#luv lil stories abt absolutely nothing xx

[fruityindividual]

rj lupin has to go to the corner shop.

he's out of tea bags and instant coffee and he has to pay his electric and he could rly do w a sandwich but. but he has to leave the shelter of the bus stop. he has to step out and cross the road. it's raining and he has to cross the street. inconvenience of unfathomable proportions. cos, u see, there is a large puddle just in front of the doors to the store. no avoiding it. no jumping over it. u see, rj lupin knows wht will happen. he knows this. but he has to pick up cigarettes and maybe a green drink for health and. he's afraid to glance inside the envelope inside the warm dry inside of his jacket. he's afraid to look and see how much his electric is this month. he's afraid to pay it. perhaps he should've read in the dark this last month, or remembered to shut off his water heater before wrapping himself up in his cosy bed after a warm shower and falling snuggly asleep. maybe he should've eaten more cold meals and rationed his heating and read by candlelight. he could rly go for the crunchy crisps in the blue bag, or maybe the clear fizzy drink w the green stripe, and he won't look inside the envelope until he has to present it to the quiet lady at the tell. his socks will soggily sag around his ankles as he unfolds the envelope and slides it to her, and clumsily drops his items (he chooses the crisps in the blue bag and also the cigarettes) onto the counter as he'll fumble for his coin pouch and wilting notes tucked into the limp folds of his wallet - between a photo of his boyfriend and a train ticket stub from last year - and. he'll have just enough for the electric. that's a pleasant thought.

it is fleeting.

outside the foggy doors of the store it's rly lashing now. but he's already damp, vest beneath his shirt melting cooly into his skin. he rly has nothing to loose now. he dashes out the doors, he's walking at olympic pace. his wet socks force his shoes to make impolite noises. but the rain is loud and the traffic is louder. and he's finally treading up the steps to his dark flat and he's pulling open the weeping door and shucking off his shoes and.

he's there. he tilts his dark head and appreciates remus in all his soggy sagginess - proof of his bravery, a journey well done. he's reaching out and stripping remus' clothing from his damp skin. he's turned on the water heater - dinner will be cold tonight - and remus is ushered into a warm shower, and then time-softened pyjamas, and then the scratchy sofa as his limbs take on the shape of his.

remus glances to the chipped counter of the kitchenette. his crisps are uneaten, the blue bag glossy with old rain. his cigarette carton is sopping wet, red ink bleeding into white paper - destroyed. he sighs sadly. but long fingers extend before his eyes there on the settee- the simple offering of a beautifully dry cigarette. the soft, funny quirk of his boyfriend's lips - tugging up in a boyish sort of humour, soft lines of a beautifully grown face. remus takes the offering w a gentle shake of his head, damp curls dripping down his forehead. the man beside him pats his leg and they return to their books - a novel regarding 19th century naval warfare, and also one about gardening. they read w the lights on and share the crisps, the edges of the bag ripped apart, a shiny blanket of salty crunch. his boyfriend hums and nods his head - someone's just done something brave on a wooden boat, probably. remus kisses his jaw. curiously, cautiously - like the opening of an envelope. remus likes this one better. his boyfriend snaps his book closed, hoists remus from the sofa, squeezes his hips fondly. it's time for bed. that's a pleasant thought.