Fic: Sunlight Beneath Sycamores
title: Sunlight Beneath Sycamores
author: spessartine
pairing: Sirius/Regulus
rating: PG-13 for language
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine; I just make them flounce and sulk
summary: And the garden is overgrown anyway; he doesn’t know why he expects it to be lit with drifts of white blooms and floating tapers. Out of the window, it’s a dark, wet space.
A/N: This is a companion piece to The Sun Burst Through in Unlooked For Directions, though I can't say it's necessary to have read the first in order to understand the second. This one's from Sirius' point of view, before Harry arrives at Grimmauld Place.
Sunlight Beneath Sycamores
Later, he can’t remember it at all, not as a whole. There’s flashes of it, snippets, a certain quality of light that runs through him for a day, two. He sits at the table and thinks this is where it was, this is where it happened, as if he can persuade himself into remembering. It doesn’t help.
Remus makes him tea and wraps his fingers round the cup. Remus says, please, Sirius, come on now, and please, come on, Padfoot, you’re cold. Remus lifts him under his arms and shuffles him towards the stairs and up the stairs and into a room where a fire is burning.
Oh, he says. We used to eat in here. Steak tartare. The best claret.
There are days like this. That’s all right. That’s to be expected. He hears people saying this to Remus. Then he hears Remus saying it to Snape. But he isn’t listening, not really.
The garden’s overgrown, all tangled with bleached grass and the twigs from the sycamore trees. The lawns haven’t been rolled or mown in years, and they’re scarry with moles. Sirius looks out of Remus’ bedroom window and remembers, for a moment, lights in the trees and his brother (he had a brother) turning a sour eye on him. I’m sorry, says Sirius; blurts it out and his breath ghosts over the glass. His fingers make marks in the condensation like glyphs, like secret messages.
Why are you sorry, says Remus, behind him. You don’t need to be sorry, Sirius. Sirius doesn’t say anything. His palms press against the glass.
Remus says, come away from the window.
Some days everything makes more sense, and those are the days he drinks. Filthy with dust and sour with sweat, he sits on the stairs and drinks, glaring at the curtains that screen his mother’s portrait. Her silence (or worse, the sounds of her sleep) stirs up an urge for noise in him, a need for light. Sometimes, if he is alone in the house, he pulls back the curtains and stands swaying and silent in the path of her tirade.
Arthur Weasley finds him like this once, appears at the front door to find Sirius sodden with whiskey, his shirt open and hanging off him, Mrs Black shrieking and howling. Sirius’ eyes are shut, and when Arthur taps him on the shoulder he starts suddenly and drops the bottle of firewhiskey.
Shame of my flesh, screams Mrs Black. Abomination. Filth. Blood traitor.
Sirius looks blankly at Arthur, and a tear spills over onto his cheek. He doesn’t seem to notice, and Arthur doesn’t mention it. He takes Sirius into the kitchen and makes him tea. People are always making tea for him now. They never make it right, though, always putting milk in instead of lemon.
(Lemon, says Regulus. No sugar, either. I’m not a fucking savage.)
The garden’s overgrown, anyway. The light beneath the sycamores in summer was green, bobbing candles in the dusk, that pepper smell of lupins in the border (how he’d laughed) and the sickly drifting scent of roses.
(I’m sorry, he says, and Regulus looks at him sourly. It doesn’t seem, right, somehow. He’s never seen Regulus laugh like he laughs then.)
And the lawn doesn’t have that smooth thickness that made him want to roll around on it as a child. Still, it’s spring, and he goes out anyway, and the grass is so wet his trousers are sodden to the knees and it doesn’t seem to matter when he sits down under the bare trees and presses his hands into the dirt.
I don’t think you’d get anything to grow there, Sirius, says Remus.
No, he says, looking up, the earth’s bad here; the soil’s all gone to shit.
(Regulus had been wearing his deep blue robes, he remembers, buttoned up high under his chin and stretched taut whenever he folded his arms. No, I’ve made up my mind, he starts. Not again. But he can’t remember if he ever finished what he wanted to say, because Regulus was glaring at him and his lip was starting to curl.)
That evening Remus makes spaghetti and they eat it together in Remus’ room, where the fire seems always to be burning. Sirius sits on the rug and drinks too much wine and laughs at Remus’ face, which is so tentative, so very tentative, as if he’s afraid he’ll do something wrong.
He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to leave. Remus stands watching him for a moment, then he says, alright, alright Padfoot. Sirius slips into dog form and sleeps sprawled over the rug, paws twitching whenever Remus strokes his large domed head, or scratches absently behind his ears. When he wakes up its just past dawn, and Remus is still there. The fire has settled into ashes. Sleep tangles his thoughts.
Regulus? he says, looking around. Remus looks at him sadly, but only shakes his head. He can feel when it’s coming on, now. Knows to slip away. Sometimes Remus will come to find him, sometimes not.
This is where Regulus slept. He knows this. He sits on the bed and tests the mattress’ spring. The room’s bare, anyway. Bare as winter. The sun has cast shadows on the walls too often, and they’ve lingered like pale watermarks. A dead moth rests on the window sill, drifted in its own dust. Sirius picks it up, opens the window and blows it into the breeze.
(There’ll still be a place for you, if you come back quickly, Regulus says.)
Sirius feels a light touch on his arm, like a finger running down from elbow to wrist. He shivers. The knowledge is bitter in him: he came back, though late, but his place was kept waiting. Outside the door he can almost hear quiet breathing, the silence of someone not knocking on the door. But then the feeling is gone, and all that’s left is hunger, and a kind of wanton loneliness that makes him lightheaded.
No one comes to fetch him at dinner time. They all sit in awkward silence with him at the head of the table. No need to fucking tiptoe around me, he says nastily, and shakes Remus’ hand from his shoulder. He knows why they’re quiet. Soon the house will be loud and full of Weasleys all the time, and then Harry will come. They’re wondering what he’ll be like around Harry. He doesn’t know. He wishes they’d make some bloody smalltalk, and pours himself some more wine.
Silence hangs over him though. He drinks too much and starts ranting about something no one else remembers, and Remus steers him up the stairs once more and into the old dining room. Remus’ hands are hot, heavy and dry on his neck for a moment as he angles Sirius’ head.
Look at me, he says. Look at me, Sirius.
(Regulus gasps and shuts his eyes, but Sirius says no, open your eyes, look at me, look at me.)
Sirius breaks away and pushes a glass bowl from its place on the sideboard, casually, deliberately. Remus almost smiles, then. And the garden is overgrown anyway; he doesn’t know why he expects it to be lit with drifts of white blooms and floating tapers. Out of the window, it’s a dark, wet space.
We could clear it, you know, the garden, says Remus, seeing where he’s looking.
Sirius shakes his head.
And sometimes, when they’re alone, he presses his hands against Remus’ body, or his mouth against Remus’ lips and says this, this - I remember this.
But Remus shakes his head and says that wasn’t me, Sirius. That wasn’t me.
author: spessartine
pairing: Sirius/Regulus
rating: PG-13 for language
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine; I just make them flounce and sulk
summary: And the garden is overgrown anyway; he doesn’t know why he expects it to be lit with drifts of white blooms and floating tapers. Out of the window, it’s a dark, wet space.
A/N: This is a companion piece to The Sun Burst Through in Unlooked For Directions, though I can't say it's necessary to have read the first in order to understand the second. This one's from Sirius' point of view, before Harry arrives at Grimmauld Place.
Sunlight Beneath Sycamores
Later, he can’t remember it at all, not as a whole. There’s flashes of it, snippets, a certain quality of light that runs through him for a day, two. He sits at the table and thinks this is where it was, this is where it happened, as if he can persuade himself into remembering. It doesn’t help.
Remus makes him tea and wraps his fingers round the cup. Remus says, please, Sirius, come on now, and please, come on, Padfoot, you’re cold. Remus lifts him under his arms and shuffles him towards the stairs and up the stairs and into a room where a fire is burning.
Oh, he says. We used to eat in here. Steak tartare. The best claret.
There are days like this. That’s all right. That’s to be expected. He hears people saying this to Remus. Then he hears Remus saying it to Snape. But he isn’t listening, not really.
The garden’s overgrown, all tangled with bleached grass and the twigs from the sycamore trees. The lawns haven’t been rolled or mown in years, and they’re scarry with moles. Sirius looks out of Remus’ bedroom window and remembers, for a moment, lights in the trees and his brother (he had a brother) turning a sour eye on him. I’m sorry, says Sirius; blurts it out and his breath ghosts over the glass. His fingers make marks in the condensation like glyphs, like secret messages.
Why are you sorry, says Remus, behind him. You don’t need to be sorry, Sirius. Sirius doesn’t say anything. His palms press against the glass.
Remus says, come away from the window.
Some days everything makes more sense, and those are the days he drinks. Filthy with dust and sour with sweat, he sits on the stairs and drinks, glaring at the curtains that screen his mother’s portrait. Her silence (or worse, the sounds of her sleep) stirs up an urge for noise in him, a need for light. Sometimes, if he is alone in the house, he pulls back the curtains and stands swaying and silent in the path of her tirade.
Arthur Weasley finds him like this once, appears at the front door to find Sirius sodden with whiskey, his shirt open and hanging off him, Mrs Black shrieking and howling. Sirius’ eyes are shut, and when Arthur taps him on the shoulder he starts suddenly and drops the bottle of firewhiskey.
Shame of my flesh, screams Mrs Black. Abomination. Filth. Blood traitor.
Sirius looks blankly at Arthur, and a tear spills over onto his cheek. He doesn’t seem to notice, and Arthur doesn’t mention it. He takes Sirius into the kitchen and makes him tea. People are always making tea for him now. They never make it right, though, always putting milk in instead of lemon.
(Lemon, says Regulus. No sugar, either. I’m not a fucking savage.)
The garden’s overgrown, anyway. The light beneath the sycamores in summer was green, bobbing candles in the dusk, that pepper smell of lupins in the border (how he’d laughed) and the sickly drifting scent of roses.
(I’m sorry, he says, and Regulus looks at him sourly. It doesn’t seem, right, somehow. He’s never seen Regulus laugh like he laughs then.)
And the lawn doesn’t have that smooth thickness that made him want to roll around on it as a child. Still, it’s spring, and he goes out anyway, and the grass is so wet his trousers are sodden to the knees and it doesn’t seem to matter when he sits down under the bare trees and presses his hands into the dirt.
I don’t think you’d get anything to grow there, Sirius, says Remus.
No, he says, looking up, the earth’s bad here; the soil’s all gone to shit.
(Regulus had been wearing his deep blue robes, he remembers, buttoned up high under his chin and stretched taut whenever he folded his arms. No, I’ve made up my mind, he starts. Not again. But he can’t remember if he ever finished what he wanted to say, because Regulus was glaring at him and his lip was starting to curl.)
That evening Remus makes spaghetti and they eat it together in Remus’ room, where the fire seems always to be burning. Sirius sits on the rug and drinks too much wine and laughs at Remus’ face, which is so tentative, so very tentative, as if he’s afraid he’ll do something wrong.
He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to leave. Remus stands watching him for a moment, then he says, alright, alright Padfoot. Sirius slips into dog form and sleeps sprawled over the rug, paws twitching whenever Remus strokes his large domed head, or scratches absently behind his ears. When he wakes up its just past dawn, and Remus is still there. The fire has settled into ashes. Sleep tangles his thoughts.
Regulus? he says, looking around. Remus looks at him sadly, but only shakes his head. He can feel when it’s coming on, now. Knows to slip away. Sometimes Remus will come to find him, sometimes not.
This is where Regulus slept. He knows this. He sits on the bed and tests the mattress’ spring. The room’s bare, anyway. Bare as winter. The sun has cast shadows on the walls too often, and they’ve lingered like pale watermarks. A dead moth rests on the window sill, drifted in its own dust. Sirius picks it up, opens the window and blows it into the breeze.
(There’ll still be a place for you, if you come back quickly, Regulus says.)
Sirius feels a light touch on his arm, like a finger running down from elbow to wrist. He shivers. The knowledge is bitter in him: he came back, though late, but his place was kept waiting. Outside the door he can almost hear quiet breathing, the silence of someone not knocking on the door. But then the feeling is gone, and all that’s left is hunger, and a kind of wanton loneliness that makes him lightheaded.
No one comes to fetch him at dinner time. They all sit in awkward silence with him at the head of the table. No need to fucking tiptoe around me, he says nastily, and shakes Remus’ hand from his shoulder. He knows why they’re quiet. Soon the house will be loud and full of Weasleys all the time, and then Harry will come. They’re wondering what he’ll be like around Harry. He doesn’t know. He wishes they’d make some bloody smalltalk, and pours himself some more wine.
Silence hangs over him though. He drinks too much and starts ranting about something no one else remembers, and Remus steers him up the stairs once more and into the old dining room. Remus’ hands are hot, heavy and dry on his neck for a moment as he angles Sirius’ head.
Look at me, he says. Look at me, Sirius.
(Regulus gasps and shuts his eyes, but Sirius says no, open your eyes, look at me, look at me.)
Sirius breaks away and pushes a glass bowl from its place on the sideboard, casually, deliberately. Remus almost smiles, then. And the garden is overgrown anyway; he doesn’t know why he expects it to be lit with drifts of white blooms and floating tapers. Out of the window, it’s a dark, wet space.
We could clear it, you know, the garden, says Remus, seeing where he’s looking.
Sirius shakes his head.
And sometimes, when they’re alone, he presses his hands against Remus’ body, or his mouth against Remus’ lips and says this, this - I remember this.
But Remus shakes his head and says that wasn’t me, Sirius. That wasn’t me.