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Entry tags:
Give Me That Man (HP, Remus/Sirius, Hamlet/Horatio)
Disclaimer: Hamlet is public domain. Sirius and Remus belong to J.K. Rowling and a whole slew of other people who aren't me. I wish things like this would happen to me every time I remarked on the slashyness of Hamlet and Horatio, but no. This is unbetaed and generally bad, so take it as you like.
"Did it ever occur to you," Sirius says, "that Hamlet and Horatio are kind of gay?"
Remus chokes on a mouthful of lukewarm tea. "What?"
Sirius is sprawled on the couch, legs thrown languidly over its leather-padded arm. Remus' battered copy of Hamlet is open face-down on his chest. He is surrounded by open, half-full boxes that they should both be unpacking, but Sirius is insufferably lazy and Remus is tired of trying to convince him to work.
"All that poetry and prancing around in tights. Can’t really be good for a bloke's sense of manhood." He is smirking.
Very carefully, Remus sets his cup down on the table and walks the three steps to the space they have designated as the living room.
"Don't leave the book open like that," he hears himself say as he sinks down into the only chair, "it’ll damage the spine."
Sirius rolls his eyes. "I’m not joking, Remus." He picks the book up, "listen: Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay in my heart of hearts As I do thee." He closes the book with a gentle smack, and fixes Remus with frighteningly focused eyes. "Now tell me they aren’t a little bit gay."
"They’re best friends," Remus says. "That’s just how they talked."
Sirius swings his legs onto the floor and sits up. "Didn’t you tell me that 'thee' is reserved for people you’re intimate with?"
"They’ve known each other forever. They met at school. Hamlet tells Horatio all his secrets. Of course they’re intimate."
Sirius raises one exquisite black eyebrow. "Really."
"Why are you even reading Hamlet?" Remus demands, desperate to stop this before his world collapses into shards of poorly declaimed iambic pentameter.
"It was near the top of the crate," Sirius shrugs. "Besides, it’s one of your favourites. You’re always quoting it, talking about this Shakespeare fellow. I thought," in one loose, graceful motion he has risen, crossed the carpet between them, and crouched in front of Remus' chair, "that I should know what you were going on about."
"Sirius," Remus begins, "What are you going on about?" His head is spinning.
"Friends, right?" Sirius murmurs, and kisses him.
Remus freezes, appalled at this startling resolution to years of indefinable glances and awkward embarrassment. It makes sense, almost too much sense, and at the first real taste of Sirius against his lips he is kissing him furiously, hands burying themselves in dark hair as if they’ve never belonged anywhere else. Sirius is the first to pull away.
"I’m getting a crick in my neck," he remarks, not at all apologetically.
Remus yanks him up by the front of his shirt until they are wrapped together in the chair. "That’s better," he says, and kisses Sirius again. Sirius must agree, because he kisses back until their tongues are as tangled as their limbs.
"Are you sure about this?" Remus asks a while later.
Sirius leans even closer, his lips brushing Remus' ear. "Doubt thou the stars have fire? Doubt thou the sun doth move?"
Remus laughs, and Sirius frowns petulantly. "I read Hamlet for you, Moony. Aren’t we like them?"
Remus does not bother to correct him. They are best friends, after all. He doubts Sirius made it to the end of the play, doubts he reached "absent thee from felicity awhile." At the moment, though, with Sirius' mouth on his and Sirius' hands slipping under his shirt, with Sirius' legs around him and an easy, comfortable, wildly familiar rhythm building between them, the ending hardly matters.
"You might have rhymed," he murmers against Sirius' mouth, and smiles.
"Did it ever occur to you," Sirius says, "that Hamlet and Horatio are kind of gay?"
Remus chokes on a mouthful of lukewarm tea. "What?"
Sirius is sprawled on the couch, legs thrown languidly over its leather-padded arm. Remus' battered copy of Hamlet is open face-down on his chest. He is surrounded by open, half-full boxes that they should both be unpacking, but Sirius is insufferably lazy and Remus is tired of trying to convince him to work.
"All that poetry and prancing around in tights. Can’t really be good for a bloke's sense of manhood." He is smirking.
Very carefully, Remus sets his cup down on the table and walks the three steps to the space they have designated as the living room.
"Don't leave the book open like that," he hears himself say as he sinks down into the only chair, "it’ll damage the spine."
Sirius rolls his eyes. "I’m not joking, Remus." He picks the book up, "listen: Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay in my heart of hearts As I do thee." He closes the book with a gentle smack, and fixes Remus with frighteningly focused eyes. "Now tell me they aren’t a little bit gay."
"They’re best friends," Remus says. "That’s just how they talked."
Sirius swings his legs onto the floor and sits up. "Didn’t you tell me that 'thee' is reserved for people you’re intimate with?"
"They’ve known each other forever. They met at school. Hamlet tells Horatio all his secrets. Of course they’re intimate."
Sirius raises one exquisite black eyebrow. "Really."
"Why are you even reading Hamlet?" Remus demands, desperate to stop this before his world collapses into shards of poorly declaimed iambic pentameter.
"It was near the top of the crate," Sirius shrugs. "Besides, it’s one of your favourites. You’re always quoting it, talking about this Shakespeare fellow. I thought," in one loose, graceful motion he has risen, crossed the carpet between them, and crouched in front of Remus' chair, "that I should know what you were going on about."
"Sirius," Remus begins, "What are you going on about?" His head is spinning.
"Friends, right?" Sirius murmurs, and kisses him.
Remus freezes, appalled at this startling resolution to years of indefinable glances and awkward embarrassment. It makes sense, almost too much sense, and at the first real taste of Sirius against his lips he is kissing him furiously, hands burying themselves in dark hair as if they’ve never belonged anywhere else. Sirius is the first to pull away.
"I’m getting a crick in my neck," he remarks, not at all apologetically.
Remus yanks him up by the front of his shirt until they are wrapped together in the chair. "That’s better," he says, and kisses Sirius again. Sirius must agree, because he kisses back until their tongues are as tangled as their limbs.
"Are you sure about this?" Remus asks a while later.
Sirius leans even closer, his lips brushing Remus' ear. "Doubt thou the stars have fire? Doubt thou the sun doth move?"
Remus laughs, and Sirius frowns petulantly. "I read Hamlet for you, Moony. Aren’t we like them?"
Remus does not bother to correct him. They are best friends, after all. He doubts Sirius made it to the end of the play, doubts he reached "absent thee from felicity awhile." At the moment, though, with Sirius' mouth on his and Sirius' hands slipping under his shirt, with Sirius' legs around him and an easy, comfortable, wildly familiar rhythm building between them, the ending hardly matters.
"You might have rhymed," he murmers against Sirius' mouth, and smiles.