Fic: What He Noticed First
13 Jun 2007 12:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
westernredcedarTitle: What He Noticed First
Word Count: 1900
Characters: R/S with guest appearance by Sirius
Summary: Severus watches Remus every day, notices everything, needs him, is needed, finds his strength. Marauders era.
Warnings: angst, mild groping, self-indulgence, grammar means nothing to me
A/N: This was a small exercise to satisfy my desire to think through the Hogwart's part of the R/S story. It exploded on me, and I'm posting it to be done with it for now, as it has obsessed me. This is a series of nineteen 100 word drabbles, written in a kind of free verse stream of consciousness. This is also un'beta'd, as I figured the nonsensical grammar would only make a beta miserable. If you see glaring (seemingly unintentional) issues, let me know, I'll fix 'em.
He noticed first in class.
The sturdy slope of shoulders, dark skin even in winter, the line on the back of his neck where his hair and skin met. The slow, even, clenching and unclenching of his jaw during lecture, the pulsing muscle.
Quill awkward, held in his left hand, moving in steady strokes. Big hands, giant’s hands.
Sturdy, like an old oak tree, like a block of stone.
He sat behind him and to the right, a slight, lurking shadow, lank tent of hair disguising the direction of his gaze. Thin, hidden.
He felt hollow, vacant, filled with air.
He was always with them, although to the side. Not behind them, like the little one, but to the side, equal but separate.
They were all light and spark and show. He was a rock, anchoring them.
Watching, he saw it, how he was the third out of four, a satellite to the binary star system. There was something different in him, something of the earth. He seemed alone, even with others.
At meals, he ate meat, every meal. Sometimes, he ate nothing else. No one else seemed to notice.
His fingernails were bitten, thick, ugly. They looked well used.
The potion required accurate timing, they needed to work in pairs, as homework. Two weeks.
Their names had come out of the cauldron together, partnered. Simple to ignore the snickers and elbow jabs visible out of the corner of his dark eyes. He had not laughed, had turned instead, offered a small smile.
They met in the classroom, late afternoon. Alone. He was kind, tried to converse, pretended there was not a vast divide between them.
Those meaty hands, like mitts. Unable to chop, clumsy with the knife. He needed his thin, precise fingers, his attention to detail. Needed him.
They found they could talk.
Wizard’s chess at first. Strategy. And books, they both read mysteries, enjoyed studying defense. He had an easy manner, asked questions that made him respond. Didn’t seem to mind the sarcasm. They each had one muggle parent, compared notes. They avoided talk about school, friends, differences.
He didn’t seem afraid to hear about the dark, just listened. He told him, some of his darkness, said a few hard things. Realized he trusted him and was not sure why.
When he talked, he watched his thick lips move, noted how they changed shape, formed each sound.
The first time their hands touched was accidental, reaching for a vial. They drew back abruptly, awkward ‘sorry’s, eyes not meeting. It was a shock, like touching boiling water, or ice.
The second time, their wrists met as they held ingredients over the simmering cauldron. It was a delicate touch, lasted only a moment, and neither of them pulled away.
The third time was leaving the classroom after work, the second week. He turned and asked when to meet the next day, touched his forearm, for no reason, for emphasis. Cool fire spread from the arm into his hollow chest.
There was tension, after that touch, a new self-consciousness, because that touch had been interesting, had not been unwelcome.
His hand resting innocently on the surface of the desk that last day, for him to grab, or slap, or lick, like an offering. Those brown, coarse hands.
His own thin fingers, pale, white, he saw them move forward, drawn like a magnet. He wasn’t in control. Laying a hand over his. Holding it there. No one moving.
Then their eyes, they met. Hand on hand, eyes locked. Was it a second later, or a day? They moved apart, continued their work.
They avoided each other, for nine days. He counted.
At meals, they always sat where they could see each other out of the corner of their eyes, even though they never looked at the same time. Each time he glanced up, it seemed the other eyes had just looked away. Amongst his rollicking group, he sat like a stone, a slight smile touching his lips, grey eyes always down.
In class, returning to his sly watching, he noticed the broad shoulders turned just a fraction towards him, a slight acknowledgement, enough to remind him of the touch, of the potential.
The letter was sent by owl. It arrived with the morning post.
He never received post, ever. He glanced anxiously around before unrolling the note under the table. No one had noticed.
The note said, Glad we scored well on the potion. Thanks. Care to meet later? I’ll be in the library.
He read it seven times. He counted. It said the same thing every time.
He was appreciative of his thick tent of hair, blood rushing to his pale cheeks, his thighs grew hot, vision blurred. He looked across to the neighboring table as the grey eyes looked away.
He was alone at the library table. No sparkling entourage to create a scene. He did not look up or offer greetings, just read, tanned hand running through sandy hair.
He sat, pulled out a book. They read at the same table and did not look at each other. Pretended they were not there together. How long? Time had slowed. He turned pages, looked at the type, understood nothing, read the same paragraph four times. He counted.
Across the table, he got up to leave, dropped a small square of parchment as he passed by.
I’m going outside, it said.
Leaning against the tree trunk, edge of the forest, casual tension. He approaches quietly, firm pace, black robe billowing. No moon.
He nods at his approach, stands up straighter. As if he just stumbled upon him. They face each other, nothing to say. He looks at the sky. Then he nods in answer to an unasked question. He is saying yes.
Thin, cold, white fingers reach out, grab the thick, hot, coarse hand. They both look, see their hands together, held. Stare at the connection, the link.
I, he says.
Intercepted, interrupted, their first kiss is odd, almost an accident.
Pressed against the tree, mouths hungry, bodies fiery, hands everywhere.
He wants to feel everything, every inch of him wants to be touched, held, slapped. That body, like an oak tree, leaning into him. He wants to be filled with the granite, the solid earthiness of him. If he could, he would step inside that body, inhabit it, let it fill the void, the hollowness inside.
Possibly, he will dissolve.
Lips, hands, arms, back, the warmth of him, the heat, he whispers his name.
Possibly, he is melting.
The absolute, certain rightness of it is all that holds him up.
These are the things he did next:
He lingered at meals, timing his bites so that they would leave at the same moment, could brush by as they left the hall.
He walked the corridors, day or night, learning his schedule, happening to be striding by as his classes let out.
He worked in the library, all hours, avoiding his dorm, where there was no chance. His marks were higher than they had ever been.
The evil one noticed. I think Snivellus is stalking you, Moony, he overheard.
He smirked, knowing better. The sandy head lurked outside his classes too.
They were very committed very quickly. Surreptitious handing of notes, single words whispered as they passed. Six, Library. Or Eight, Tower. He reveled in the cloak and dagger, the secretiveness, the getting away with it. Felt for the first time that his stealth, his slightness, was important, needed.
He knew he was done for when this happened:
Onto the tower roof, he’s waiting, leaning. Reaches out, touches his hair.
That mocking smile, whispers, You greasy git.
He doesn’t hex him for it. Instead, he smiles back, grabs the folds of his cloak, pulls him close.
He can tease. That’s new.
The subtle changes, the way his skin pulled tighter, his color faded, over the weeks. Such attentive watching could not fail to see it.
Lingering by the Great Hall he heard the evil one say, a bit loud, Don’t let him follow you tonight, Moony, or he’ll know. The sandy head did not look up, but the slick black head surely turned quickly to look in his direction.
He was distorted, pale, ill. He wanted to wrap him in his thin, bony arms, but was afraid they were too weak to hold him up. So he hid, they walked away.
The words ate at him, though. Or he’ll know. Knew he wouldn’t be able to live with that. Of course, he followed.
First, the deep musky smell, a deep, gutteral growling. Then, the slathering jaw, the teeth. Matted fur, the beast chewing its own leg. Took a long moment to realize what he was witnessing. Then he knew.
Unfamiliar arms pinned him, pulled him back. He needed to see more, was desperate to, now that he knew, struggled violently against the restraining grip.
Run, said the voice.
He resisted his assailant all the way down the tunnel, trying to return.
Right after, was the first time he thought the word. Love.
That steady calm. Hiding this. A beast. It was exquisite.
The darkness, the fear, the thoughts he believed he could never share, that no one would ever understand. Felt a cord had been strung between them, and was pulled taut.
Waiting to see him, needing to reestablish his existence, he lay awake all night, his body vibrating. He had changed his skin, teeth, organs. Fingernails. Blood. Tongue. Transformed. He would be all new, later.
The grey eyes, though, they were the same.
The anger came later, wasn’t at him.
At breakfast, he looked broken. Limping, pale, ugly scrape across his cheek.
Took every molecule of willpower in his weak body to stay seated, to only glance. Strategized to cross paths after potions, walked close, said, I know, Meet me, One hour, Tree.
He waited, a distinct shadow amongst shadows. He approached, slowly, stopped short, too far to touch.
You know? he asked, face a mask.
Everything, he replied. I saw. You. He walked forward, hands and lips greedy for the new.
Took a minute for him to believe it, respond, pull back, say, You want this?
I want this.
Later, picking leaves and twigs from the sandy, tousled hair, using long precise fingers. Luxuriating in the closeness, the tortured body relaxing with his touch. Ran his fingers over his wounds, pictured the books he would study later, to heal him. His life’s work.
The grey eyes stayed fixed on him, like a spotlight.
I don’t know what will happen to us. Life is long, he had said.
Yes, he had replied. It is.
It was a binding kiss, then, zealous, candid. A kiss that started in his gut, his heart. It meant a promise, one that he kept. Always.
He had noticed first in class.
The sturdy slope of shoulders, dark skin even in winter, the line on the back of his neck where his hair and skin met. The slow, even, clenching and unclenching of his jaw, the pulsing muscle.
Sturdy, like an old oak tree, like a block of stone.
He was a secret, a disguise. Darkness, obscured by cool light.
Always just behind him, a slight, lurking shadow, hidden. Needing illumination, enlightenment. Able to hold him up, he is strong. Thin fingers, eager to dig into the solid earth of him, understand, find out what’s inside.
Word Count: 1900
Characters: R/S with guest appearance by Sirius
Summary: Severus watches Remus every day, notices everything, needs him, is needed, finds his strength. Marauders era.
Warnings: angst, mild groping, self-indulgence, grammar means nothing to me
A/N: This was a small exercise to satisfy my desire to think through the Hogwart's part of the R/S story. It exploded on me, and I'm posting it to be done with it for now, as it has obsessed me. This is a series of nineteen 100 word drabbles, written in a kind of free verse stream of consciousness. This is also un'beta'd, as I figured the nonsensical grammar would only make a beta miserable. If you see glaring (seemingly unintentional) issues, let me know, I'll fix 'em.
He noticed first in class.
The sturdy slope of shoulders, dark skin even in winter, the line on the back of his neck where his hair and skin met. The slow, even, clenching and unclenching of his jaw during lecture, the pulsing muscle.
Quill awkward, held in his left hand, moving in steady strokes. Big hands, giant’s hands.
Sturdy, like an old oak tree, like a block of stone.
He sat behind him and to the right, a slight, lurking shadow, lank tent of hair disguising the direction of his gaze. Thin, hidden.
He felt hollow, vacant, filled with air.
He was always with them, although to the side. Not behind them, like the little one, but to the side, equal but separate.
They were all light and spark and show. He was a rock, anchoring them.
Watching, he saw it, how he was the third out of four, a satellite to the binary star system. There was something different in him, something of the earth. He seemed alone, even with others.
At meals, he ate meat, every meal. Sometimes, he ate nothing else. No one else seemed to notice.
His fingernails were bitten, thick, ugly. They looked well used.
The potion required accurate timing, they needed to work in pairs, as homework. Two weeks.
Their names had come out of the cauldron together, partnered. Simple to ignore the snickers and elbow jabs visible out of the corner of his dark eyes. He had not laughed, had turned instead, offered a small smile.
They met in the classroom, late afternoon. Alone. He was kind, tried to converse, pretended there was not a vast divide between them.
Those meaty hands, like mitts. Unable to chop, clumsy with the knife. He needed his thin, precise fingers, his attention to detail. Needed him.
They found they could talk.
Wizard’s chess at first. Strategy. And books, they both read mysteries, enjoyed studying defense. He had an easy manner, asked questions that made him respond. Didn’t seem to mind the sarcasm. They each had one muggle parent, compared notes. They avoided talk about school, friends, differences.
He didn’t seem afraid to hear about the dark, just listened. He told him, some of his darkness, said a few hard things. Realized he trusted him and was not sure why.
When he talked, he watched his thick lips move, noted how they changed shape, formed each sound.
The first time their hands touched was accidental, reaching for a vial. They drew back abruptly, awkward ‘sorry’s, eyes not meeting. It was a shock, like touching boiling water, or ice.
The second time, their wrists met as they held ingredients over the simmering cauldron. It was a delicate touch, lasted only a moment, and neither of them pulled away.
The third time was leaving the classroom after work, the second week. He turned and asked when to meet the next day, touched his forearm, for no reason, for emphasis. Cool fire spread from the arm into his hollow chest.
There was tension, after that touch, a new self-consciousness, because that touch had been interesting, had not been unwelcome.
His hand resting innocently on the surface of the desk that last day, for him to grab, or slap, or lick, like an offering. Those brown, coarse hands.
His own thin fingers, pale, white, he saw them move forward, drawn like a magnet. He wasn’t in control. Laying a hand over his. Holding it there. No one moving.
Then their eyes, they met. Hand on hand, eyes locked. Was it a second later, or a day? They moved apart, continued their work.
They avoided each other, for nine days. He counted.
At meals, they always sat where they could see each other out of the corner of their eyes, even though they never looked at the same time. Each time he glanced up, it seemed the other eyes had just looked away. Amongst his rollicking group, he sat like a stone, a slight smile touching his lips, grey eyes always down.
In class, returning to his sly watching, he noticed the broad shoulders turned just a fraction towards him, a slight acknowledgement, enough to remind him of the touch, of the potential.
The letter was sent by owl. It arrived with the morning post.
He never received post, ever. He glanced anxiously around before unrolling the note under the table. No one had noticed.
The note said, Glad we scored well on the potion. Thanks. Care to meet later? I’ll be in the library.
He read it seven times. He counted. It said the same thing every time.
He was appreciative of his thick tent of hair, blood rushing to his pale cheeks, his thighs grew hot, vision blurred. He looked across to the neighboring table as the grey eyes looked away.
He was alone at the library table. No sparkling entourage to create a scene. He did not look up or offer greetings, just read, tanned hand running through sandy hair.
He sat, pulled out a book. They read at the same table and did not look at each other. Pretended they were not there together. How long? Time had slowed. He turned pages, looked at the type, understood nothing, read the same paragraph four times. He counted.
Across the table, he got up to leave, dropped a small square of parchment as he passed by.
I’m going outside, it said.
Leaning against the tree trunk, edge of the forest, casual tension. He approaches quietly, firm pace, black robe billowing. No moon.
He nods at his approach, stands up straighter. As if he just stumbled upon him. They face each other, nothing to say. He looks at the sky. Then he nods in answer to an unasked question. He is saying yes.
Thin, cold, white fingers reach out, grab the thick, hot, coarse hand. They both look, see their hands together, held. Stare at the connection, the link.
I, he says.
Intercepted, interrupted, their first kiss is odd, almost an accident.
Pressed against the tree, mouths hungry, bodies fiery, hands everywhere.
He wants to feel everything, every inch of him wants to be touched, held, slapped. That body, like an oak tree, leaning into him. He wants to be filled with the granite, the solid earthiness of him. If he could, he would step inside that body, inhabit it, let it fill the void, the hollowness inside.
Possibly, he will dissolve.
Lips, hands, arms, back, the warmth of him, the heat, he whispers his name.
Possibly, he is melting.
The absolute, certain rightness of it is all that holds him up.
These are the things he did next:
He lingered at meals, timing his bites so that they would leave at the same moment, could brush by as they left the hall.
He walked the corridors, day or night, learning his schedule, happening to be striding by as his classes let out.
He worked in the library, all hours, avoiding his dorm, where there was no chance. His marks were higher than they had ever been.
The evil one noticed. I think Snivellus is stalking you, Moony, he overheard.
He smirked, knowing better. The sandy head lurked outside his classes too.
They were very committed very quickly. Surreptitious handing of notes, single words whispered as they passed. Six, Library. Or Eight, Tower. He reveled in the cloak and dagger, the secretiveness, the getting away with it. Felt for the first time that his stealth, his slightness, was important, needed.
He knew he was done for when this happened:
Onto the tower roof, he’s waiting, leaning. Reaches out, touches his hair.
That mocking smile, whispers, You greasy git.
He doesn’t hex him for it. Instead, he smiles back, grabs the folds of his cloak, pulls him close.
He can tease. That’s new.
The subtle changes, the way his skin pulled tighter, his color faded, over the weeks. Such attentive watching could not fail to see it.
Lingering by the Great Hall he heard the evil one say, a bit loud, Don’t let him follow you tonight, Moony, or he’ll know. The sandy head did not look up, but the slick black head surely turned quickly to look in his direction.
He was distorted, pale, ill. He wanted to wrap him in his thin, bony arms, but was afraid they were too weak to hold him up. So he hid, they walked away.
The words ate at him, though. Or he’ll know. Knew he wouldn’t be able to live with that. Of course, he followed.
First, the deep musky smell, a deep, gutteral growling. Then, the slathering jaw, the teeth. Matted fur, the beast chewing its own leg. Took a long moment to realize what he was witnessing. Then he knew.
Unfamiliar arms pinned him, pulled him back. He needed to see more, was desperate to, now that he knew, struggled violently against the restraining grip.
Run, said the voice.
He resisted his assailant all the way down the tunnel, trying to return.
Right after, was the first time he thought the word. Love.
That steady calm. Hiding this. A beast. It was exquisite.
The darkness, the fear, the thoughts he believed he could never share, that no one would ever understand. Felt a cord had been strung between them, and was pulled taut.
Waiting to see him, needing to reestablish his existence, he lay awake all night, his body vibrating. He had changed his skin, teeth, organs. Fingernails. Blood. Tongue. Transformed. He would be all new, later.
The grey eyes, though, they were the same.
The anger came later, wasn’t at him.
At breakfast, he looked broken. Limping, pale, ugly scrape across his cheek.
Took every molecule of willpower in his weak body to stay seated, to only glance. Strategized to cross paths after potions, walked close, said, I know, Meet me, One hour, Tree.
He waited, a distinct shadow amongst shadows. He approached, slowly, stopped short, too far to touch.
You know? he asked, face a mask.
Everything, he replied. I saw. You. He walked forward, hands and lips greedy for the new.
Took a minute for him to believe it, respond, pull back, say, You want this?
I want this.
Later, picking leaves and twigs from the sandy, tousled hair, using long precise fingers. Luxuriating in the closeness, the tortured body relaxing with his touch. Ran his fingers over his wounds, pictured the books he would study later, to heal him. His life’s work.
The grey eyes stayed fixed on him, like a spotlight.
I don’t know what will happen to us. Life is long, he had said.
Yes, he had replied. It is.
It was a binding kiss, then, zealous, candid. A kiss that started in his gut, his heart. It meant a promise, one that he kept. Always.
He had noticed first in class.
The sturdy slope of shoulders, dark skin even in winter, the line on the back of his neck where his hair and skin met. The slow, even, clenching and unclenching of his jaw, the pulsing muscle.
Sturdy, like an old oak tree, like a block of stone.
He was a secret, a disguise. Darkness, obscured by cool light.
Always just behind him, a slight, lurking shadow, hidden. Needing illumination, enlightenment. Able to hold him up, he is strong. Thin fingers, eager to dig into the solid earth of him, understand, find out what’s inside.
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no subject
Date: 13 Jun 2007 03:29 pm (UTC)Mmm, nice way to convey that early sense of connection, of attraction.
They avoided each other, for nine days. He counted.
Of course Severus would count... *sighs* Although he's doing the avoiding too.
He can tease. That’s new.
*whimpers* Having foreknowledge makes this terribly sad.
You have some great imagery here; the way that Severus thinks of Remus as a tree, a stone; the descriptions of Remus' hands and the contrasts Severus draws between the two of them. Lovely.
no subject
Date: 13 Jun 2007 08:07 pm (UTC)I appreciate your careful reading and taking the time to write this. I'm always very interested in hands and touch, and I'm afraid my self-indulgence in that theme was quite evident in this piece. I'm glad you enjoyed the images.
Severus counting just happened and then I loved it too and repeated it. I can almost imagine him with a little pocket calendar, and tiny precise notes on each day...hmm.
I love abletolaughathimself!Severus, even though he only sticks his skinny neck up every once in a while. Well, almost never. But if anyone can get him to show his face, it would be Remus.
Thank you, so so much for reading. Hooray! *bg*