Things on Wheels
It has been August for precisely five hours, but already the sky is that brilliant blue Remus associates with August, and only August. It is never that colour any other time of year. But the calendars in Remus’ bedroom (there are three of them) all still say July. He has a suspicion that they will continue to say July for at least another week, if the bicycle leaning against the tree at the end of the field is any indication. Order, to Remus Lupin, is changing the calendars promptly, and Sirius Black, though he brings many things when he comes to visit, does not bring order.
Sirius has always had a fascination with things on wheels. This very possibly has something to do with the fact that most things with wheels are Muggle things, and his parents have a certain objection to Muggle things. Sirius has a certain objection to his parents. But he likes wheels. Bicycles, motorbikes, cars, skateboards. (Remus has a very vivid memory of the time Sirius borrowed a skateboard from a Muggle boy, and promptly fell off it and crashed his head into a fence. Sirius has no memory of the incident at all.) Remus has no idea where Sirius found this particular bicycle, as he has never seen it before, but he knows it is Sirius’, though he does not see him. Though it is five in the morning, and Remus has not seen Sirius since June.
“Moony!” Remus looks around, and is promptly tackled by a mass of flying limbs, black hair, and pointy elbows. The book he brought out here to read (Oliver Twist) is tossed away across the grass, its pages helter-skelter.
“Hello, Sirius. You have grass in your hair.”
“I know! Isn’t it brilliant?” Sirius finally lets him up, and bounds over to the bicycle. “I want to have grass in my hair absolutely all the time. All kinds of grass.”
“I was unaware there was more than one kind of grass.”
“Oh, yes. I have been making a study. The grass in Surrey is vastly different from the grass in Devon. And in London, there is hardly any grass at all.”
Remus observes this information quietly, looking at Sirius. He has a tendency to show up at Remus’ house without warning over the holidays and install himself (usually at odd hours, like five in the morning and exactly midnight), and every time he does he looks different from the last time Remus saw him. His hair has grown, which is not surprising, as Sirius’ hair grows remarkably fast. He’s wearing too-big jeans with a hole the shape of Ireland in one knee, and a blue t-shirt that says “Paint” in bold letters. The expression on his face is very like that of the dog he became just last February. The idea of it, that Sirius, James, and Peter became animagi, all for him, still makes Remus catch his breath. He kind of hopes it will always make him catch his breath.
“Hello, Sirius,” he says again. Sirius pauses in his movement toward the bike, and glances back at Remus.
“Come on, come see the bike.” He is impatient with Remus, but it is a fond kind of impatience, which they are both used to and which they would miss if it were gone. Remus ambles over and rings the bell on the handlebars.
“Very nice.”
“Well? You want to try it?”
“Try what?”
“The bike!” Sirius grabs it by the handlebars and wheels it over to the road, looking back over his shoulder at Remus.
Remus follows him, with the feeling that this is a Bad Idea, which is similar to the We-Are-Going-to-Be-in-So-Much-Trouble feeling, and the Oh, Bugger feeling. Sirius steps back and does a flourish at the bike, gesturing for Remus to get on. He does, gingerly. He wraps his fingers around the handlebars, squeezes the hand-brakes experimentally, adjusts himself on the seat. “You know I haven’t ridden a bike in-oh, God, since I was eight, or something. I’m going to crash into a tree and kill myself.”
“Shall I run behind you and catch you if you fall?” Sirius says, half joking.
Remus just looks at him, in the way that says, “It’s your bike, do you really want me to crash it into oblivion?”
“Okay then.” Remus puts his feet on the pedals, testing them. His brain has to relearn the art of riding a bike, though the rest of him still knows how-they say you never forget. He pushes off and then he’s coasting down the hill, Sirius racing behind him whooping and laughing at the way Remus wobbles slightly back and forth, almost losing control, and he realizes, for a moment, why Sirius likes things on wheels.
Under the tree at the end of the field, Oliver Twist lies in the grass, forgotten.