Nov. 3rd, 2008 11:04 pm
caedesdeo: (Default)
[personal profile] caedesdeo
Final lot of finished ones. There may or may not be any more after this, if there are they will eventually(!) get posted.

For: [livejournal.com profile] gwathhenation
Wordcount: 920. This is very much not a drabble.
Prompt: Remus/Sirius, Edwardian AU, Oxford students.

Sirius is playing truant when he first sees the pale, sandy haired boy quietly reading at one of the tables in the library. He appears fully absorbed in what Sirius recognises as one of the latest, and driest, books on astronomy that his father bought him for a birthday gift, but he’s quick to look up when Sirius approaches him and willingly identifies himself as Remus Lupin.
That meeting is the beginning of a new friendship, after they got past the rather awkward stage of Sirius managing to insult every instructor that Remus liked (quite inadvertently) and Remus being very sharp with him about it (quite purposefully).
Remus is, as Sirius soon discovers, a very bright young man attending Oxford as a scholarship student and incredibly sensitive about the fact that his family would never have been able to afford anything else for him. Sirius tries to keep quiet the fact that his family had paid for the best of everything the University has to offer, but forgets that his surname is Black and that Remus is quite capable of making the right assumption on occasion.
They are oddly matched, the two of them. Sirius has the absolute sheer confidence that comes only from belonging to one of the oldest British aristocratic families, while Remus is surrounded by a quiet air of wisdom that would be more seemly in a man many decades his senior. They balance each other in a way that neither of their social groups is willing to accept, and soon they find that they have isolated themselves into a group of two but neither particularly cares.
It is Remus who first tells Sirius about his illness, about how he prefers male companions to females, but it is Sirius who first accepts Remus for this because he himself has the same condition. Neither has dared to tell their families, for Sirius is his father’s heir and Remus is the only son of aging parents who would never condone such behaviour.
It is Sirius who first takes Remus to a very exclusive brothel in a genteel neighbourhood, the type of place where discretion is not merely convenient but absolutely essential. They make several more visits to the same young men before turning to each other one night, their hearts made lucid by the absinthe that fogs their minds and neither regrets it in the morning.
It is November when Remus first begins to ail, growing ever paler as a hacking cough wracks his thin frame. They blame the winter weather and together consume prodigious quantities of smoky opium, the numbing haze relaxing both into languid stupor.
It is May when they face the fact that Remus has got no better, the warmth of spring not touching the illness that grips his lungs. They visit apothecary after apothecary, and Remus grow more ill with every passing month.
It is June when he begins to cough up blood, a bright red stain on his tattered handkerchief that looks insultingly colourful. In desperation, Sirius takes his lover to his family doctor who merely confirms their deepest fears.
It is Remus who insists of staying in the library for hours at a time, coughing muffled by the worn sleeves of his battered jacket. He easily gets cold now, the consumption eating away at his lungs sapping all his vital force. Sirius draws into a shell of his self that consists solely of his sandy haired lover dying before his eyes.
It is Sirius who notifies the Lupins when Remus lapses into unconsciousness more than he wakes, sending them tickets for the train to bring them at the fastest possible speed to the city. They are quiet solemn folk, who Sirius leads into the room where Remus sleeps and who he does not tell that he has been their son’s lover for many months.
It is Remus who wakes Sirius on the final night, one last heaving set of coughing shuddering through his wasted frame. He holds the hand of the heir to the House of Black, smiles his achingly sweet smile one last time and dies as Sirius begs him to hold on, begs him not to leave him alone like this.
It is the Head of the House of Black who finds them there, his son bent double over the still form of the boy who had taken over his life in the best way possible, sobbing gently. He leads his son quietly from the room and doesn’t say a thing as Sirius leaves the house, heading for the library where they spent so much time amidst ancient books and golden shafts of dusty light.
It is Sirius who pays the undertaker, unable to bear the thought of his beloved Remus mouldering in a pauper’s grave as his parents cannot afford more than the basics for their only son. He is the only person at the plot of land as the mahogany coffin holding the husk of his lover is lowered six foot deep, the only one to mark this final passing.
It is November when Sirius begins to cough, and soon his crisp white handkerchief bears stains of bright, brilliant, Black blood.
It is early in the following spring that the lonely grave marked Remus Lupin is joined by another, the final resting place of the Heir to the House of Black. This funeral is attended by a swarming throng, of friends and kin and old acquaintances. But the only person who really matters is laid beside him once again.

For [livejournal.com profile] supes_
Wordcount: 200
Prompt: Marcus/Oliver, phrase to include: "by the short hairs".

Oliver smiles as he pulls on the fishnet stockings that Marcus had got from somewhere. (He doesn’t know where any of his outfit comes from, not the tight green top nor the flowing black skirt, but neither does he care. The heeled shoes have been transfigured from his trainers, because his feet are far to big for women’s footwear.) The Slytherin may think he’s got him by the short hairs, threatening to tell the entire school what happened in the showers but Marcus doesn’t know that it’s no secret, there’s nothing special about being sucked off by Oliver after Quidditch because he does it regularly.
But this, this is a secret. The thrill of enjoyment that’s shivering his spine as he lines his eyes with steady hands, paints his lips with dusky red, looks at himself in a silent mirror.
He took this dare because it lets him walk the halls in women’s clothes and pretty makeup, lets those watching think his cheeks are red from shame, red from anger. Not because he’s so aroused he fears the skirt will start to tent, not because it’s something that he’s wanted for so long.
Not because he’s smiling, on the inside.

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