americaschavez



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    “I am paying attention,” Clint says, glaring at him. He’s so done with this guy. “Your name is Cale Montague. You wear sunglasses both at night and inside, which means you’re doubly the tool I thought you were. Your first name is also a vegetable, so I’m guessing your parents were either hippies or super rich. You like to hit poor, defenseless guys, and your suit is very much a last season kind of thing. That about cover it?”

    Montague looks a little nonplussed at this. Behind him, Barnes’s shoulders are shaking with muffled laughter. Clint stifles his own grin and waits for an answer.

    After a moment, Montague pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

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    24 Feb 2024

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    “There’s nothing keeping you here. You know that. And,” Sirius continues, “we don’t see enough of you.”

    Remus lifts his gaze up over him. He’s been rationing the sight of Sirius, today, see. Each glance, etched into his retinas and tucked into the jacket of his father’s hand-me-down suit. Like a smoke, like a pear drop. Something sweet.

    His mother is dead and he is thinking about putting his hands beneath his best friend’s shirt. Often, he worries that eventually resenting himself is not going to be enough, and he’s going to start resenting Sirius, too, for the mess he has made of him.

    or:

    Remus is nineteen and tired, now. And he knows that if he and Sirius were ever going to become anything—if Sirius loved Remus the way Remus loves, and will probably always love, him—it already would’ve happened.

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    16 Dec 2023

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    The Gryffindor common room, a party, and spin the bottle.

     

    “Who are you trying to kiss, Padfoot?”
    The air stills, stifling, and Remus is caught in the turnover of every lyric, the scratch of the record player and the soundless lull as it ends, waiting to be flipped. He stares at Sirius.
    Sirius blinks, sucks his cheek between his teeth and raises his eyebrows. “It’d ruin the fun if I told, wouldn’t it?”

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    15 Dec 2023

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    They’re so close. Sirius can feel Remus’ hot, bated breath on his skin. He can see every one of Remus’ honey freckles and the white spiderwebs that course through his scar tissue. He can hear every one of Remus’ sharp inhales and shaky exhales; It’s the only sound he can hear above his own heart racing through his veins.

    And his heart is doing that —racing. But it’s not like a thud, thud, thud in his chest or even a soft, fluttering sound like a warm, Irish lilt. The sound is more like a swoosh, like a pendulum swing, jumping from white-hot anticipation to cold-blooded fear and back again.

    -or-

    Remus is a storm blowing through Sirius’ small town and Sirius is laid out on the waterlogged cobblestone streets waiting to be washed away.

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    15 Dec 2023

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    It’s been a little over a year since Sirius had kissed him for the first time on Halloween, crowding him up against the counter, whispering ‘Hey, you’ in his ear, breath warm with alcohol. A little over a year since Remus had tried half-heartedly to push him away, whispering, ‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’ To which Sirius had said, ‘Give me one reason why not,’ and Remus had stood there unable to say, ‘Because I'm in love with you, because I’m scared of what that love may do to me,’ and unable to come up with anything else, choking on a couple years worth of unsaid words, and so he’d just let it happen, more than just let it happen. It’s been three years since the boy across the hall had knocked on his dorm door to introduce himself, posh accent, ironed-down shirt, lithe, clever fingers pushing long black hair from his face before extending his hand out in offering. Three years since Remus had stared down at that hand, a bit bewildered, before reaching out to grasp it and Sirius had smiled up at him, butterscotch sweet, and his hand had been soft and warm and Remus hadn’t wanted him to let go. The feeling has never gone away.

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    09 Dec 2023