Fic: Gillyweed Nights
Title: Gillyweed Nights
Rating: PGish (drug use and boy kissing. :O)
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Words: 2,180
Summary: It's Sirius' birthday, and there are things to be said.
Disclaimer: They are not mine, they are Rowling's. If I could have them, I would. But I cannot. Sad.
Originally posted here.
There is, Sirius thinks, a definite progression to a Gillyweed Night.
First, there is the calm determination bit. You know, the bit where you climb out the dormitory window and clamber quickly across gutters and buttresses, getting rather too closely acquainted with gargoyles on your way up to the roof. "They're actually just grotesques, you know, without the gutter spouty bit," and, "Moony shut UP, I can't concentrate on my toes when you are babbling about fucking gutters. Who cares about spouty bits when I'm about to plummet off the side of Gryffindor tower?!" And then of course the gargoyle - grotesque, sorry - points out that actually, he cares quite a lot, it's quite insulting to be called a gargoyle if you're actually a grotesque. But of course he moves his ugly grotesquey foot just enough to the right so that you can get enough purchase to pull yourself up after your annoyingly nimble werewolf best friend who, by the way, has managed to scale his way to the roof without help from enchanted grotesques. Fucking werewolves.
Then, once you get to the roof with only a few minor scratches, there is the smoking like you mean it bit. This is the part where you, the Gillyweeders, are very aware of each other and the joint and how you have to look as cool as possible while smoking - even with the subsequent gill-like ridges in the neck - or else suffer the fate of being that nonce who can't even look cool while smoking a joint. Luckily for Sirius, he doesn't need to even try to look cool. Remus doesn't really need to either, Sirius thinks, though he probably doesn't know that. But really how you can think you don't look cool with a bloody great werewolf scar across your face is very far beyond Sirius' comprehension. This is when your best friend starts to try and have a real conversation with you by talking about stars and your family ("Sirius, what's your middle name?" "Arrakis" "Oh. Why are your family all named after stars?" "The hell if I know. Inbred twats."). And then you have to shut them up by making them smoke more.
Finally, then, this turns into the Giddy Goofy Gillyweed part of the night, where you stop making any sense at all, the world starts spinning a little bit and everything - even trying to snog Moaning Myrtle - seems like the best idea ever. (For the record, it's not. A good idea, that is. To snog Moaning Myrtle. Just - trust him. Don't. Even if it's a dare and you'd have to kiss Severus Bloody Snape instead.) That is, unless you happen to be a werewolf, which Sirius thinks is just plain cheating, by the way, and then you just feel really happy, without all the ridiculousness, and you can make fun of your poor, inebriated, mortal and non-dark-creature friends later.
It is the height of injustice, for instance, that right now as Sirius is teetering along the railing of Gryffindor Tower's roof, Remus can just be lying there, watching him and laughing openly.
"Mooooooooony!" Sirius exclaims, about to teeter over the side - which would scare him to death had they not set up cushioning wards before they started smoking. "Moooony it's just not fair."
"What's not fair, Padfoot?"
"This! Look at me! I've got gilly-ridge and gilly-giddy and you! You are just sitting there in your smug little happy Look at me I'm a werewolf I don't get high out of my mind like stupid Padfoots place and you're laughing at me!"
"Padfoot, that didn't make a single ounce of sense."
"I know! It's the gilly giddy ridges! The ridgeyweed. The gillies! Oh, bugger it all." Sirius jumps off the railing and flings himself back next to Remus on the roof. They lie there and look up at the sky, twinkling with stars on the rare, clear Scottish summer night. Well, no. Remus looks at the stars. Sirius looks at Remus.
"Mooooooooooony! Moony, did you know, I've never noticed before."
"Notice what, Padfoot?" Remus doesn't turn to look at his friend - he's too preoccupied trying to find the constellations, but he's pretty sure they were moving around on him. He's not too convinced by Sirius and James' theories of werewolf tolerance.
"Your eyes. They're like... they're as big as Jupiter's moons in March. Is that why we call you Moony, Moony? Because of your moony-eyes?"
"No, you nonce," Remus says, fondly, looking over at his friend. "It's because you and James were utter twats and decided to poke around in my private life until you found out that actually, I hate having the curtains open on a clear night because once a month the moon turns me into a great big snarly creature. Remember?"
"Oh yeah." Sirius looks little confused, but the feeling soon passes and he settles back down against the roof. Moony is warm like a hot-water bottle is warm, he thought. Must be that werewolf thing. Nice to have a werewolf furnace when you're out on the roof in Scotland in April.
The final, final phase of Gillyweed is that you get tired, and not only tired but talkative and tired. Talkative and tired to the point where you will tell anyone anything. The first thing that comes to your mind. Even if you've been trying not to talk about it all night. Sirius hates this bit, because he always forgets about it until it's too late.
"Moony," he starts, looking up at the sky as well, trying to figure out what's more interesting than his very stoned self. "Moony." This time, he pokes for attention.
"What, Padfoot, I'm listening." Not like I have much of a choice, Remus thinks to himself, smirking.
"Moony, James says I shouldn't talk about it."
"About what?"
"About the thing where I'm gay."
"Oh. Why not?"
"I don't know. He says you and Peter would be all weirded out."
"Well I don't know about Peter... but I don't think I'd be weirded out."
"Oh. Okay. Moony?"
"Yes, Padfoot?"
"Moony, I'm gay."
"I know."
"Wait, how?"
"Well, you told me about 10 seconds ago."
"... oh."
"Oh," Remus agrees, and turns his head to watch Sirius. Sirius is staring at the sky, all the sillies gone now, replaced by what Sirius would later call "the Contemplates."
"But I knew before that, Padfoot."
"What? How? Am I that obvious? James said he knew since second year."
"Well I mean, come on Sirius. Girls throw themselves at you and you don't give a shit. Of course we were going to figure it out."
Sirius smirks and turns to look at Remus. "I figured you bought the whole sleeping around with the girls, no one woman for Padfoot... thing. The thing. You know. Pretend thing."
"Sirius. Really? I knew that was a lie from the start."
"What? How?! I am good at lying!"
"I can smell who you're hooking up with. And it's never girls. Though I have to say, Fabian Prewett, well done. I didn't think he'd go for fifth years..."
Sirius gawps at Remus like he's just grown another head. "You can..."
"Smell. Yes. Remember, how you can't sneak up on me, because I can hear, and how that one time when you hid under my bed and I found you? Werewolf, remember? Grrrrrr snarly teeth animal scents grrrrrr?"
Sirius laughs at Remus's remarkably terrible impression of a werewolf.
"Mate, you look nothing like that on a full moon, you know."
"No, I don't." Remus never remembers his full moons. Just the pain before and after.
"Well. You don't. Not a thing."
They fall into silence while Sirius finishes smoking the rest of his joint. Remus has another, somewhere, but maybe it would be best saved for later.
"James said I shouldn't say, about any of it. He didn't want to ruin the Marauder... you know.... the thing. The marauder thing."
"James is a complete tosser." Remus pulls his flask of firewhiskey out of his pocket and offers it to Sirius - who wisely declines with a shake of the head - before taking a swig.
"Total tosser. Complete and utter nonce."
"Definite nonce," Remus agrees. "What else is he telling you not to talk about? How much you like gillyweed? How your name is Sirius? Mate, don't listen to his bullshit. We're marauders, right, we're meant to tell each other stuff."
Sirius is quiet again, mulling something over. Remus put it down to the gillyweed and assumes the conversation is over, so he resumes his looking up at the stars - not really seeing anything but not really thinking about anything either, just enjoying the clear night, the gillyweed happiness and the firewhiskey warmth.
"Remus, I think I like you."
Remus turns to look at his friend with serious eyes. Remus' eyes, not Sirius'. He thinks to himself that Sirius would hate that joke if he ever said it aloud. And then he focuses on what was just said to him.
"I know," he says quite seriously to Sirius. (Well, Remus thinks, at least it's amusing in his head.)
Sirius doesn't say anything, just looks starstruck.
"You really are not very subtle, Padfoot," Remus says fondly, smiling warmly. "Here. Have more firewhiskey."
"What?!" Sirius manages to splutter, finally. "How can you be thinking about firewhiskey at a time like this?!"
"At a time like what?" Remus looks quite deviously innocent, taking another swig himself. "I am usually thinking about firewhiskey and also, it is known to help the nerves. Now drink." He basically forces a healthy amount down his friend's throat before settling back on the roof, a little closer to Sirius than before.
"I wish I could be an animagus, like you," he says quietly. Sirius is still staring and unable to talk because the firewhiskey has burned his throat. "I want to be a wolf." Remus says the words like a small confession - a little scared, a little embarrassed. He goes quiet after that, looking away from Sirius.
"You are a wolf," Sirius says after he's given up trying to keep track of what just happened in the conversation.
"No," Remus says, vehemently. "I'm not. There's a difference between a wolf and what I am every month. A huge difference. One of pride, and beauty, and majesty. A wolf is so..."
"Noble," Sirius finishes, for him. Remus nods. "Moony..."
"No, just... I want to... be able to run with you lot. With you. As a pack."
"You do, though! You're there! Furrier, obviously, and definitely more slobbery, but you're there."
Remus just shakes his head, sadly. "I never remember it."
"But, but you said..." They've only been doing this thing, this dangerous thing, for a few exhilarating months. Sirius is stricken by the idea that Moony hasn't been enjoying it like they have, in their own weird way.
"I never said. I just said I felt a lot better. And I did. Do. But, I never remember it. I wish I could... I wish I could remember what you did... do. For me."
Remus looks over at Sirius and catches his eye. Waiting to see if he'll catch his meaning.
Sirius is too clouded by gillyweed to catch anything. He was trying to say something, before, before Remus started talking about wolves and dogs.
"Remus, I ..."
But Remus, impatient with Irish firewhiskey and Dutch courage, just gives a muffled groan and grabs Sirius by his red and gold tie, pulling him over and crushing their mouths together.
It's over too soon for Sirius, who's brain is taking far too long to register anything. Brown eyes look down into grey and smile at him, though, and all of a sudden Sirius understands.
"Oh," he says, as if that explains everything.
"I knew, you great big nonce," Remus whispers, quietly. "I was just waiting for you to work up the courage to say something."
"Is that why you gave me the gillyweed for my birthday," Sirius asks, playfully accusatory.
"Exactly," said Remus. "Nothing but a filthy plotting werewolf, me."
"Nah. You're my filthy werewolf." A slender, aristocratic hand finds it's way into Remus' golden-brown hair and pulls him down closer. "And hey, Moony?"
"Mmmh?"
"Next time, you should just say something." Sirius has enough time for a cheeky grin before Remus tackles him backwards into the roof. They play-fight and nuzzle and kiss like puppies and wolf cubs until the big, Scottish sky is tinged with the golden fingers of sunrise and the gillyweed glow is gone from Sirius' toes. Then it's down off the roof, goodnight to the Grotesque - "And the same to you, good sirs," - and curling up next to each other in a den of red curtains and sheets, and murmured Good Night Moons and soft, snuffling snores of contentment and gillyweed dreams. And when James finds them the next morning, he just smiles and leaves well enough alone.
Rating: PGish (drug use and boy kissing. :O)
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Words: 2,180
Summary: It's Sirius' birthday, and there are things to be said.
Disclaimer: They are not mine, they are Rowling's. If I could have them, I would. But I cannot. Sad.
Originally posted here.
There is, Sirius thinks, a definite progression to a Gillyweed Night.
First, there is the calm determination bit. You know, the bit where you climb out the dormitory window and clamber quickly across gutters and buttresses, getting rather too closely acquainted with gargoyles on your way up to the roof. "They're actually just grotesques, you know, without the gutter spouty bit," and, "Moony shut UP, I can't concentrate on my toes when you are babbling about fucking gutters. Who cares about spouty bits when I'm about to plummet off the side of Gryffindor tower?!" And then of course the gargoyle - grotesque, sorry - points out that actually, he cares quite a lot, it's quite insulting to be called a gargoyle if you're actually a grotesque. But of course he moves his ugly grotesquey foot just enough to the right so that you can get enough purchase to pull yourself up after your annoyingly nimble werewolf best friend who, by the way, has managed to scale his way to the roof without help from enchanted grotesques. Fucking werewolves.
Then, once you get to the roof with only a few minor scratches, there is the smoking like you mean it bit. This is the part where you, the Gillyweeders, are very aware of each other and the joint and how you have to look as cool as possible while smoking - even with the subsequent gill-like ridges in the neck - or else suffer the fate of being that nonce who can't even look cool while smoking a joint. Luckily for Sirius, he doesn't need to even try to look cool. Remus doesn't really need to either, Sirius thinks, though he probably doesn't know that. But really how you can think you don't look cool with a bloody great werewolf scar across your face is very far beyond Sirius' comprehension. This is when your best friend starts to try and have a real conversation with you by talking about stars and your family ("Sirius, what's your middle name?" "Arrakis" "Oh. Why are your family all named after stars?" "The hell if I know. Inbred twats."). And then you have to shut them up by making them smoke more.
Finally, then, this turns into the Giddy Goofy Gillyweed part of the night, where you stop making any sense at all, the world starts spinning a little bit and everything - even trying to snog Moaning Myrtle - seems like the best idea ever. (For the record, it's not. A good idea, that is. To snog Moaning Myrtle. Just - trust him. Don't. Even if it's a dare and you'd have to kiss Severus Bloody Snape instead.) That is, unless you happen to be a werewolf, which Sirius thinks is just plain cheating, by the way, and then you just feel really happy, without all the ridiculousness, and you can make fun of your poor, inebriated, mortal and non-dark-creature friends later.
It is the height of injustice, for instance, that right now as Sirius is teetering along the railing of Gryffindor Tower's roof, Remus can just be lying there, watching him and laughing openly.
"Mooooooooony!" Sirius exclaims, about to teeter over the side - which would scare him to death had they not set up cushioning wards before they started smoking. "Moooony it's just not fair."
"What's not fair, Padfoot?"
"This! Look at me! I've got gilly-ridge and gilly-giddy and you! You are just sitting there in your smug little happy Look at me I'm a werewolf I don't get high out of my mind like stupid Padfoots place and you're laughing at me!"
"Padfoot, that didn't make a single ounce of sense."
"I know! It's the gilly giddy ridges! The ridgeyweed. The gillies! Oh, bugger it all." Sirius jumps off the railing and flings himself back next to Remus on the roof. They lie there and look up at the sky, twinkling with stars on the rare, clear Scottish summer night. Well, no. Remus looks at the stars. Sirius looks at Remus.
"Mooooooooooony! Moony, did you know, I've never noticed before."
"Notice what, Padfoot?" Remus doesn't turn to look at his friend - he's too preoccupied trying to find the constellations, but he's pretty sure they were moving around on him. He's not too convinced by Sirius and James' theories of werewolf tolerance.
"Your eyes. They're like... they're as big as Jupiter's moons in March. Is that why we call you Moony, Moony? Because of your moony-eyes?"
"No, you nonce," Remus says, fondly, looking over at his friend. "It's because you and James were utter twats and decided to poke around in my private life until you found out that actually, I hate having the curtains open on a clear night because once a month the moon turns me into a great big snarly creature. Remember?"
"Oh yeah." Sirius looks little confused, but the feeling soon passes and he settles back down against the roof. Moony is warm like a hot-water bottle is warm, he thought. Must be that werewolf thing. Nice to have a werewolf furnace when you're out on the roof in Scotland in April.
The final, final phase of Gillyweed is that you get tired, and not only tired but talkative and tired. Talkative and tired to the point where you will tell anyone anything. The first thing that comes to your mind. Even if you've been trying not to talk about it all night. Sirius hates this bit, because he always forgets about it until it's too late.
"Moony," he starts, looking up at the sky as well, trying to figure out what's more interesting than his very stoned self. "Moony." This time, he pokes for attention.
"What, Padfoot, I'm listening." Not like I have much of a choice, Remus thinks to himself, smirking.
"Moony, James says I shouldn't talk about it."
"About what?"
"About the thing where I'm gay."
"Oh. Why not?"
"I don't know. He says you and Peter would be all weirded out."
"Well I don't know about Peter... but I don't think I'd be weirded out."
"Oh. Okay. Moony?"
"Yes, Padfoot?"
"Moony, I'm gay."
"I know."
"Wait, how?"
"Well, you told me about 10 seconds ago."
"... oh."
"Oh," Remus agrees, and turns his head to watch Sirius. Sirius is staring at the sky, all the sillies gone now, replaced by what Sirius would later call "the Contemplates."
"But I knew before that, Padfoot."
"What? How? Am I that obvious? James said he knew since second year."
"Well I mean, come on Sirius. Girls throw themselves at you and you don't give a shit. Of course we were going to figure it out."
Sirius smirks and turns to look at Remus. "I figured you bought the whole sleeping around with the girls, no one woman for Padfoot... thing. The thing. You know. Pretend thing."
"Sirius. Really? I knew that was a lie from the start."
"What? How?! I am good at lying!"
"I can smell who you're hooking up with. And it's never girls. Though I have to say, Fabian Prewett, well done. I didn't think he'd go for fifth years..."
Sirius gawps at Remus like he's just grown another head. "You can..."
"Smell. Yes. Remember, how you can't sneak up on me, because I can hear, and how that one time when you hid under my bed and I found you? Werewolf, remember? Grrrrrr snarly teeth animal scents grrrrrr?"
Sirius laughs at Remus's remarkably terrible impression of a werewolf.
"Mate, you look nothing like that on a full moon, you know."
"No, I don't." Remus never remembers his full moons. Just the pain before and after.
"Well. You don't. Not a thing."
They fall into silence while Sirius finishes smoking the rest of his joint. Remus has another, somewhere, but maybe it would be best saved for later.
"James said I shouldn't say, about any of it. He didn't want to ruin the Marauder... you know.... the thing. The marauder thing."
"James is a complete tosser." Remus pulls his flask of firewhiskey out of his pocket and offers it to Sirius - who wisely declines with a shake of the head - before taking a swig.
"Total tosser. Complete and utter nonce."
"Definite nonce," Remus agrees. "What else is he telling you not to talk about? How much you like gillyweed? How your name is Sirius? Mate, don't listen to his bullshit. We're marauders, right, we're meant to tell each other stuff."
Sirius is quiet again, mulling something over. Remus put it down to the gillyweed and assumes the conversation is over, so he resumes his looking up at the stars - not really seeing anything but not really thinking about anything either, just enjoying the clear night, the gillyweed happiness and the firewhiskey warmth.
"Remus, I think I like you."
Remus turns to look at his friend with serious eyes. Remus' eyes, not Sirius'. He thinks to himself that Sirius would hate that joke if he ever said it aloud. And then he focuses on what was just said to him.
"I know," he says quite seriously to Sirius. (Well, Remus thinks, at least it's amusing in his head.)
Sirius doesn't say anything, just looks starstruck.
"You really are not very subtle, Padfoot," Remus says fondly, smiling warmly. "Here. Have more firewhiskey."
"What?!" Sirius manages to splutter, finally. "How can you be thinking about firewhiskey at a time like this?!"
"At a time like what?" Remus looks quite deviously innocent, taking another swig himself. "I am usually thinking about firewhiskey and also, it is known to help the nerves. Now drink." He basically forces a healthy amount down his friend's throat before settling back on the roof, a little closer to Sirius than before.
"I wish I could be an animagus, like you," he says quietly. Sirius is still staring and unable to talk because the firewhiskey has burned his throat. "I want to be a wolf." Remus says the words like a small confession - a little scared, a little embarrassed. He goes quiet after that, looking away from Sirius.
"You are a wolf," Sirius says after he's given up trying to keep track of what just happened in the conversation.
"No," Remus says, vehemently. "I'm not. There's a difference between a wolf and what I am every month. A huge difference. One of pride, and beauty, and majesty. A wolf is so..."
"Noble," Sirius finishes, for him. Remus nods. "Moony..."
"No, just... I want to... be able to run with you lot. With you. As a pack."
"You do, though! You're there! Furrier, obviously, and definitely more slobbery, but you're there."
Remus just shakes his head, sadly. "I never remember it."
"But, but you said..." They've only been doing this thing, this dangerous thing, for a few exhilarating months. Sirius is stricken by the idea that Moony hasn't been enjoying it like they have, in their own weird way.
"I never said. I just said I felt a lot better. And I did. Do. But, I never remember it. I wish I could... I wish I could remember what you did... do. For me."
Remus looks over at Sirius and catches his eye. Waiting to see if he'll catch his meaning.
Sirius is too clouded by gillyweed to catch anything. He was trying to say something, before, before Remus started talking about wolves and dogs.
"Remus, I ..."
But Remus, impatient with Irish firewhiskey and Dutch courage, just gives a muffled groan and grabs Sirius by his red and gold tie, pulling him over and crushing their mouths together.
It's over too soon for Sirius, who's brain is taking far too long to register anything. Brown eyes look down into grey and smile at him, though, and all of a sudden Sirius understands.
"Oh," he says, as if that explains everything.
"I knew, you great big nonce," Remus whispers, quietly. "I was just waiting for you to work up the courage to say something."
"Is that why you gave me the gillyweed for my birthday," Sirius asks, playfully accusatory.
"Exactly," said Remus. "Nothing but a filthy plotting werewolf, me."
"Nah. You're my filthy werewolf." A slender, aristocratic hand finds it's way into Remus' golden-brown hair and pulls him down closer. "And hey, Moony?"
"Mmmh?"
"Next time, you should just say something." Sirius has enough time for a cheeky grin before Remus tackles him backwards into the roof. They play-fight and nuzzle and kiss like puppies and wolf cubs until the big, Scottish sky is tinged with the golden fingers of sunrise and the gillyweed glow is gone from Sirius' toes. Then it's down off the roof, goodnight to the Grotesque - "And the same to you, good sirs," - and curling up next to each other in a den of red curtains and sheets, and murmured Good Night Moons and soft, snuffling snores of contentment and gillyweed dreams. And when James finds them the next morning, he just smiles and leaves well enough alone.