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crack_van2010-06-18 02:26 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2010-06-18 02:26 pm
Entry tags:
Palimpsest by rancid_bean (NC-17)
Fandom: HARRY POTTER
Pairing: Sirius/Regulus
Length: 22,050
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: Profile at Skyehawke
Why this must be read:
Beyond the veil stories are among some of my favorites in this fandom, and [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] does an excellent job in this piece (written for last year's [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]) showing Sirius as he comes to terms with his life, his brother, and ultimately his own death.
It’s a bit like being born, or maybe like dying, something transitional, lustral. Sirius thinks of a snake biting its own tail as he wanders around his old room, no, his room, which hasn’t changed a bit—no, that’s not right, the room is in its present day for the day he's in, which is makes him vaguely younger than he was in death, though he never realized how hard it could be to guess one's own age. He doesn't know what year it is. There is a feeling of some sort of strange limbo, perhaps purgatory—that would make sense. Because there doesn’t seem to be anyone here but Regulus, and Regulus doesn’t seem to exist unless Sirius is looking at him, talking to him, touching him.
In a cedar box in the cabinet are asphodel and a blue glass pipe, gifts from James, he remembers, and then that name washes over him and he has to drop to his knees. His fingers quiver slightly as he reaches into the cabinet, murmuring to no one, "Can you feel this?" as he lifts the asphodel’s leather pouch out of the cedar box and rubs his thumb over it. He unties the cord holding it closed, twines it around his fingers, lifts the bag to his nose and inhales. The smell is rich and dangerous and sends vertigo rushing through him. He closes his eyes. "Yes," he whispers, opening his eyes and sitting up straight. "Regulus," he says, looking around, and Regulus is standing in the door.
"You shouldn’t," he says, pointing to the box.
"You should," Sirius says, beckoning him forward with a crooked finger, and there he comes. Regulus sits cross-legged beside Sirius still on his knees in front of the cedar box, and Sirius takes his hand and wraps his fingers around the pipe.
"You feel it?" he says. It's real. Regulus is staring at the glass in his hand.
"Yes," he says, looking up at Sirius. Sirius takes the pipe from him, its surface warm, and pinches out the shredded leaves and petals from the leather pouch, green stems and leaves crumbled and flaking and the pink-white petals furled at the edges, glowing slightly. They crush easily into the bowl of the pipe and Sirius takes out his wand. He hands the pipe out to Regulus and Regulus takes it automatically, staring down at the dry murkiness within. Sirius looks up at him and puts his wandtip to the bowl.
Regulus is putting the pipe to his lips and Sirius is lighting it, murmuring, "Feel that," as Regulus inhales, watching with wide eyes and rapt attention. The smoke ekes out from where the glass meets Regulus’ lips, curling up and shading his eyes. Regulus lowers it and before he can exhale Sirius has grabbed his head and pressed their mouths together hard and fast, and he breathes in and Regulus is a natural, Regulus breathes out and the smoke that fills Sirius’ lungs feels like his brother.
Sirius pulls back and swallows and opens his lips to let the smoke curl softly out in tendrils that break on the ceiling. Regulus watches, eyes hooded. Sirius lights the pipe again and they pass it back and forth until they are smoking ash.
Somehow, this is the realest feeling of them all, the kind of liberation he could so rarely get inside this cosseted overdark place. Regulus is looking at him, breathes, "Sirius." The cadence of his voice sparkles, sends streams of stars winding through the room, moves over Sirius’ skin like cool air at twilight.
He rocks forward to lean over Regulus, who lies back onto his elbows on the floor and lets Sirius run two fingers over his ear and then the corner of his lip, watching the colors that rise and fall where their skin has touched.
Regulus lifts his head and kisses him, and Sirius drops himself down to Regulus, wanting them to be one person. He can read Regulus’ mind, and Regulus wants his hands on his skin so he does it, lifting the fabric to slide his fingers over the cool white skin there. Regulus’ skin is a canvas and Sirius’ fingers paint calligraphy on him, drawing long brushstrokes with two fingertips, sweeping in a curve down Regulus’ belly to one hipbone. Regulus has his eyes closed, and Sirius can see the colors, see them spread from his fingers and refract out into the room.
He’s learning Regulus’ body all over again, the two of them a tautology. Regulus is him, they are each other, but with measured differences—his brother a little smaller, a little more pale, his black eyes deep, coal-black and burning opposite Sirius’ grey ones. Sirius feels heat spread over his skin where Regulus looks at him, sees the sparks fly and the flame sear blue, feels himself crumbling to ash. They melt together, tangled on the floor, shirtsleeves half-removed and knotted and clutched between their fingers. Sirius ruts down into Regulus and squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fingers in the carpet beneath them to anchor himself from floating away.
***
It was always a journey for Sirius, through life and death and wherever he is now. He has been through life, really, he knows, though he had hardly more than twenty years before everything was taken from him, but that was a long time to live each day the way he lived them, full and hard and packed with emotion and activity. Even the time not spent with the people he loved most was time spent dreaming, scheming, crafting his own person distinct from the one they wanted to make him.
And Regulus was a part of that, like an appendage, as though Sirius had a clone that was trying to imprint itself with his life but kept falling behind, making mistakes, getting distracted. Regulus was never as willing as Sirius to disobey, always looking around and lowering his voice to a stage whisper, always avoiding Sirius’ eyes at dinner, nodding, saying what they wanted to hear.
It’s hard for Sirius to remember details of his life before Azkaban beyond the automatics, as though someone spilled water through the pages of the photo album and he can’t make out what the pictures are really saying, only what they appear to be. He knows the nominal existence he held in this house, knows his routine intimately like muscle memory. There are memories that stuck, ones that carried through with him forever, like Christmas, like rowing with his parents at dinner and Regulus siding with them for the first time, like the night he walked out on them forever.
But he knows there are things beneath the surface, moments half-remembered and darkly shadowed, whispered things, secrets, things that died with the life in the house and those twelve lost years and that unknown moment when the first war took Regulus. Things that would explain why now, in this half-life, this do-over that he can’t quite wrap his mind around, when he kisses Regulus he knows just how to fit their mouths together, why now he can touch him in all the right ways with practiced ease.
In the year he spent here at the end of his life there were no such memories haunting him from the shadows, none that he remembers, but they were there within him somewhere, because this existed once when they were real, when they were alive, as teenagers. It's not that he's forgotten, but that the memories must be dredged up from a part of his life that was always locked away, a secret he kept hidden. In this house of decades and a dimension later it is a fixture within him like everything else.
Palimpsest
Pairing: Sirius/Regulus
Length: 22,050
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: Profile at Skyehawke
Why this must be read:
Beyond the veil stories are among some of my favorites in this fandom, and [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] does an excellent job in this piece (written for last year's [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]) showing Sirius as he comes to terms with his life, his brother, and ultimately his own death.
It’s a bit like being born, or maybe like dying, something transitional, lustral. Sirius thinks of a snake biting its own tail as he wanders around his old room, no, his room, which hasn’t changed a bit—no, that’s not right, the room is in its present day for the day he's in, which is makes him vaguely younger than he was in death, though he never realized how hard it could be to guess one's own age. He doesn't know what year it is. There is a feeling of some sort of strange limbo, perhaps purgatory—that would make sense. Because there doesn’t seem to be anyone here but Regulus, and Regulus doesn’t seem to exist unless Sirius is looking at him, talking to him, touching him.
In a cedar box in the cabinet are asphodel and a blue glass pipe, gifts from James, he remembers, and then that name washes over him and he has to drop to his knees. His fingers quiver slightly as he reaches into the cabinet, murmuring to no one, "Can you feel this?" as he lifts the asphodel’s leather pouch out of the cedar box and rubs his thumb over it. He unties the cord holding it closed, twines it around his fingers, lifts the bag to his nose and inhales. The smell is rich and dangerous and sends vertigo rushing through him. He closes his eyes. "Yes," he whispers, opening his eyes and sitting up straight. "Regulus," he says, looking around, and Regulus is standing in the door.
"You shouldn’t," he says, pointing to the box.
"You should," Sirius says, beckoning him forward with a crooked finger, and there he comes. Regulus sits cross-legged beside Sirius still on his knees in front of the cedar box, and Sirius takes his hand and wraps his fingers around the pipe.
"You feel it?" he says. It's real. Regulus is staring at the glass in his hand.
"Yes," he says, looking up at Sirius. Sirius takes the pipe from him, its surface warm, and pinches out the shredded leaves and petals from the leather pouch, green stems and leaves crumbled and flaking and the pink-white petals furled at the edges, glowing slightly. They crush easily into the bowl of the pipe and Sirius takes out his wand. He hands the pipe out to Regulus and Regulus takes it automatically, staring down at the dry murkiness within. Sirius looks up at him and puts his wandtip to the bowl.
Regulus is putting the pipe to his lips and Sirius is lighting it, murmuring, "Feel that," as Regulus inhales, watching with wide eyes and rapt attention. The smoke ekes out from where the glass meets Regulus’ lips, curling up and shading his eyes. Regulus lowers it and before he can exhale Sirius has grabbed his head and pressed their mouths together hard and fast, and he breathes in and Regulus is a natural, Regulus breathes out and the smoke that fills Sirius’ lungs feels like his brother.
Sirius pulls back and swallows and opens his lips to let the smoke curl softly out in tendrils that break on the ceiling. Regulus watches, eyes hooded. Sirius lights the pipe again and they pass it back and forth until they are smoking ash.
Somehow, this is the realest feeling of them all, the kind of liberation he could so rarely get inside this cosseted overdark place. Regulus is looking at him, breathes, "Sirius." The cadence of his voice sparkles, sends streams of stars winding through the room, moves over Sirius’ skin like cool air at twilight.
He rocks forward to lean over Regulus, who lies back onto his elbows on the floor and lets Sirius run two fingers over his ear and then the corner of his lip, watching the colors that rise and fall where their skin has touched.
Regulus lifts his head and kisses him, and Sirius drops himself down to Regulus, wanting them to be one person. He can read Regulus’ mind, and Regulus wants his hands on his skin so he does it, lifting the fabric to slide his fingers over the cool white skin there. Regulus’ skin is a canvas and Sirius’ fingers paint calligraphy on him, drawing long brushstrokes with two fingertips, sweeping in a curve down Regulus’ belly to one hipbone. Regulus has his eyes closed, and Sirius can see the colors, see them spread from his fingers and refract out into the room.
He’s learning Regulus’ body all over again, the two of them a tautology. Regulus is him, they are each other, but with measured differences—his brother a little smaller, a little more pale, his black eyes deep, coal-black and burning opposite Sirius’ grey ones. Sirius feels heat spread over his skin where Regulus looks at him, sees the sparks fly and the flame sear blue, feels himself crumbling to ash. They melt together, tangled on the floor, shirtsleeves half-removed and knotted and clutched between their fingers. Sirius ruts down into Regulus and squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fingers in the carpet beneath them to anchor himself from floating away.
***
It was always a journey for Sirius, through life and death and wherever he is now. He has been through life, really, he knows, though he had hardly more than twenty years before everything was taken from him, but that was a long time to live each day the way he lived them, full and hard and packed with emotion and activity. Even the time not spent with the people he loved most was time spent dreaming, scheming, crafting his own person distinct from the one they wanted to make him.
And Regulus was a part of that, like an appendage, as though Sirius had a clone that was trying to imprint itself with his life but kept falling behind, making mistakes, getting distracted. Regulus was never as willing as Sirius to disobey, always looking around and lowering his voice to a stage whisper, always avoiding Sirius’ eyes at dinner, nodding, saying what they wanted to hear.
It’s hard for Sirius to remember details of his life before Azkaban beyond the automatics, as though someone spilled water through the pages of the photo album and he can’t make out what the pictures are really saying, only what they appear to be. He knows the nominal existence he held in this house, knows his routine intimately like muscle memory. There are memories that stuck, ones that carried through with him forever, like Christmas, like rowing with his parents at dinner and Regulus siding with them for the first time, like the night he walked out on them forever.
But he knows there are things beneath the surface, moments half-remembered and darkly shadowed, whispered things, secrets, things that died with the life in the house and those twelve lost years and that unknown moment when the first war took Regulus. Things that would explain why now, in this half-life, this do-over that he can’t quite wrap his mind around, when he kisses Regulus he knows just how to fit their mouths together, why now he can touch him in all the right ways with practiced ease.
In the year he spent here at the end of his life there were no such memories haunting him from the shadows, none that he remembers, but they were there within him somewhere, because this existed once when they were real, when they were alive, as teenagers. It's not that he's forgotten, but that the memories must be dredged up from a part of his life that was always locked away, a secret he kept hidden. In this house of decades and a dimension later it is a fixture within him like everything else.
Palimpsest