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remixredux08Title: Lifeline (the Breathe The Moon 2am overdub)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nopejr
Summary: "Look at me. Breathe."
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Harry Potter created by J. K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement or defamation is intended.
Original story: Lifeline by sasha_davidovna
Lifeline (the Breathe The Moon 2am overdub)
Ancient and most noble they call you, before I mean, back when you were Sirius Black and not just Sirius, not yet Padfoot. Ancient and most noble, so stop slouching -- stand up straight, boy! Head up, chest out, shoulders back! Ancient and most noble, so be smart (in appearance, not too much in brains, not so much you'll be something new, something independent) and be silent (save for points of etiquette, for "how do you do, ma'am" and "thank you, sir") and be seen, not heard, (don't cry or laugh (leave your brother alone) or sob or shuffle or breathe.)
But you are not made for this. You are not made for statue sitting, for plastic smiles and wooden words and yes, sir, no, ma'am, how high would you like me to jump? You are not made to be their performing puppy, to beg and bark and roll over and play dead. You know this then, not as you know it now, in words and actions and deeds, but in that foul taste in your throat, in that deep bone ache when you press against the cold glass in my silver light, in that first deep gasp of midnight air.
You meet him on the train, then, this pale and shabby, soft-spoken boy. His rage is not your own, nor his secrets or loves, though you will, you do share all three. You both hear me singing, you pulled, him pushed. The resonance of bone. The coda of night. You meet him on the train, you, bounding between compartments, breathless with laughter and the rocking, rumbling roar of the rails, and him, down there in the corner, him, so very small and still and smiling just a little with his lips and ever so much more with his gold-flecked eyes.
He will never curse me, as you will; fear, but never curse. He will never rant, brazen and self-assured and pausing only for the quickest breath to tumble you along. He will not come easily to you, nor come well, but he will come, sobbing out his truths, and you will nod, serious (always, ha ha) and take his fear and keep it with your own, so that both will be safe. He will tremble and shake, cry, scream, but still and silent in your arms and he will learn that your grip can no more be released than mine.
And in this moment, however often it comes around on you again, you will think of yourself not as flesh but as floating thought, as dust motes drifting in the light, as you suck in and in and air and body in, an all over body cough, and there go the colours sliding, bones creaking, skin pulled taut and hair needles pressing through (you get tattoos just so you can feel this again, squirming and whimpering in the chair, pretending pain where pleasure burns) Sirius into Padfoot, consumed in joy and suffocated guilt that his transfixion is torture, not triumph.
Still, this is for him. It is for him, my rising; for him, how you will always turn your head to me, how you will know my comings and my goings and my many changing shapes, even when you are apart. It is for him that you will challenge me, will against will to see who is the stronger. It is for him that you will not blink, that you will meet my gaze and his, to the end and past it. For him, this reckless, wild abandon, these endless panting trails through Scottish snow, these frolics between Forbidden trees.
You are steady. I betray. You hold him from the quick. I betray his flesh, his reason, his calm, his joy. It is because you trust him but you do not (can not) trust me that you will pass on your duty and in doing so betray your friends, and him. I will slip free while you are both encaged, blood and sweat in the dust I touch. You will choke on me, glaring back between the bars, hackles raised and spirit falling, unable to give voice to your rage. Still, he will not curse me. You, perhaps. Not me.
Even when you are not there, when you are lost to him for the moment or for the age, he will hold to you; you, his sweet black lifeline amidst the cold and blinding silver. Even when he can not bear to hear your name, he will voice it in the dark. He will remember being jostled and joked at, until his breath bubbles out around the pain. He will remember how you know him, all his signs and beats. He will turn his eyes from mine to seek yours, no matter how I, endlessly jealous, hurt him for it.
And I will hurt him. My song is in his veins; it is silver slipping, ice running, fire in the core. I will stretch those nails he bites short to bite him back, I will close his throat and stop his lungs and shake his insides out, I will hurt him and I will make him hurt because he is monstrous and he is mine, and this is our nature, him and me and you, this is our endless circling dance, so bright and glorious and so terrible to behold. And this is what you are made for, because you--
You can not take him from me as I take him from himself, but you can take him, to hold and to cherish and to return when I have had my fill. You can be his anchor and his home, his comfort and his release. He can not stay, but you can follow, body to body, shape to shape, cycle to cycle. Ancient and most noble, they call you, and what is more ancient, and more noble, than this? To be held and to hold. To be loved and to love. To be breathed and to breathe. Breathe. Just breathe.
Author:
nopejrSummary: "Look at me. Breathe."
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Harry Potter created by J. K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement or defamation is intended.
Original story: Lifeline by sasha_davidovna
Lifeline (the Breathe The Moon 2am overdub)
Ancient and most noble they call you, before I mean, back when you were Sirius Black and not just Sirius, not yet Padfoot. Ancient and most noble, so stop slouching -- stand up straight, boy! Head up, chest out, shoulders back! Ancient and most noble, so be smart (in appearance, not too much in brains, not so much you'll be something new, something independent) and be silent (save for points of etiquette, for "how do you do, ma'am" and "thank you, sir") and be seen, not heard, (don't cry or laugh (leave your brother alone) or sob or shuffle or breathe.)
But you are not made for this. You are not made for statue sitting, for plastic smiles and wooden words and yes, sir, no, ma'am, how high would you like me to jump? You are not made to be their performing puppy, to beg and bark and roll over and play dead. You know this then, not as you know it now, in words and actions and deeds, but in that foul taste in your throat, in that deep bone ache when you press against the cold glass in my silver light, in that first deep gasp of midnight air.
You meet him on the train, then, this pale and shabby, soft-spoken boy. His rage is not your own, nor his secrets or loves, though you will, you do share all three. You both hear me singing, you pulled, him pushed. The resonance of bone. The coda of night. You meet him on the train, you, bounding between compartments, breathless with laughter and the rocking, rumbling roar of the rails, and him, down there in the corner, him, so very small and still and smiling just a little with his lips and ever so much more with his gold-flecked eyes.
He will never curse me, as you will; fear, but never curse. He will never rant, brazen and self-assured and pausing only for the quickest breath to tumble you along. He will not come easily to you, nor come well, but he will come, sobbing out his truths, and you will nod, serious (always, ha ha) and take his fear and keep it with your own, so that both will be safe. He will tremble and shake, cry, scream, but still and silent in your arms and he will learn that your grip can no more be released than mine.
And in this moment, however often it comes around on you again, you will think of yourself not as flesh but as floating thought, as dust motes drifting in the light, as you suck in and in and air and body in, an all over body cough, and there go the colours sliding, bones creaking, skin pulled taut and hair needles pressing through (you get tattoos just so you can feel this again, squirming and whimpering in the chair, pretending pain where pleasure burns) Sirius into Padfoot, consumed in joy and suffocated guilt that his transfixion is torture, not triumph.
Still, this is for him. It is for him, my rising; for him, how you will always turn your head to me, how you will know my comings and my goings and my many changing shapes, even when you are apart. It is for him that you will challenge me, will against will to see who is the stronger. It is for him that you will not blink, that you will meet my gaze and his, to the end and past it. For him, this reckless, wild abandon, these endless panting trails through Scottish snow, these frolics between Forbidden trees.
You are steady. I betray. You hold him from the quick. I betray his flesh, his reason, his calm, his joy. It is because you trust him but you do not (can not) trust me that you will pass on your duty and in doing so betray your friends, and him. I will slip free while you are both encaged, blood and sweat in the dust I touch. You will choke on me, glaring back between the bars, hackles raised and spirit falling, unable to give voice to your rage. Still, he will not curse me. You, perhaps. Not me.
Even when you are not there, when you are lost to him for the moment or for the age, he will hold to you; you, his sweet black lifeline amidst the cold and blinding silver. Even when he can not bear to hear your name, he will voice it in the dark. He will remember being jostled and joked at, until his breath bubbles out around the pain. He will remember how you know him, all his signs and beats. He will turn his eyes from mine to seek yours, no matter how I, endlessly jealous, hurt him for it.
And I will hurt him. My song is in his veins; it is silver slipping, ice running, fire in the core. I will stretch those nails he bites short to bite him back, I will close his throat and stop his lungs and shake his insides out, I will hurt him and I will make him hurt because he is monstrous and he is mine, and this is our nature, him and me and you, this is our endless circling dance, so bright and glorious and so terrible to behold. And this is what you are made for, because you--
You can not take him from me as I take him from himself, but you can take him, to hold and to cherish and to return when I have had my fill. You can be his anchor and his home, his comfort and his release. He can not stay, but you can follow, body to body, shape to shape, cycle to cycle. Ancient and most noble, they call you, and what is more ancient, and more noble, than this? To be held and to hold. To be loved and to love. To be breathed and to breathe. Breathe. Just breathe.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-20 12:22 am (UTC)Seriously, breathtaking. Thank you!!!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-26 08:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-21 03:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-26 08:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-27 01:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-28 10:12 am (UTC)