I LOVE ABBA I LOVE ABBA
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Remus reckons his heart is calcified, pure jade, or else a Frankenstein’s beast of eggshells and wicker and blood-stained tissue and pink salt and graphite and tomato roots. He reckons this, and he looks once more at Sirius, once more into the fucking breach, and he thinks with equal certainty that his heart cannot be made of anything other than sodden meat, roadkill and the streak of pink guts along the pavement. ABBA has taken it upon themselves to start a third song. One chance to take that never comes back again, you and me to the end. Fuck you, ABBA. There’s more than one chance. There always is. “Fucking cliché platitudes.”
“You’re insufferable,” Sirius says. He is looking at Remus, and looking at him. Remus feels filleted, necrotic, like letting a wound fester and showing up at hospital too late and watching the doctor look at you like this is your fault. “You’re insufferable,” he hands the fag to Remus who pulls like he’s starving, “and did you know there is green in your eyes.”
or, remus comes to appreciate ABBA more than he expected he might.