TTPD microprompt: summer romance
Ship: wolfstar (Sirius x Remus)
He was too old for this, surely.
The melodramatic residence heâd taken up at the window; the longing glances through the glass as if he was a war widow waiting for a sweetheart that would never come home.
Twenty-nine was at least nine rotations around the sun too many, and yet, spring succumbed to summer as it did every year and Siriusâs focus once more surrendered along with it.
Time punished him, promising a fix that it couldnât deliver. He dissociated from real life, going through the motions so convincingly no one noticed his annual soul-death; that, or no one cared enough to pay attention.
He was immune to the infectious conversation that trickled across the pub, about the newest bingeable television show everyone was watching or that viral meme forcing its way into every group text chain. He seemed to be the only one who found his coworkerâs objectively hilarious retellings about the disastrous meeting of his parents and in-laws tiredly predictable, and even routine, polite small talk with the postman drained him of energy.
Sirius regularly found himself nodding along and smiling small and making his excuses to leave before his preoccupation was exposed, which inevitably left him entirely too alone too often.
It meant he was a prisoner in his own mind, forced to watch the warmest days of the year pass by from behind bars; forced to compare them to the tangible memories that kept him from escaping his hold whenever an opportunity presented itself; forced to straighten the curl of his lips when a faint voice no one else could hear called to him, his truest company.
Every sunrise lacked that particular burning glow that crept over his skin on those legendary nights, the ones that stole his breath and left grains of sand in his hair as dusk gave way to dawn.
The air was too polluted or clear or floral wherever he was, lacking the brine and salt that would cling to his fingers and tongue, that expanded his lungs and made him sleep-soft even when heâd never felt more awake; when heâd never felt more alive.
Boats were event locations and possessions to be toured, paraded, and sold. They were polished and staffed, the cost of purchase and maintenance always supplied in the first breath of arrogance. They were never sailed for the feel of flying; they were never touched reverently, or gazed at with pride, or repaired with painstaking care, the kind that only came from blood and sweat and the last dollar in your pocket that couldâve gone towards food but was allocated for a bottle of Collonite instead.
Thunderstorms were mild and subdued, uninterested in his little circle of existence, unimpressed with the landscape it had to work with. Where were the waves, it asked, the ones that reached for the skies and tumbled down in a huff; where were the gusts of wind that clamoured for my attention and the miles of open water that mirrored my reflection and the frantic red flags waving on the shore and the lighthouses fighting against me and you, where are you, why are you here?
He wondered the same. He always did, this time of year.
Read the rest on AO3 (bc I wrote 3.6k for a âmicroâ fic đ« đ« donât look at me).
