Fic: The very dead of winter
Title: The Very Dead of Winter
Author:spessartine
Pairing: Sirius/Regulus/Remus and permutations!
Rating: Adult
Warning for incest
A/N: The section titles are all taken from TS Eliot’s poem ‘The Journey of the Magi’
1976
A cold coming we had of it
Thirteen inches, elder and ebony; slender, warm, Regulus’ wand dug into his neck. He laughed nervously.
‘Avada,’ whispered Regulus.
‘You wouldn’t fucking dare, you little prick.’
Regulus whispered the word again, breathing it across Sirius’ skin. His wand was pushing back Sirius’ head. ‘Avada ke-’ the wand glowed with white light for a second, vibrated sharply, and dropped from Regulus’ hand. He stooped to pick it up, laughing softly. ‘Looks like those wards are still in place.’
Sirius breathed hard through clenched teeth, quietly as he could. He forced his lips into a smile. ‘Of course they are. I’m the fucking heir, aren’t I? Even Mother wouldn’t let anyone kill me in the bloody house, would she?’
Regulus just smiled. Testing the wards had always been their little game, ever since they got their wands. (Regulus got his early; showed his magic early, thin streams of it flowing from his fingertips like water as he stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide and spilling tears of confusion. White sparks trickled up into the air, floated glinting in his hair, fell from his mouth when he tried to speak.
‘Is it magic, Sirius?’ he’d asked. ‘Is it? Feels like buzzing.’ Then he’d laughed, and the room brimmed full with light. Sirius had watched, transfixed, until the sparks began to settle, and flames bloomed hot and blue wherever they landed.)
‘Anyway,’ said Sirius, as Regulus tucked his wand into the belt of his robes, ‘you knew the wards would stop you, or you’d never have bloody dared.’
But Regulus was already stalking off down the hallway, the hem of his robes skimming along the dusty floor behind him and spreading on the draft in his wake, every inch the Slytherin, even here, miles away from Hogwarts.
In Sirius’ room the air was cold, despite the fire set dutifully by the house elves. Snow was falling past the window, and his hand on the glass was soon haloed with condensation. And he stood there motionless until time ticked on and on into evening’s eternity; not moving; a dark figure at the window, the shine on his black hair dulled, the richness of his black clothes flattened, until he was just a silhouette, shadow upon shadow upon shadow.
1979
And three trees on the low sky
Remus leans forward and touches the tip of his cigarette to Sirius’. The ember twins and smokes, burns into the dim air like an opening eye.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘It’s the last time you’ll have to do it, isn’t it? You said yourself once he turned eighteen you wouldn’t baby-sit him anymore. Let him mope about if he wants to, the little snake, it’s only for a while, then he’ll be back at Hogwarts.’
‘A while?’ says Sirius incredulously. ‘Moony, christmas holidays are three weeks long, what if he wants to see the flat? I don’t want him there.’
‘It’s only your brother,’ says Remus, ‘and NEWTs are tough, you should give him a break. He probably won’t show up, anyway, I don’t know why you’re worrying.’ Sirius doesn’t answer. He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth and finishes his drink.
Eventually he sighs and wrinkles his nose. ‘I bet James and Pete are having fun without us,’ he says, a grin pulling at his lips.
Remus snorts. ‘Christ, poor James. Still, could be worse.’
Sirius raises an eyebrow. ‘Could it?’
‘He could be stuck here with you in full strop, you sulky pillock.’
Sirius looks down to where his empty glass rests in his hands. ‘Moony,’ he says quietly, ‘I think I’m going to get you horrendously pissed. Alright?’
‘Fine with me, mate,’ says Remus, grinding out his cigarette and stealing another from the pack.
And later, when Remus is drunk and Sirius is getting there, Sirius lets his hand fall onto Remus’ thigh and sees in Remus’ face exactly what he knew he would. Guilt rises in him like bile, but only for a second.
Coins spill between his fingers onto the table as he leans forward and whispers into Remus’ ear, ‘come on, Moony, let’s go somewhere else, somewhere quiet.’
He sees Remus’ eyes widen, the blush on Remus’ cheeks spreading down onto his neck, though he knows he is not meant to. He stands and pulls Remus up after him, so that their bodies are pressed together, Remus’ back against the table. Sirius lets an open-mouthed grin spread slow and warm across his face. ‘Come on, I want to. I know you do, as well.’ Remus opens his mouth and stutters something Sirius doesn’t bother to listen to. He arches his back slightly as he slides past, and is pleased when Remus sucks in a breath shakily.
For a while, Remus just stares at him. They stand there, feet apart in some muggle pub just looking at each other, both of their bodies singing with alcohol and warmth and want and maybe just a tinge of uncertainty. Sirius can see it in Remus. He sees it and knows it’s his get-out, his last chance. He could drop this now and laugh it off, could let Remus have it for his little fantasies and not mention it again. But he doesn’t.
Sirius licks his bottom lip, smiles his cockiest smile and pulls Remus outside.
In an alley nearby Sirius presses his body against Remus’ and slides his hand across Remus’ belly, fingers scratching through the hair on his abdomen. Remus gasps and says, ‘Sirius. Sirius, I think - um, Sirius, will you stop, please.’
But Sirius is already kissing his neck, and cannot stop, not now. He presses his hand over Remus mouth and lets his teeth graze the soft skin where Remus’ neck angles into his collarbone until Remus is trembling and hard against his thigh. ‘See,’ he whispers, ‘I knew you wanted it.’
Remus is silent for a moment. Then he grabs Sirius by the lapels of his jacket, spins him around so his back is against the wall, and pushes his hand into Sirius’ trousers.
1976
Lying down in the melting snow
There were times we regretted
Mornings, there was ice spreading riotous across the panes of his window. The air hung heavy with dust and chill, and the faded velvet blankets and hangings on his bed were rumpled and blank with damp.
His every breath hung in the air for a moment before dispersing. Outside, rooks were stirring in the sycamore trees, and London was caught paused in the moment between inhalation and the long day’s breathing out - before the noise, before the dirt on the streets sent up its scent to permeate everything, and there was calm; there was calm, and Sirius closed his eyes and turned his cheek to the pillow and let his hand circle his cock gently, gently. The house too was caught in this moment of quiet; each sound that reached his room was muffled, disjointed, anonymous, and his breath ghosting out into the room quickened, moistened his dark lips and his eyelashes and his pale eyelids.
He frowned and let his hand speed up; the dry sound of rustling cotton and velvet (like the sound of his brother sweeping through the house) and his panting breaths, low moans half-whispered into the secret solace of his bed (Regulus’ lips parting, parting) his palm pressed against the cold stones of the wall (and on the other side, through masonry and mortar, Regulus is lying in his bed too, the covers thrown back and tangled about his legs, his lips parting, parting, his cheeks feverish, little moans escaping his lips, little whimpers, and his hand is stroking down his chest, skirting across tight dark nipples, moving down, down, grasping his cock, those little whimpers, Sirius, Sirius, dear Christ his voice, Sirius, fuck me, oh, Sirius because he wants it, doesn’t he, little whore, clever, clever little slut Sirius, please, fuck me) and Sirius came, his eyes clenched shut, a deep moan that was half-growl pushing its way between his gritted teeth.
Then the warmth that dissipated all to quickly, the spell that cleaned him up, the sick sweep of nausea that washed over him because, oh, fuck, he said he wouldn’t, not again, not again, not Regulus. It was bad enough without it being his brother that he thought of - bad enough that it was a bloke at all, without it being -
‘Sirius?’ His brother’s voice, coming from the room next door. Oh, fuck, he’d been too loud this time, too fucking loud, even after he promised himself he wouldn’t do it all, not with Regulus in the room next door. ‘Sirius?’
He lay on his back, heart pounding, the beat thundering through him, sick with shame and revulsion and longing. Soft laughter seeped in from the other room. The rooks startled up from their ragged nests and fell through the grey sky, clamouring the morning.
1979
And the night-fires going out
Remus grabs Sirius by the lapels of his jacket, spins him around so his back is against the wall, and pushes his hand into Sirius’ trousers. Sirius gasps this time, but his mouth is covered by Remus’ parted lips, the heat of them and the shock of his teeth, white light bursting as his head knocks against the wall and Remus bites at his bottom lip.
‘I’ve fucking had enough,’ says Remus into his mouth, his voice shaking, ‘I’ve had enough, alright? You, fucking rubbing up against me, practically purring you were, and I’ve had enough, just -’ His hand rubs the length of Sirius’ cock, thumb brushing across the tip, and Sirius arches forward instinctively. Their lips rub wetly together as Remus speaks, pushing his hips against Sirius’ and gripping Sirius’ lapels once more.
‘You knew you could have me if you wanted me, but you didn’t, and now you think just because you’re bored you might as well, that I’ll just -’ his voice breaks and he kisses Sirius again, breathless and clumsy. ‘Just because you can, fucking rubbing up against me like I’ll do anything for it, only have to be broken, you arrogant wanker, you -’
‘Moony,’ says Sirius, ‘you’re pissed, be quiet, someone’ll hear.’
Remus looks at him for a second, his face tight, his breathing ragged. He looks like he might start to cry or punch Sirius at any moment. ‘Fuck you,’ he says eventually, and presses his lips against Sirius’ once more. ‘You’ve got me now, your little plan worked. So what are you going to do with me?’ Once more he reaches down and rubs his hand against Sirius’ erection through his jeans, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile when Sirius gasps and pulls him closer.
‘Remus,’ he whispers.
Remus looks up, for a moment, his eyes piercing. ‘You’ve never even had a bloke,’ he says, but before Sirius can answer, Remus is undoing his jeans and the air is cold against his cock and in his lungs and oh god, Remus’ hand closes around him and starts to move, and their mouths are clashing together, and Sirius’ voice is hoarse as he says, ‘oh, fuck yes. Oh fuck, Moony.’
One hand still on Sirius’ cock, their mouths never parting, Remus flicks his wand in the direction of the streetlamp at the mouth of the alley, and it blinks into darkness. Sirius wants to laugh and say bloody hell Moony, you’ve done this before, but he doesn’t because he knows then that Remus will look at him and say nothing, and that the ghosts of the men Remus has fucked will cluster around them, with their pale skin and grey eyes and long black hair.
He can see them now, even as Remus is pushing up his shirt and biting at his nipples, his hipbones, even as Remus’ mouth closes around his cock they’re watching him from the shadows, smiles glinting at him from the behind the silky fall of their black hair, sly grey eyes blinking slowly as he thrusts his hips in time with the movement of Remus’ mouth, and when -
When did they become his brother?
1976
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly
Embers settling in the grate startled him from sleep. The house seemed to shift around him as he rolled to his knees on the bed and stretched out the cramp from his spine. Pieces of parchment were scattered across his pillow, fragments of letters scrawled over their surfaces, Dear Prongs, Dear Moony, Dear Pete; I am; I hope; I - he could never get past that opening, was never much of a letter writer, though winter in his family home at least inspired him to try.
He pulled off his shirt and ran his hands through his hair to smooth out its tangles. Moonlight spilled over the sill and into the room, casting everything in shades of midnight blue and grey, and through the window he could see the trees in the garden weighed with snow, motionless and silent beneath the arc of the stars and the smoke-swathed lights of the city.
A noise from Regulus’ room made his skin prickle; a chill sighed across his skin, and he thought of Regulus whispering avada, avada against him, the feel of the word, of Regulus’ breath against his neck, of Regulus’ wand digging into his neck, of those long fingers wrapped around its dark handle, avada, avada, avada -
Again, that sound. Sirius’ breath caught in his throat. He was sure it had been - yes, again, unmistakably, a moan, and the creak of Regulus’ mattress. Sirius’ mouth fell open, and he shut his eyes. God help him, oh, he was lost. He knew it. He clenched his fists and crawled across the bed to the wall that separated the two rooms and rested his forehead against it, shaking his head and biting his lip even as he opened the fly of his jeans and let his palm touch the startling heat of his cock.
He spat into his palm as Regulus moaned once more, louder this time, and Sirius could hear the faint rustle of cloth against skin, skin against silk, his hand moving on his cock, slick and whispered, and oh,
‘Sirius.’ The word was half-shaped around a moan, quiet behind stone, and yet - ‘Sirius, fuck,’ Regulus’ voice was lower than he’d ever heard it, rough with desire. With the pall of silence that had settled over the house it was clear as if Regulus had been next to him. Sirius could hardly breathe, was gasping, grasping the rough stone of the wall with one hand, his chest and brow pressed against rock, and ‘oh, fuck, yes, Sirius,’ the wall seemed to hum along with his brother’s voice, he could feel the vibration of it in his bones almost, could feel Regulus’ breath against his neck once more.
He came with a hoarse, wordless yell that drowned out whatever Regulus said next. Collapsing back onto the bed, Sirius rolled onto his front and buried his face in his pillow.
Creaking from the next room, then, ‘Sirius?’ Clever little bastard, his brother.
Sirius locked his door with a flick of his wand and curled up on his side in silence.
1979
Six hands at an open door, dicing for pieces of silver
He wakes to a queasy throbbing in his head and voices coming from the hallway of his flat. He feels - well, sore. And he’s naked, and in the hall Remus’ voice is echoing slightly from the high ceiling. Remus. Well, that explains the soreness.
‘Really,’ Remus is saying, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but really, you should just go. He’s asleep, anyway.’ Sirius sits up in bed and examines the faint mottling of bruises that covers his skin: braceleted around his wrists, faint marks on his hip bones, a perfect bite mark on his ribs that still shows the indentation of Remus’ teeth.
‘I should have known you’d be here. Where are the rest of you? Lurking about, no doubt. Tell him I’m here.’ Regulus’ voice. Oh, fuck. He reaches for the glass of water on the floor next to the mattress, only to find it contains vodka. Coughing, hand clamped over his mouth, he doubles over and does his best to force down the nausea that wracks his body.
‘Look,’ says Remus, out in the hallway, and Sirius can hear a sternness that is unfamiliar to him, ‘I told you. It’s time for you to fuck off.’
‘Don’t touch me,’ his brother hisses. A moment of silence, then, ‘oh. Oh, I see. You’re -’ Regulus’ laughter is as it always had been: rich, low, infuriating. Sirius shuts his eyes and pulls the sheets tightly around him. ‘Finally worked it out then, Sirius?’ calls Regulus from the front door. ‘I’ll come back tonight. We need to talk.’
The door slams, and Sirius waits for Remus to come in. He can hear him in the hallway, hear his footsteps approaching the bedroom door, then halting. He can hear Remus breathing. He sits up. ‘Remus?’ The door opens, and Remus is there, a little flushed, his shirt undone. ‘I’m sorry about Regulus. I said the nasty little fucker would show, up, didn’t I?’
‘It’s fine,’ says Remus, his hands toying with the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t come any closer.
‘Look,’ says Sirius, then pauses. Remus smiles, a small, sad smile, that says nothing and everything, that says Remus loves him and always has; says that Remus loves him and will leave and never admit it; that Remus knows Sirius will not stop him.
Sirius takes a deep breath. Then he holds out his hand to Remus and says, ‘why don’t you stay. You can make me breakfast.’ He feels like he is falling - not in love, merely falling, and life is whipping past him, and he can hardly breathe, and he’s dizzy, and Remus takes his hand, just for a moment, and says ‘Alright.’
Sirius turns away from the happiness in Remus’ face, cannot bear being the cause of it. But he longs for the hot black emptiness that burned into being when Remus fucked him, he longs for the moment of forgetfulness when he came into Remus’ mouth; the moment of relief when he could not remember his brother, not at all.
And he spends the morning coaxing Remus into teaching him; spends the morning lying on his back, wreathed in sweat, with Remus between his thighs, and Remus laughs as if astonished when Sirius comes, and smiles, and smiles, and to see it makes something in Sirius begin to whither, to fade, but he does not let himself think about it; keeps striving for that chink of blackness that is his doorway into forgetting.
He smiles up at Remus, and cups Remus’ cheek in his hand, and whispers, yes, yes, Remus, fuck me. And that evening when Regulus knocks at the door, Remus is sleeping with his head pillowed on Sirius’ shoulder. His breath against Sirius’ skin is cool. And Regulus knocks on the door, knocks and knocks, and Sirius shuts his eyes, and pretends he does not hear.
And it is the same the next night, and the next, and by the third night Sirius is dizzy with firewhiskey by the time Regulus’ knuckles meet the door, and he slips out of the bed where Remus is sleeping softly and leans against the front door and presses his shaking fingers into its surface until his nails begin to crack, and he does not make a sound, but all the same Regulus knows he is there, and his voice is soft, soft, welcoming, as he says ‘Oh, Sirius, what are you doing? It won’t help, you know it won’t. Please let me in, I have to talk to you. Please, Sirius, please.’
Sirius bites his lip and mutters ‘fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,’ under his breath.
‘Come on,’ says Regulus, his voice quiet, close. ‘Please, Sirius.’
Sirius opens the door.
1976
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey
That night was the beginning of it: he would wake in the night to the sound of his brother’s moans, his brother’s voice saying his name, and he knew, knew it was for him, but he never answered, not once, though his hoarse, ragged cries echoed through the house.
He did not let himself touch his brother - did not meet his eyes, even. They hardly spoke after that, though Sirius knew that each time he went home it would be the same. He hated and desired those nights more that anything, perhaps, apart form Regulus. And they did not test the wards again, though every night as he fisted his cock in time to Regulus’ moans and whimpers he would hear Regulus’ whispered voice saying again avada, avada, avada ke -
1979
The ways deep and the weather sharp
‘I’ve come to bring you home,’ says Regulus. The black mark on his arm has a faint sheen in the light of the fire that crackles in the grate. Even at this late hour the city is awake still: all around Sirius’ flat the streets are glossed with melted snow and piled slush, and the cars that pass there hiss out a spray of water behind them and leave streaked reflections of their lights; red, white, amber.
Sirius rubs his hands over his face and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to say.
‘You’ve played your little game in your dingy little flat,’ says Regulus. ‘You’ve had your fun: yes, fine. But you have responsibilities, Sirius. One day you’ll be the head of a powerful house.’
‘No.’
Regulus comes and kneels in front of him, between his feet. ‘Yes,’ he says. His eyes are the colour of storm clouds as he reaches up and rests his hands on Sirius’ thighs, his thumbs rubbing along the seams of Sirius’ jeans.
‘Please,’ says Sirius. ‘You know I won’t.’ He pushes Regulus away and lurches to his feet. It’s then that he sees Remus in the doorway, still flushed from drink and sex and sleep, pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips, silent and wary.
‘Regulus,’ starts Sirius, and swallows. ‘Regulus is just going, aren’t you?’ he says, and is grateful for Remus’ hand at the small of his back.
Regulus smiles. He’s watching, and he smiles, slow and brutally seductive. Sirius swallows again. He knows what that smile means, he’s seen it, seen it a hundred times, he knows, and -
He sees then how it might be. His hands are shaking as he takes each of their hands and joins them within his.
‘What -?’ says Remus. Sirius cuts him off with a kiss, running his hand over Remus’ chest until the tenseness in Remus’ muscles eases away. And behind Remus, Regulus is watching, that same smile twisting his lips, and Sirius cannot look away, he cannot look away or close his eyes, even as he kisses Remus, he sees only his brother; his brother’s hands joining his stroking Remus’ chest, wrapping delicately around Remus’ neck; his brother’s lips softly pressing against Remus’ shoulder.
Sirius feels Remus tense again as that happens. But he teases Remus’ throat and jaw with his teeth and his tongue and breathes, ‘please, please Remus, for me, please.’ And he knows that Remus will, for him.
Remus will. And it is beautiful.
Regulus does not move his gaze from Sirius as he undoes his robes, as he runs his hands over Remus’ body, as he lies down before the fire and pulls Remus down on top of him. He does not look away as his legs falls open, as his long fingers wrap around Remus’ cock and tease out moans from Remus’ mouth. Sirius cannot move as he watches his brother.
And Remus, oh, Remus. He is slow as gold as he lies against Regulus, and his hand is harsh and hard as it tugs at Regulus’ cock, and his mouth is twisted into something like desolation.
Beneath him Regulus arches his back and gazes still at Sirius, a smile broadening on his lips even as Remus enters him, and fucks him, and he moans, and reaches out his hand to Sirius and whispers ‘oh, fuck, Sirius.’ Sirius is overtaken with the beauty of it, the soft spread of Regulus’ hair, the faint and faded gold of Remus’ skin. ‘Yes,’ he says, his voice wavering, unsteady, ‘yes, just like that.’
And when Remus bites his lip and a soft groan breaks free of him too Sirius reaches down to touch himself. And when Regulus, his mouth open, the muscles in his neck taut, tightens his legs around Remus’ hips and comes into Remus’ hand, Sirius and Remus cry out at the same moment.
A single tear falls from Remus’ eyelashes onto Regulus’ cheek, and runs down into his black hair, leaving a trail of moisture that catches the light.
The very dead of winter
Dawn is soft as is ever was, and soft against their bodies. It comes late, of course, breaking over the rush hour and catching motes of light off the frost-limned roofs of cars caught up close in the streets.
Sirius wakes cold in his bed with Remus curled into himself on the other side, not touching. Cool half-light floods the room and a strange feeling curling in his stomach that he cannot identify. He gets up quietly and pulls on his jeans and his jumper and his jacket and his boots and tiptoes into the living room.
Regulus is there, of course, sitting poised in his immaculate robes in a shaft of grey light. He says nothing to Sirius, only smiles as he stands and brushes the creases from his clothes.
‘You’ll come home?’ he asks, and the uncertainty in his voice makes Sirius remember that he is the older brother. His silence says what he cannot. Regulus nods. ‘Just for a little while,’ he says.
‘I don’t suppose it will make much difference, now,’ says Sirius. And then they have gone, faded from the room and sheened into being somewhere else -
where even the air is familiar, and the dark hallway echoes with their footsteps, and Sirius can feel again the darkness of the place in his bones tugging at him, yearning for him.
They climb the stairs and walk softly into Sirius’ room, which is just as he left it; scattered papers littering the floor, broken furniture thrown into corners, clothes that had not fit into his bag the night he ran away strewn across the bed. Regulus is quiet, now, and looks lost here. Sirius turns and catches his brothers hand in his own, saying nothing, though a thousand words are banking up in his throat, moves closer so their bodies touch. Then he draws his wand and rests it gently, gently against Regulus’ neck.
Regulus leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. ‘Avada,’ whispers Sirius, his lips moving against Regulus’ cheek. Regulus unzips his fly and undoes his own robe. ‘Avada,’ says Sirius, his teeth grazing Regulus’ shoulder, shivering as Regulus’ hand wraps around both their cocks and starts to move.
Something is building in Sirius, some dark wave of heat and need that has long been swelling there; insistent, unbearable, and massive. It throbs through his skin and deafens him with white hot silence until, finally, it crests and crashes through him, and he takes Regulus by the hair and pushes him to the floor, his wand hot and digging into Regulus’ neck.
When Regulus tries to bring their mouths together he presses his palm to his brother’s lips, turns his head away, and yanks down his jeans, thrusting his thigh between Regulus’ legs and twisting so that their cocks rub hotly together.
And their bodies rock together, the sweetness of his brother’s skin under his lips choking and coaxing him all the while, and he raises his wand and strokes Regulus’ neck with it once more, whispering ‘avada, avada,’ and Regulus arches his back beneath him and moans.
He turns his face away from Regulus’, not wanting their lips to touch, and Regulus chuckles, but lets him do it, and does not flinch when Sirius says, quietly,
‘Avada kedav-’ nothing happens.
His wand does not glow or shake in his hand, does not drop from numb fingers.
He looks down at Regulus, looks down into Regulus’ eyes, and there is something - something there that he should understand, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t, he can’t.
‘The wards…’ he whispers, dropping his wand to the floor. Regulus reaches up and runs his finger along Sirius’ cheekbone.
‘I took them down,’ says Regulus.
Sirius finds he is shaking. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth and sits up on his heels. He looks down at his brother; robes in disarray, pale skin flushed, scratch marks Sirius cannot remember making on his naked chest. ‘What the fuck were you playing at? I could have -’ his voice breaks. Silence spins itself inside him like black thread unspooling. He cannot meet Regulus’ gaze.
‘They won’t let me leave,’ Regulus says. Sirius closes his eyes and twines their fingers together. ‘They won’t let me leave,’ Regulus says again. Snow begins to fall past the window.
fin
Author:spessartine
Pairing: Sirius/Regulus/Remus and permutations!
Rating: Adult
Warning for incest
A/N: The section titles are all taken from TS Eliot’s poem ‘The Journey of the Magi’
1976
A cold coming we had of it
Thirteen inches, elder and ebony; slender, warm, Regulus’ wand dug into his neck. He laughed nervously.
‘Avada,’ whispered Regulus.
‘You wouldn’t fucking dare, you little prick.’
Regulus whispered the word again, breathing it across Sirius’ skin. His wand was pushing back Sirius’ head. ‘Avada ke-’ the wand glowed with white light for a second, vibrated sharply, and dropped from Regulus’ hand. He stooped to pick it up, laughing softly. ‘Looks like those wards are still in place.’
Sirius breathed hard through clenched teeth, quietly as he could. He forced his lips into a smile. ‘Of course they are. I’m the fucking heir, aren’t I? Even Mother wouldn’t let anyone kill me in the bloody house, would she?’
Regulus just smiled. Testing the wards had always been their little game, ever since they got their wands. (Regulus got his early; showed his magic early, thin streams of it flowing from his fingertips like water as he stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide and spilling tears of confusion. White sparks trickled up into the air, floated glinting in his hair, fell from his mouth when he tried to speak.
‘Is it magic, Sirius?’ he’d asked. ‘Is it? Feels like buzzing.’ Then he’d laughed, and the room brimmed full with light. Sirius had watched, transfixed, until the sparks began to settle, and flames bloomed hot and blue wherever they landed.)
‘Anyway,’ said Sirius, as Regulus tucked his wand into the belt of his robes, ‘you knew the wards would stop you, or you’d never have bloody dared.’
But Regulus was already stalking off down the hallway, the hem of his robes skimming along the dusty floor behind him and spreading on the draft in his wake, every inch the Slytherin, even here, miles away from Hogwarts.
In Sirius’ room the air was cold, despite the fire set dutifully by the house elves. Snow was falling past the window, and his hand on the glass was soon haloed with condensation. And he stood there motionless until time ticked on and on into evening’s eternity; not moving; a dark figure at the window, the shine on his black hair dulled, the richness of his black clothes flattened, until he was just a silhouette, shadow upon shadow upon shadow.
1979
And three trees on the low sky
Remus leans forward and touches the tip of his cigarette to Sirius’. The ember twins and smokes, burns into the dim air like an opening eye.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘It’s the last time you’ll have to do it, isn’t it? You said yourself once he turned eighteen you wouldn’t baby-sit him anymore. Let him mope about if he wants to, the little snake, it’s only for a while, then he’ll be back at Hogwarts.’
‘A while?’ says Sirius incredulously. ‘Moony, christmas holidays are three weeks long, what if he wants to see the flat? I don’t want him there.’
‘It’s only your brother,’ says Remus, ‘and NEWTs are tough, you should give him a break. He probably won’t show up, anyway, I don’t know why you’re worrying.’ Sirius doesn’t answer. He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth and finishes his drink.
Eventually he sighs and wrinkles his nose. ‘I bet James and Pete are having fun without us,’ he says, a grin pulling at his lips.
Remus snorts. ‘Christ, poor James. Still, could be worse.’
Sirius raises an eyebrow. ‘Could it?’
‘He could be stuck here with you in full strop, you sulky pillock.’
Sirius looks down to where his empty glass rests in his hands. ‘Moony,’ he says quietly, ‘I think I’m going to get you horrendously pissed. Alright?’
‘Fine with me, mate,’ says Remus, grinding out his cigarette and stealing another from the pack.
And later, when Remus is drunk and Sirius is getting there, Sirius lets his hand fall onto Remus’ thigh and sees in Remus’ face exactly what he knew he would. Guilt rises in him like bile, but only for a second.
Coins spill between his fingers onto the table as he leans forward and whispers into Remus’ ear, ‘come on, Moony, let’s go somewhere else, somewhere quiet.’
He sees Remus’ eyes widen, the blush on Remus’ cheeks spreading down onto his neck, though he knows he is not meant to. He stands and pulls Remus up after him, so that their bodies are pressed together, Remus’ back against the table. Sirius lets an open-mouthed grin spread slow and warm across his face. ‘Come on, I want to. I know you do, as well.’ Remus opens his mouth and stutters something Sirius doesn’t bother to listen to. He arches his back slightly as he slides past, and is pleased when Remus sucks in a breath shakily.
For a while, Remus just stares at him. They stand there, feet apart in some muggle pub just looking at each other, both of their bodies singing with alcohol and warmth and want and maybe just a tinge of uncertainty. Sirius can see it in Remus. He sees it and knows it’s his get-out, his last chance. He could drop this now and laugh it off, could let Remus have it for his little fantasies and not mention it again. But he doesn’t.
Sirius licks his bottom lip, smiles his cockiest smile and pulls Remus outside.
In an alley nearby Sirius presses his body against Remus’ and slides his hand across Remus’ belly, fingers scratching through the hair on his abdomen. Remus gasps and says, ‘Sirius. Sirius, I think - um, Sirius, will you stop, please.’
But Sirius is already kissing his neck, and cannot stop, not now. He presses his hand over Remus mouth and lets his teeth graze the soft skin where Remus’ neck angles into his collarbone until Remus is trembling and hard against his thigh. ‘See,’ he whispers, ‘I knew you wanted it.’
Remus is silent for a moment. Then he grabs Sirius by the lapels of his jacket, spins him around so his back is against the wall, and pushes his hand into Sirius’ trousers.
1976
Lying down in the melting snow
There were times we regretted
Mornings, there was ice spreading riotous across the panes of his window. The air hung heavy with dust and chill, and the faded velvet blankets and hangings on his bed were rumpled and blank with damp.
His every breath hung in the air for a moment before dispersing. Outside, rooks were stirring in the sycamore trees, and London was caught paused in the moment between inhalation and the long day’s breathing out - before the noise, before the dirt on the streets sent up its scent to permeate everything, and there was calm; there was calm, and Sirius closed his eyes and turned his cheek to the pillow and let his hand circle his cock gently, gently. The house too was caught in this moment of quiet; each sound that reached his room was muffled, disjointed, anonymous, and his breath ghosting out into the room quickened, moistened his dark lips and his eyelashes and his pale eyelids.
He frowned and let his hand speed up; the dry sound of rustling cotton and velvet (like the sound of his brother sweeping through the house) and his panting breaths, low moans half-whispered into the secret solace of his bed (Regulus’ lips parting, parting) his palm pressed against the cold stones of the wall (and on the other side, through masonry and mortar, Regulus is lying in his bed too, the covers thrown back and tangled about his legs, his lips parting, parting, his cheeks feverish, little moans escaping his lips, little whimpers, and his hand is stroking down his chest, skirting across tight dark nipples, moving down, down, grasping his cock, those little whimpers, Sirius, Sirius, dear Christ his voice, Sirius, fuck me, oh, Sirius because he wants it, doesn’t he, little whore, clever, clever little slut Sirius, please, fuck me) and Sirius came, his eyes clenched shut, a deep moan that was half-growl pushing its way between his gritted teeth.
Then the warmth that dissipated all to quickly, the spell that cleaned him up, the sick sweep of nausea that washed over him because, oh, fuck, he said he wouldn’t, not again, not again, not Regulus. It was bad enough without it being his brother that he thought of - bad enough that it was a bloke at all, without it being -
‘Sirius?’ His brother’s voice, coming from the room next door. Oh, fuck, he’d been too loud this time, too fucking loud, even after he promised himself he wouldn’t do it all, not with Regulus in the room next door. ‘Sirius?’
He lay on his back, heart pounding, the beat thundering through him, sick with shame and revulsion and longing. Soft laughter seeped in from the other room. The rooks startled up from their ragged nests and fell through the grey sky, clamouring the morning.
1979
And the night-fires going out
Remus grabs Sirius by the lapels of his jacket, spins him around so his back is against the wall, and pushes his hand into Sirius’ trousers. Sirius gasps this time, but his mouth is covered by Remus’ parted lips, the heat of them and the shock of his teeth, white light bursting as his head knocks against the wall and Remus bites at his bottom lip.
‘I’ve fucking had enough,’ says Remus into his mouth, his voice shaking, ‘I’ve had enough, alright? You, fucking rubbing up against me, practically purring you were, and I’ve had enough, just -’ His hand rubs the length of Sirius’ cock, thumb brushing across the tip, and Sirius arches forward instinctively. Their lips rub wetly together as Remus speaks, pushing his hips against Sirius’ and gripping Sirius’ lapels once more.
‘You knew you could have me if you wanted me, but you didn’t, and now you think just because you’re bored you might as well, that I’ll just -’ his voice breaks and he kisses Sirius again, breathless and clumsy. ‘Just because you can, fucking rubbing up against me like I’ll do anything for it, only have to be broken, you arrogant wanker, you -’
‘Moony,’ says Sirius, ‘you’re pissed, be quiet, someone’ll hear.’
Remus looks at him for a second, his face tight, his breathing ragged. He looks like he might start to cry or punch Sirius at any moment. ‘Fuck you,’ he says eventually, and presses his lips against Sirius’ once more. ‘You’ve got me now, your little plan worked. So what are you going to do with me?’ Once more he reaches down and rubs his hand against Sirius’ erection through his jeans, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile when Sirius gasps and pulls him closer.
‘Remus,’ he whispers.
Remus looks up, for a moment, his eyes piercing. ‘You’ve never even had a bloke,’ he says, but before Sirius can answer, Remus is undoing his jeans and the air is cold against his cock and in his lungs and oh god, Remus’ hand closes around him and starts to move, and their mouths are clashing together, and Sirius’ voice is hoarse as he says, ‘oh, fuck yes. Oh fuck, Moony.’
One hand still on Sirius’ cock, their mouths never parting, Remus flicks his wand in the direction of the streetlamp at the mouth of the alley, and it blinks into darkness. Sirius wants to laugh and say bloody hell Moony, you’ve done this before, but he doesn’t because he knows then that Remus will look at him and say nothing, and that the ghosts of the men Remus has fucked will cluster around them, with their pale skin and grey eyes and long black hair.
He can see them now, even as Remus is pushing up his shirt and biting at his nipples, his hipbones, even as Remus’ mouth closes around his cock they’re watching him from the shadows, smiles glinting at him from the behind the silky fall of their black hair, sly grey eyes blinking slowly as he thrusts his hips in time with the movement of Remus’ mouth, and when -
When did they become his brother?
1976
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly
Embers settling in the grate startled him from sleep. The house seemed to shift around him as he rolled to his knees on the bed and stretched out the cramp from his spine. Pieces of parchment were scattered across his pillow, fragments of letters scrawled over their surfaces, Dear Prongs, Dear Moony, Dear Pete; I am; I hope; I - he could never get past that opening, was never much of a letter writer, though winter in his family home at least inspired him to try.
He pulled off his shirt and ran his hands through his hair to smooth out its tangles. Moonlight spilled over the sill and into the room, casting everything in shades of midnight blue and grey, and through the window he could see the trees in the garden weighed with snow, motionless and silent beneath the arc of the stars and the smoke-swathed lights of the city.
A noise from Regulus’ room made his skin prickle; a chill sighed across his skin, and he thought of Regulus whispering avada, avada against him, the feel of the word, of Regulus’ breath against his neck, of Regulus’ wand digging into his neck, of those long fingers wrapped around its dark handle, avada, avada, avada -
Again, that sound. Sirius’ breath caught in his throat. He was sure it had been - yes, again, unmistakably, a moan, and the creak of Regulus’ mattress. Sirius’ mouth fell open, and he shut his eyes. God help him, oh, he was lost. He knew it. He clenched his fists and crawled across the bed to the wall that separated the two rooms and rested his forehead against it, shaking his head and biting his lip even as he opened the fly of his jeans and let his palm touch the startling heat of his cock.
He spat into his palm as Regulus moaned once more, louder this time, and Sirius could hear the faint rustle of cloth against skin, skin against silk, his hand moving on his cock, slick and whispered, and oh,
‘Sirius.’ The word was half-shaped around a moan, quiet behind stone, and yet - ‘Sirius, fuck,’ Regulus’ voice was lower than he’d ever heard it, rough with desire. With the pall of silence that had settled over the house it was clear as if Regulus had been next to him. Sirius could hardly breathe, was gasping, grasping the rough stone of the wall with one hand, his chest and brow pressed against rock, and ‘oh, fuck, yes, Sirius,’ the wall seemed to hum along with his brother’s voice, he could feel the vibration of it in his bones almost, could feel Regulus’ breath against his neck once more.
He came with a hoarse, wordless yell that drowned out whatever Regulus said next. Collapsing back onto the bed, Sirius rolled onto his front and buried his face in his pillow.
Creaking from the next room, then, ‘Sirius?’ Clever little bastard, his brother.
Sirius locked his door with a flick of his wand and curled up on his side in silence.
1979
Six hands at an open door, dicing for pieces of silver
He wakes to a queasy throbbing in his head and voices coming from the hallway of his flat. He feels - well, sore. And he’s naked, and in the hall Remus’ voice is echoing slightly from the high ceiling. Remus. Well, that explains the soreness.
‘Really,’ Remus is saying, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but really, you should just go. He’s asleep, anyway.’ Sirius sits up in bed and examines the faint mottling of bruises that covers his skin: braceleted around his wrists, faint marks on his hip bones, a perfect bite mark on his ribs that still shows the indentation of Remus’ teeth.
‘I should have known you’d be here. Where are the rest of you? Lurking about, no doubt. Tell him I’m here.’ Regulus’ voice. Oh, fuck. He reaches for the glass of water on the floor next to the mattress, only to find it contains vodka. Coughing, hand clamped over his mouth, he doubles over and does his best to force down the nausea that wracks his body.
‘Look,’ says Remus, out in the hallway, and Sirius can hear a sternness that is unfamiliar to him, ‘I told you. It’s time for you to fuck off.’
‘Don’t touch me,’ his brother hisses. A moment of silence, then, ‘oh. Oh, I see. You’re -’ Regulus’ laughter is as it always had been: rich, low, infuriating. Sirius shuts his eyes and pulls the sheets tightly around him. ‘Finally worked it out then, Sirius?’ calls Regulus from the front door. ‘I’ll come back tonight. We need to talk.’
The door slams, and Sirius waits for Remus to come in. He can hear him in the hallway, hear his footsteps approaching the bedroom door, then halting. He can hear Remus breathing. He sits up. ‘Remus?’ The door opens, and Remus is there, a little flushed, his shirt undone. ‘I’m sorry about Regulus. I said the nasty little fucker would show, up, didn’t I?’
‘It’s fine,’ says Remus, his hands toying with the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t come any closer.
‘Look,’ says Sirius, then pauses. Remus smiles, a small, sad smile, that says nothing and everything, that says Remus loves him and always has; says that Remus loves him and will leave and never admit it; that Remus knows Sirius will not stop him.
Sirius takes a deep breath. Then he holds out his hand to Remus and says, ‘why don’t you stay. You can make me breakfast.’ He feels like he is falling - not in love, merely falling, and life is whipping past him, and he can hardly breathe, and he’s dizzy, and Remus takes his hand, just for a moment, and says ‘Alright.’
Sirius turns away from the happiness in Remus’ face, cannot bear being the cause of it. But he longs for the hot black emptiness that burned into being when Remus fucked him, he longs for the moment of forgetfulness when he came into Remus’ mouth; the moment of relief when he could not remember his brother, not at all.
And he spends the morning coaxing Remus into teaching him; spends the morning lying on his back, wreathed in sweat, with Remus between his thighs, and Remus laughs as if astonished when Sirius comes, and smiles, and smiles, and to see it makes something in Sirius begin to whither, to fade, but he does not let himself think about it; keeps striving for that chink of blackness that is his doorway into forgetting.
He smiles up at Remus, and cups Remus’ cheek in his hand, and whispers, yes, yes, Remus, fuck me. And that evening when Regulus knocks at the door, Remus is sleeping with his head pillowed on Sirius’ shoulder. His breath against Sirius’ skin is cool. And Regulus knocks on the door, knocks and knocks, and Sirius shuts his eyes, and pretends he does not hear.
And it is the same the next night, and the next, and by the third night Sirius is dizzy with firewhiskey by the time Regulus’ knuckles meet the door, and he slips out of the bed where Remus is sleeping softly and leans against the front door and presses his shaking fingers into its surface until his nails begin to crack, and he does not make a sound, but all the same Regulus knows he is there, and his voice is soft, soft, welcoming, as he says ‘Oh, Sirius, what are you doing? It won’t help, you know it won’t. Please let me in, I have to talk to you. Please, Sirius, please.’
Sirius bites his lip and mutters ‘fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,’ under his breath.
‘Come on,’ says Regulus, his voice quiet, close. ‘Please, Sirius.’
Sirius opens the door.
1976
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey
That night was the beginning of it: he would wake in the night to the sound of his brother’s moans, his brother’s voice saying his name, and he knew, knew it was for him, but he never answered, not once, though his hoarse, ragged cries echoed through the house.
He did not let himself touch his brother - did not meet his eyes, even. They hardly spoke after that, though Sirius knew that each time he went home it would be the same. He hated and desired those nights more that anything, perhaps, apart form Regulus. And they did not test the wards again, though every night as he fisted his cock in time to Regulus’ moans and whimpers he would hear Regulus’ whispered voice saying again avada, avada, avada ke -
1979
The ways deep and the weather sharp
‘I’ve come to bring you home,’ says Regulus. The black mark on his arm has a faint sheen in the light of the fire that crackles in the grate. Even at this late hour the city is awake still: all around Sirius’ flat the streets are glossed with melted snow and piled slush, and the cars that pass there hiss out a spray of water behind them and leave streaked reflections of their lights; red, white, amber.
Sirius rubs his hands over his face and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to say.
‘You’ve played your little game in your dingy little flat,’ says Regulus. ‘You’ve had your fun: yes, fine. But you have responsibilities, Sirius. One day you’ll be the head of a powerful house.’
‘No.’
Regulus comes and kneels in front of him, between his feet. ‘Yes,’ he says. His eyes are the colour of storm clouds as he reaches up and rests his hands on Sirius’ thighs, his thumbs rubbing along the seams of Sirius’ jeans.
‘Please,’ says Sirius. ‘You know I won’t.’ He pushes Regulus away and lurches to his feet. It’s then that he sees Remus in the doorway, still flushed from drink and sex and sleep, pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips, silent and wary.
‘Regulus,’ starts Sirius, and swallows. ‘Regulus is just going, aren’t you?’ he says, and is grateful for Remus’ hand at the small of his back.
Regulus smiles. He’s watching, and he smiles, slow and brutally seductive. Sirius swallows again. He knows what that smile means, he’s seen it, seen it a hundred times, he knows, and -
He sees then how it might be. His hands are shaking as he takes each of their hands and joins them within his.
‘What -?’ says Remus. Sirius cuts him off with a kiss, running his hand over Remus’ chest until the tenseness in Remus’ muscles eases away. And behind Remus, Regulus is watching, that same smile twisting his lips, and Sirius cannot look away, he cannot look away or close his eyes, even as he kisses Remus, he sees only his brother; his brother’s hands joining his stroking Remus’ chest, wrapping delicately around Remus’ neck; his brother’s lips softly pressing against Remus’ shoulder.
Sirius feels Remus tense again as that happens. But he teases Remus’ throat and jaw with his teeth and his tongue and breathes, ‘please, please Remus, for me, please.’ And he knows that Remus will, for him.
Remus will. And it is beautiful.
Regulus does not move his gaze from Sirius as he undoes his robes, as he runs his hands over Remus’ body, as he lies down before the fire and pulls Remus down on top of him. He does not look away as his legs falls open, as his long fingers wrap around Remus’ cock and tease out moans from Remus’ mouth. Sirius cannot move as he watches his brother.
And Remus, oh, Remus. He is slow as gold as he lies against Regulus, and his hand is harsh and hard as it tugs at Regulus’ cock, and his mouth is twisted into something like desolation.
Beneath him Regulus arches his back and gazes still at Sirius, a smile broadening on his lips even as Remus enters him, and fucks him, and he moans, and reaches out his hand to Sirius and whispers ‘oh, fuck, Sirius.’ Sirius is overtaken with the beauty of it, the soft spread of Regulus’ hair, the faint and faded gold of Remus’ skin. ‘Yes,’ he says, his voice wavering, unsteady, ‘yes, just like that.’
And when Remus bites his lip and a soft groan breaks free of him too Sirius reaches down to touch himself. And when Regulus, his mouth open, the muscles in his neck taut, tightens his legs around Remus’ hips and comes into Remus’ hand, Sirius and Remus cry out at the same moment.
A single tear falls from Remus’ eyelashes onto Regulus’ cheek, and runs down into his black hair, leaving a trail of moisture that catches the light.
The very dead of winter
Dawn is soft as is ever was, and soft against their bodies. It comes late, of course, breaking over the rush hour and catching motes of light off the frost-limned roofs of cars caught up close in the streets.
Sirius wakes cold in his bed with Remus curled into himself on the other side, not touching. Cool half-light floods the room and a strange feeling curling in his stomach that he cannot identify. He gets up quietly and pulls on his jeans and his jumper and his jacket and his boots and tiptoes into the living room.
Regulus is there, of course, sitting poised in his immaculate robes in a shaft of grey light. He says nothing to Sirius, only smiles as he stands and brushes the creases from his clothes.
‘You’ll come home?’ he asks, and the uncertainty in his voice makes Sirius remember that he is the older brother. His silence says what he cannot. Regulus nods. ‘Just for a little while,’ he says.
‘I don’t suppose it will make much difference, now,’ says Sirius. And then they have gone, faded from the room and sheened into being somewhere else -
where even the air is familiar, and the dark hallway echoes with their footsteps, and Sirius can feel again the darkness of the place in his bones tugging at him, yearning for him.
They climb the stairs and walk softly into Sirius’ room, which is just as he left it; scattered papers littering the floor, broken furniture thrown into corners, clothes that had not fit into his bag the night he ran away strewn across the bed. Regulus is quiet, now, and looks lost here. Sirius turns and catches his brothers hand in his own, saying nothing, though a thousand words are banking up in his throat, moves closer so their bodies touch. Then he draws his wand and rests it gently, gently against Regulus’ neck.
Regulus leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. ‘Avada,’ whispers Sirius, his lips moving against Regulus’ cheek. Regulus unzips his fly and undoes his own robe. ‘Avada,’ says Sirius, his teeth grazing Regulus’ shoulder, shivering as Regulus’ hand wraps around both their cocks and starts to move.
Something is building in Sirius, some dark wave of heat and need that has long been swelling there; insistent, unbearable, and massive. It throbs through his skin and deafens him with white hot silence until, finally, it crests and crashes through him, and he takes Regulus by the hair and pushes him to the floor, his wand hot and digging into Regulus’ neck.
When Regulus tries to bring their mouths together he presses his palm to his brother’s lips, turns his head away, and yanks down his jeans, thrusting his thigh between Regulus’ legs and twisting so that their cocks rub hotly together.
And their bodies rock together, the sweetness of his brother’s skin under his lips choking and coaxing him all the while, and he raises his wand and strokes Regulus’ neck with it once more, whispering ‘avada, avada,’ and Regulus arches his back beneath him and moans.
He turns his face away from Regulus’, not wanting their lips to touch, and Regulus chuckles, but lets him do it, and does not flinch when Sirius says, quietly,
‘Avada kedav-’ nothing happens.
His wand does not glow or shake in his hand, does not drop from numb fingers.
He looks down at Regulus, looks down into Regulus’ eyes, and there is something - something there that he should understand, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t, he can’t.
‘The wards…’ he whispers, dropping his wand to the floor. Regulus reaches up and runs his finger along Sirius’ cheekbone.
‘I took them down,’ says Regulus.
Sirius finds he is shaking. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth and sits up on his heels. He looks down at his brother; robes in disarray, pale skin flushed, scratch marks Sirius cannot remember making on his naked chest. ‘What the fuck were you playing at? I could have -’ his voice breaks. Silence spins itself inside him like black thread unspooling. He cannot meet Regulus’ gaze.
‘They won’t let me leave,’ Regulus says. Sirius closes his eyes and twines their fingers together. ‘They won’t let me leave,’ Regulus says again. Snow begins to fall past the window.
fin