dogdaysofsummer: It Starts With A Seashell
Title: It Starts With A Seashell
Rating: PG13 for some sexuality & language
Characters: Remus, Sirius, Mrs Lupin
Pairings: Remus/Sirius to a degree
Summary: "On his pillow he has left a small tin, the sort that hold biscuits. The lid is partially open but Sirius takes a long time to remove it completely, even though he knows it now belongs to him. Inside he finds all the secrets he has ever needed: a crumpled bird’s nest, a peach pit, a stone, the smallest Russian doll of a set now missing its heart."
Author's Notes: Written for the dogdaysofsummer August 2nd challenge.
It starts with a seashell on his pillow. Sirius stirs from fading dreams and he thinks how the softness of it all, of deep sleep and plumped pillows and a morning that demands nothing, is so different from home. The smell of Remus in the sheets and the muted clatter of Mrs Lupin preparing breakfast downstairs, he likes these things, too. He is still for awhile, becoming aware of his senses, becoming aware of awareness itself. It is then that the seashell comes into focus and it does not surprise him, though it is a puzzle.
He sits up, long-limbed and elegant. Without thinking, he brings the shell to his nose, inhales sharply. The vague scent of sand and age and something else entirely; he feels a plume of happiness unfurl in his chest. The edges of the shell have been smoothed with a million years and the rolling of the water. He stokes the arch of it and then clenches it against a hot palm, sucks on his bottom lip. He swings his feet over the edge of the bed.
Mrs Lupin is wiping a loose strand of hair from her face when Sirius pads into the kitchen. “Morning, Mrs. Lupin,” he says. She turns from the bowl of batter she is mixing and he thinks: when she smiles, the whole of her glows.
She is a woman who fascinates him. His first guilty impression of her had been that she had a sort of accidental, wasted country-born beauty. He saw that her eyes were bright, but she wore no makeup, and her clothes were frumpy, poorly-made. Now he only believes in the elegance of her walk, her refined and careful speech, the dun hair knotted loosely at the base of her neck. She has, he thinks now, a very fine neck. He likes that he can see the quirk of Remus’ mouth in her own.
“Good morning, Sirius. Did you sleep well?”
“I always sleep well here.”
“Well,” and here her smile takes an almost wistful turn. He has to look away. “I’m so glad you could come visit again. It means a lot to Remus. He usually seems so alone. Of course, he doesn’t complain, but I...” Perhaps she notices him shuffling his feet, because she stops and adjusts her smile. “Well, it’s always good to have you.” There is a beat, then she turns back to the bowl on the counter top. “Ah, look! I’m making you boys some breakfast, but I’m afraid it won’t be ready for awhile yet.”
“That’s all right. Did you see where Remus went?”
“Ah, no. I’m sorry Sirius. He gets up so early...”
“It’s all right,” he says. “I don’t mind looking for him.”
* * *
He is brushing his teeth when he notices the pocket watch sitting on the edge of the sink. He picks it up, thinking perhaps it belongs to Mr Lupin. A glance tells him though that the watch no longer works and that there is a small crack in the glass face. He is still for a moment, then spits and rinses.
When he enters Remus’ room, the other boy is already in bed, the newspaper spread across his lap. The weather has been chilly and he has an extra blanket folded by his feet.
“Anything good in the paper?”
“No. All soft news. People making donations to schools, that sort of thing. The obituaries are the only thing that’s real.” He sets the paper down. “This is the Muggle journal that my da gets, anyway. Don’t think it would have much resonance with you.” The way he says it is matter-of-fact but Sirius still feels slighted.
“I care about Muggles.”
Remus is folding up the paper but he does not miss a beat. “Okay, you care about Muggles.”
“I do.” Sirius’ voice comes out muffled as he struggles to pull his shirt over his head. He has grown considerably in the past few months and everything is getting too small. The pocket watch is still in his right hand; he thinks to set it down but decides he cannot. He peaks out through the neck of the shirt. Remus has his eyes averted.
“Hey listen, mum says we could head into town tomorrow if you’d like,” Remus says. He pauses, then smiles but still does not look at Sirius. “And to celebrate your newfound love, we can take the Muggle bus.”
“Yeah, okay. Sounds good.” Sirius tosses his shirt near his suitcase and pulls on a pyjama top. He stares as Remus unfolds then re-folds the paper. The pocket watch is getting slick in his sweaty hand but he keeps holding it, even after Remus snuffs the candles with a goodnight.
Sirius is still for as long as he can stand, then says, “Moony?”
“Yeah?”
The pocket watch is burning in his palm, but all he says is, “what do you want to do in town tomorrow?”
There is a pause and as his eyes begin to adjust to the dark he can see Remus settling into his pillow. “Well, we can’t really go to the pubs or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It wasn’t.”
“We’ll find something to do.”
Sirius stuffs the watch under his pillow as quietly as possible. Remus is so still, he thinks, and he tries to be that still. He closes his eyes.
It is a long time before he lets his hand snake under the covers and across Remus’ bare wrist. His fingers play against the hot shapes of veins. Remus shifts slightly and Sirius dares to reach under the other boys’ pyjama top. He rests a hand against Remus’ belly; a tremble from Remus, but that is all. Sirius is afraid to push his luck again, but just as the night before and the night before that, Remus relents and spreads his legs slightly.
Sirius fumbles with the waistband of the boy’s trousers. Remus is already half-hard and this alone is fire for the tinder. Sirius clumsily pulls himself over the other boy and they push against one another in a quiet, frantic struggle. When he comes, Remus releases a little sigh. Sirius imagines he can see it puff out like smoke between his lips and fade across the room.
* * *
They do not go into town the next day. Sirius wakes to find Remus is gone again. On his pillow he has left a small tin, the sort that hold biscuits. The lid is partially open but Sirius takes a long time to remove it completely, even though he knows it now belongs to him. Inside he finds all the secrets he has ever needed: a crumpled bird’s nest, a peach pit, a stone, the smallest Russian doll of a set now missing its heart. He does not touch any of these things, but replaces both the seashell and the pocket watch before securing the lid.
He finds Remus in the backyard, seated on the wooden swing that hangs from the tallest tree. The other boy does not look up.
“Thank you,” Sirius says. Remus kicks the toe of his shoe through the dirt. Sirius feels his throat tighten. He sits on the ground by his friend’s feet. “Moony?” Remus is still. “Remus?”
And suddenly Remus is staring him in the eye and it is worse than being lashed at by fists. “What do you want from me, Sirius?” It is not an attack, just a demand. Still, Sirius starts.
“I...I don’t know,” he says honestly. Is this about last night? Is this about what I do to you? he wants to ask, but the words clutch inside of him.
“Do you do this with everyone?” Remus is saying, “do you do this with James?”
“What? No! No, it’s just...”
“Just me.”
“Yeah, just you.” Sirius stands now. His throat is closing up, he’s certain now. He doesn’t know how to move, what to do with his hands, his feet. “You’re not going to...You won’t tell, will you? I’m sorry I did it. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, you know. I just-”
“Did you like it?” Remus is very quiet.
Sirius thinks of the tin on his pillow, of the pocket watch searing his palm. No, his mind screams frantically. Say no.. “Yes,” he says aloud. “I did.” The confession does not bring relief, though. The tightening in his throat spreads downward into his chest. His heart bangs against his ribs like a frightened bird.
Remus turns away from him now, twisting the rope of the swing over his head. The sight makes Sirius uneasy; he wants to untangle the swing, put Remus on solid ground.
“Why do you do it?” Remus asks. “Is it practise? Is it just because you miss girls out here? Is it just because you can’t stay celibate for two weeks?”
Sirius stares at his back. He thinks of the Russian doll staring up at him and he wants to run away. “No,” he says very quietly.
“What is it then?” And Remus has turned around again, is staring so hard at him...
“I don’t know,” he says helplessly. “I don’t know, and look, Moony. I’m just sorry I did it.”
It is only then that Remus drops his gaze to the ground. He looks positively sick with some thought, but Sirius cannot say what exactly it is. “I’m sorry, too,” Remus says.
They stay like this, one boy with his head in his knees, one boy barely standing. Sirius wants permission to touch Remus’ shoulder, wants to find that his chin fits perfectly in the crook of the other boy’s neck. He has never felt more afraid, he thinks, not in his entire life.
And suddenly he is there, gently butting his head against Remus’. He moves in between the other boy’s arms, forces them into a hold around his neck. “Padfoot?” Remus says, startled. “You fucking coward.” But he is smiling, if only a little. He allows his hand to run through the fur of the dog now before him.
Rating: PG13 for some sexuality & language
Characters: Remus, Sirius, Mrs Lupin
Pairings: Remus/Sirius to a degree
Summary: "On his pillow he has left a small tin, the sort that hold biscuits. The lid is partially open but Sirius takes a long time to remove it completely, even though he knows it now belongs to him. Inside he finds all the secrets he has ever needed: a crumpled bird’s nest, a peach pit, a stone, the smallest Russian doll of a set now missing its heart."
Author's Notes: Written for the dogdaysofsummer August 2nd challenge.
It starts with a seashell on his pillow. Sirius stirs from fading dreams and he thinks how the softness of it all, of deep sleep and plumped pillows and a morning that demands nothing, is so different from home. The smell of Remus in the sheets and the muted clatter of Mrs Lupin preparing breakfast downstairs, he likes these things, too. He is still for awhile, becoming aware of his senses, becoming aware of awareness itself. It is then that the seashell comes into focus and it does not surprise him, though it is a puzzle.
He sits up, long-limbed and elegant. Without thinking, he brings the shell to his nose, inhales sharply. The vague scent of sand and age and something else entirely; he feels a plume of happiness unfurl in his chest. The edges of the shell have been smoothed with a million years and the rolling of the water. He stokes the arch of it and then clenches it against a hot palm, sucks on his bottom lip. He swings his feet over the edge of the bed.
Mrs Lupin is wiping a loose strand of hair from her face when Sirius pads into the kitchen. “Morning, Mrs. Lupin,” he says. She turns from the bowl of batter she is mixing and he thinks: when she smiles, the whole of her glows.
She is a woman who fascinates him. His first guilty impression of her had been that she had a sort of accidental, wasted country-born beauty. He saw that her eyes were bright, but she wore no makeup, and her clothes were frumpy, poorly-made. Now he only believes in the elegance of her walk, her refined and careful speech, the dun hair knotted loosely at the base of her neck. She has, he thinks now, a very fine neck. He likes that he can see the quirk of Remus’ mouth in her own.
“Good morning, Sirius. Did you sleep well?”
“I always sleep well here.”
“Well,” and here her smile takes an almost wistful turn. He has to look away. “I’m so glad you could come visit again. It means a lot to Remus. He usually seems so alone. Of course, he doesn’t complain, but I...” Perhaps she notices him shuffling his feet, because she stops and adjusts her smile. “Well, it’s always good to have you.” There is a beat, then she turns back to the bowl on the counter top. “Ah, look! I’m making you boys some breakfast, but I’m afraid it won’t be ready for awhile yet.”
“That’s all right. Did you see where Remus went?”
“Ah, no. I’m sorry Sirius. He gets up so early...”
“It’s all right,” he says. “I don’t mind looking for him.”
* * *
He is brushing his teeth when he notices the pocket watch sitting on the edge of the sink. He picks it up, thinking perhaps it belongs to Mr Lupin. A glance tells him though that the watch no longer works and that there is a small crack in the glass face. He is still for a moment, then spits and rinses.
When he enters Remus’ room, the other boy is already in bed, the newspaper spread across his lap. The weather has been chilly and he has an extra blanket folded by his feet.
“Anything good in the paper?”
“No. All soft news. People making donations to schools, that sort of thing. The obituaries are the only thing that’s real.” He sets the paper down. “This is the Muggle journal that my da gets, anyway. Don’t think it would have much resonance with you.” The way he says it is matter-of-fact but Sirius still feels slighted.
“I care about Muggles.”
Remus is folding up the paper but he does not miss a beat. “Okay, you care about Muggles.”
“I do.” Sirius’ voice comes out muffled as he struggles to pull his shirt over his head. He has grown considerably in the past few months and everything is getting too small. The pocket watch is still in his right hand; he thinks to set it down but decides he cannot. He peaks out through the neck of the shirt. Remus has his eyes averted.
“Hey listen, mum says we could head into town tomorrow if you’d like,” Remus says. He pauses, then smiles but still does not look at Sirius. “And to celebrate your newfound love, we can take the Muggle bus.”
“Yeah, okay. Sounds good.” Sirius tosses his shirt near his suitcase and pulls on a pyjama top. He stares as Remus unfolds then re-folds the paper. The pocket watch is getting slick in his sweaty hand but he keeps holding it, even after Remus snuffs the candles with a goodnight.
Sirius is still for as long as he can stand, then says, “Moony?”
“Yeah?”
The pocket watch is burning in his palm, but all he says is, “what do you want to do in town tomorrow?”
There is a pause and as his eyes begin to adjust to the dark he can see Remus settling into his pillow. “Well, we can’t really go to the pubs or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It wasn’t.”
“We’ll find something to do.”
Sirius stuffs the watch under his pillow as quietly as possible. Remus is so still, he thinks, and he tries to be that still. He closes his eyes.
It is a long time before he lets his hand snake under the covers and across Remus’ bare wrist. His fingers play against the hot shapes of veins. Remus shifts slightly and Sirius dares to reach under the other boys’ pyjama top. He rests a hand against Remus’ belly; a tremble from Remus, but that is all. Sirius is afraid to push his luck again, but just as the night before and the night before that, Remus relents and spreads his legs slightly.
Sirius fumbles with the waistband of the boy’s trousers. Remus is already half-hard and this alone is fire for the tinder. Sirius clumsily pulls himself over the other boy and they push against one another in a quiet, frantic struggle. When he comes, Remus releases a little sigh. Sirius imagines he can see it puff out like smoke between his lips and fade across the room.
* * *
They do not go into town the next day. Sirius wakes to find Remus is gone again. On his pillow he has left a small tin, the sort that hold biscuits. The lid is partially open but Sirius takes a long time to remove it completely, even though he knows it now belongs to him. Inside he finds all the secrets he has ever needed: a crumpled bird’s nest, a peach pit, a stone, the smallest Russian doll of a set now missing its heart. He does not touch any of these things, but replaces both the seashell and the pocket watch before securing the lid.
He finds Remus in the backyard, seated on the wooden swing that hangs from the tallest tree. The other boy does not look up.
“Thank you,” Sirius says. Remus kicks the toe of his shoe through the dirt. Sirius feels his throat tighten. He sits on the ground by his friend’s feet. “Moony?” Remus is still. “Remus?”
And suddenly Remus is staring him in the eye and it is worse than being lashed at by fists. “What do you want from me, Sirius?” It is not an attack, just a demand. Still, Sirius starts.
“I...I don’t know,” he says honestly. Is this about last night? Is this about what I do to you? he wants to ask, but the words clutch inside of him.
“Do you do this with everyone?” Remus is saying, “do you do this with James?”
“What? No! No, it’s just...”
“Just me.”
“Yeah, just you.” Sirius stands now. His throat is closing up, he’s certain now. He doesn’t know how to move, what to do with his hands, his feet. “You’re not going to...You won’t tell, will you? I’m sorry I did it. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, you know. I just-”
“Did you like it?” Remus is very quiet.
Sirius thinks of the tin on his pillow, of the pocket watch searing his palm. No, his mind screams frantically. Say no.. “Yes,” he says aloud. “I did.” The confession does not bring relief, though. The tightening in his throat spreads downward into his chest. His heart bangs against his ribs like a frightened bird.
Remus turns away from him now, twisting the rope of the swing over his head. The sight makes Sirius uneasy; he wants to untangle the swing, put Remus on solid ground.
“Why do you do it?” Remus asks. “Is it practise? Is it just because you miss girls out here? Is it just because you can’t stay celibate for two weeks?”
Sirius stares at his back. He thinks of the Russian doll staring up at him and he wants to run away. “No,” he says very quietly.
“What is it then?” And Remus has turned around again, is staring so hard at him...
“I don’t know,” he says helplessly. “I don’t know, and look, Moony. I’m just sorry I did it.”
It is only then that Remus drops his gaze to the ground. He looks positively sick with some thought, but Sirius cannot say what exactly it is. “I’m sorry, too,” Remus says.
They stay like this, one boy with his head in his knees, one boy barely standing. Sirius wants permission to touch Remus’ shoulder, wants to find that his chin fits perfectly in the crook of the other boy’s neck. He has never felt more afraid, he thinks, not in his entire life.
And suddenly he is there, gently butting his head against Remus’. He moves in between the other boy’s arms, forces them into a hold around his neck. “Padfoot?” Remus says, startled. “You fucking coward.” But he is smiling, if only a little. He allows his hand to run through the fur of the dog now before him.