hope you know that I would never dream of truly reading your secret thoughts." His face is too earnest and a heartbeat hums along twitchingly. Spite, buried deep deep down, is pulled up through a pink mouth.
"But you would do more than dream about breaking my heart." Revenge tastes sour, and there is nothing victorious in the way he watches only the ground. Nothing can ever be the same because when honesty finally was revealed, he trampled it and didn't even look sorry until the tears came.
Light-hearted teasing can't mask the distance felt every second. Pretending that everything's okay can't change what's happened. First love isn't supposed to be this hard and isn't supposed to hurt so much that crying is a daily action along with waking up and making the coffee.
"Don't waste your life longing after an old werewolf." He whispers this violently, with every ounce of bitterness his beloved voice could ever hold, the words hanging in the air. "You deserve better than me."
Eager legs would quickly make the distance undeterminable and eager hands might be able to touch his face before he had the chance to leave again. How much would be done if it were able to occur, perhaps lips might even connect –
But suddenly, the everlasting war has become far too exhausting. Even though sometimes his eyes say other things, today his entire body speaks the same word. No. And perhaps even never.
There is no better room in this place for crying, and besides, there cannot be many tears left from the escapade this morning. They fall, and he doesn't leave until they turn into broken sobs that sound an awful lot like his name.
How this story came to be:
1. The idea for a story of a first kiss only without the kiss comes into my head.
2. I decide upon Remus/Tonks for my couple.
3. I start to write it.
4. I decide on a new challenge: never mention Tonks outside of quotations and do it from her persepctive.
5. I end it at 500 words and have no idea where the first kiss idea has disappeared to.
6. I turn it into a triology! Look out for Intermission, hopefully coming soon!
7. You join the review revolution and spread the love. (crosses fingers)
