Author: Mosh Title: Years To Go Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks! |
"Wake up, Sirius Black." Sirius comes to, and in an instant and he's lying on the gritty prison floor, cushioned in the long, green grass; the scent is rich and fulfilling and crickets trill a quavering tune, rubbing their wiry legs together around him, playing for him, a symphony of reep-crick, reep-crick. "Wake up." He can hear the faint, lonely howl in the distance, the crack of ice-laced branches as they snap like glass against a furred body and tinkle on the frozen earth. It's moving closer, closer, the pant of excitement, "Padfoot, play..." A mischievous growl, Moony, an old friend, a memory. Sirius transforms as the cell door creaks open. The sounds echo endlessly around the corridor outside. The other inmates wail in sympathy, crying like heart-broken banshees; lamenting for everything and nothing, anybody and no one at all. "Sleep, Sirius Black." He lets himself go as wretched hands and foul black mouths descend, sucking all they can out of him, burning and exploding, whatever they can take, covet, leech. "I'm here," James hushes against his ear. Sirius presses his lips together in a parody of a smile, picturing the chaos of James's hair, the reep-crick of crickets' legs, lying in long green grass, and lips as soft as summer and hot, memories, hot perfection sliding down under a trouser belt-buckle, bringing him off. He cannot breathe as Dementors lay their hands on him, their rattling, rancid breath cold on his clammy skin. They stutter and suck and pull-fill his lungs with empty, searing empty, and isn't that funny, isn't that just fucking wonderful, James, James, James, that he's been reduced to this? He thinks of the reep-crick of the crickets' legs and the heat of James's mouth on him, the tickling brush of long, deep green grass. The Dementors move away as soundlessly and deafeningly as they arrived, leaving Sirius crumpled on the floor, leaving his mind splintered and in a thousand jagged pieces. Pieces. And James. James is sitting translucent and melancholy in the corner, sad and pale and curled in on himself. Sad and pale and the most beautiful, the most perfect, the most wonderful. "I need you," says Sirius on a soft sigh. "I love you," says James, and fades, and it's like a shift in a concerto, that sudden drop in the music like driving down a steep hill, out of control, that plummet as you unwillingly fall but drive on nevertheless, nowhere else to go, a straight road with no end, unsure if you'll rise again. "I love you," echoes in Sirius's mind, and happiness graces his fingertips, memories and want and James, but he can't hold on to it. Sleep, Sirius Black. "You're not real," Sirius mumbles with moisture dripping heavily off his chin, pulling the corners of his mouth down. Too long have tears been lingering on his chin, weighing him down, winding down his neck snake-like and cold, soaking his prison rags. "I would have died for you, you bastard, if you hadn't gone and done it first." 'Died for you,' echoes around his cell. The rusty clink of a key in an old, reluctant lock as the Dementor does its checks. Years. Years to go. Life. ~Fin~ |
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