Mischief Managed ♦ Fic: Concrete
Title: Concrete
Author: ohkaye
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,014
Prompt: 124. Brothers on a Hotel Bed, Death Cab for Cutie
Warnings: None.
Summary: A night in Remus' house leads to memory and the asking of questions long avoided.
Author's Notes: I am a sucker for a happy ending, even when it appears no part of the prompt lends itself to that. The best I could get was "bittersweet." This is set during "lay low at Lupin's," though I suppose it could just as easily be OotP.
Talk to me Sirius whispers at the darkest parts of the night, when the long shadows in their bedroom (their bedroom? Remus wants to ask what pronouns they're using now) stretch too far and too coldly. He would ask about what? but doesn't have to; instead he just talks.
I loved you so much, he says into the porcelain rim of Sirius' ear, his warm breath folding down-like over his skin (loved? Sirius wants to ask what tense they're using now), remember the motorbike?
Remember the motorbike - leather smell, musky and strong, sunlight above and rickety trees ahead. Remus with his nose dug into the nape of Sirius' neck, his laughter quivering against the fine hair under his collar until the wind snatched it away and flung it out behind them like brightly colored streamers, gleaming in their wake. Golden. And Remus with his arms outflung to match them, whooping when the bike left the asphalt with a little sizzle of rubber frisson before linking them in an impenetrable circle of trust around Sirius' waist.
In the here and now, Remus' voice trails off. Sirius knows he only talks about the good parts, but he can remember the bad - he has spent the last twelve years remembering the bad. With his fingertips he traces Remus's eyes, which close under his touch; his face relaxes, his mouth parting slightly, and Sirius slips the very edge of one finger into his mouth. Remus does not open his eyes. He flicks the tip of his tongue against it. Sirius shivers. "Loved?" he asks, his voice hoarse, his rough heather-wild hair hiding his face.
Still, Remus does not open his eyes. The world stretches wide and limitless and dark around Remus' narrow bed, the dusky sheets glowing white in the shadow. Sirius wants to touch him. He thinks maybe the answer to this question is hidden in Remus' scars.
He begins to trace them, the ones he can see peeking out of Remus' collar or where the hem of his shirt and the tie of his pajama bottoms have parted gently as friends, and at first Remus does nothing. At first he is cool and still under Sirius' questioning fingertips, his entire body trembling with the answer he holds inside of him. "Love," Sirius whispers, his palms rubbing gentle forgiveness into Remus' skin. "Love," he repeats, and it isn't a question anymore as Remus curls into him, burying his face in Sirius' neck. He smells like salt. He feels overwarm in Sirius' arms, suddenly, and his ribs work like a bellows under Sirius' bicep.
"It isn't the same, Padfoot, it can't be," Remus whispers, so low and clogged (with seaweed like the ocean, with silt like a river) that Sirius almost doesn't hear him.
"I don't want it to be." Sirius rolls him back with one palm easy on his shoulder, and around them the darkness turns a little blue, a little forgiving.
"I'm not the same, Sirius. That's what I mean."
"And I am?" Remus has nothing to say to that for several seconds. They are both changed by the years spent empty, squandered in separate but equal prisons and in the rigor of simply existing, moving from one day to the next in the vaguest of hopes that the next day would bring something better than whatever this was. Recognizing the patterns Remus’ thoughts must be taking, Sirius presses kisses and his advantage against Remus' jaw. "If we were the same it would fuck up again," he murmurs. "If we were the same it would end."
"I am so much older than you can imagine." Remus has his hand pressed flat against his stomach as if to remind himself of the number of breaths he's taking, as if he's counting them. Sirius pries it away, threading their fingers together. Determination makes his still-gaunt face harden into something almost recognizable, a holdover from a Sixth year who wanted a kiss from a werewolf. Age. Sirius doesn’t want to think about growing older. He’s done enough aging and not enough living.
"Are you trying to tell me you don't love me anymore or that you're scared?"
Remus glares at him, the angry twist in his mouth delicious enough to taste - but not yet, not yet. "Why does it have to be one of the two? Sometimes things are more complicated than two extremes, Sirius."
"So you're beating yourself up, then? Thinking you're not worthy or some shite because you believed I was a traitor and let me rot in prison. Thinking you still hate me a little bit, out of habit or just because you need something to hate, and you don't know what to do about that. Thinking maybe your life would be a thousand times easier if you let me walk out of it - and a thousand times again if you pushed me on my way." Sirius is sitting up now, his long legs crossed in front of him as he drums his fingers frenetically on his narrow knees. The wan waxing moon streaks through the room and dusts his skin with ethereal softness, a glow that Remus thinks is so beautiful and so unfair. All the fight goes out of him then, all the anger, all the hurt.
Remus doesn't believe in God and he doesn't believe in angels, but he believes that maybe Sirius was given to him by someone who wanted to apologize, and now here he is in front of him again explaining exactly how well he still knows him after all this time and all this space, and it is this more than anything else that convinces Remus they can mend it: this chasm between them, this horrible insurmountable black thing, is just something to be slowly eroded. He sits up and grips Sirius' shirt with both hands, folding his fingers into it until his knuckles ache.
"I love you, Remus," Sirius says to him with their faces this close, their breath mingling in the air between them.
They kiss into the sunrise, until the shadows are gone.
Author: ohkaye
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,014
Prompt: 124. Brothers on a Hotel Bed, Death Cab for Cutie
Warnings: None.
Summary: A night in Remus' house leads to memory and the asking of questions long avoided.
Author's Notes: I am a sucker for a happy ending, even when it appears no part of the prompt lends itself to that. The best I could get was "bittersweet." This is set during "lay low at Lupin's," though I suppose it could just as easily be OotP.
Talk to me Sirius whispers at the darkest parts of the night, when the long shadows in their bedroom (their bedroom? Remus wants to ask what pronouns they're using now) stretch too far and too coldly. He would ask about what? but doesn't have to; instead he just talks.
I loved you so much, he says into the porcelain rim of Sirius' ear, his warm breath folding down-like over his skin (loved? Sirius wants to ask what tense they're using now), remember the motorbike?
Remember the motorbike - leather smell, musky and strong, sunlight above and rickety trees ahead. Remus with his nose dug into the nape of Sirius' neck, his laughter quivering against the fine hair under his collar until the wind snatched it away and flung it out behind them like brightly colored streamers, gleaming in their wake. Golden. And Remus with his arms outflung to match them, whooping when the bike left the asphalt with a little sizzle of rubber frisson before linking them in an impenetrable circle of trust around Sirius' waist.
In the here and now, Remus' voice trails off. Sirius knows he only talks about the good parts, but he can remember the bad - he has spent the last twelve years remembering the bad. With his fingertips he traces Remus's eyes, which close under his touch; his face relaxes, his mouth parting slightly, and Sirius slips the very edge of one finger into his mouth. Remus does not open his eyes. He flicks the tip of his tongue against it. Sirius shivers. "Loved?" he asks, his voice hoarse, his rough heather-wild hair hiding his face.
Still, Remus does not open his eyes. The world stretches wide and limitless and dark around Remus' narrow bed, the dusky sheets glowing white in the shadow. Sirius wants to touch him. He thinks maybe the answer to this question is hidden in Remus' scars.
He begins to trace them, the ones he can see peeking out of Remus' collar or where the hem of his shirt and the tie of his pajama bottoms have parted gently as friends, and at first Remus does nothing. At first he is cool and still under Sirius' questioning fingertips, his entire body trembling with the answer he holds inside of him. "Love," Sirius whispers, his palms rubbing gentle forgiveness into Remus' skin. "Love," he repeats, and it isn't a question anymore as Remus curls into him, burying his face in Sirius' neck. He smells like salt. He feels overwarm in Sirius' arms, suddenly, and his ribs work like a bellows under Sirius' bicep.
"It isn't the same, Padfoot, it can't be," Remus whispers, so low and clogged (with seaweed like the ocean, with silt like a river) that Sirius almost doesn't hear him.
"I don't want it to be." Sirius rolls him back with one palm easy on his shoulder, and around them the darkness turns a little blue, a little forgiving.
"I'm not the same, Sirius. That's what I mean."
"And I am?" Remus has nothing to say to that for several seconds. They are both changed by the years spent empty, squandered in separate but equal prisons and in the rigor of simply existing, moving from one day to the next in the vaguest of hopes that the next day would bring something better than whatever this was. Recognizing the patterns Remus’ thoughts must be taking, Sirius presses kisses and his advantage against Remus' jaw. "If we were the same it would fuck up again," he murmurs. "If we were the same it would end."
"I am so much older than you can imagine." Remus has his hand pressed flat against his stomach as if to remind himself of the number of breaths he's taking, as if he's counting them. Sirius pries it away, threading their fingers together. Determination makes his still-gaunt face harden into something almost recognizable, a holdover from a Sixth year who wanted a kiss from a werewolf. Age. Sirius doesn’t want to think about growing older. He’s done enough aging and not enough living.
"Are you trying to tell me you don't love me anymore or that you're scared?"
Remus glares at him, the angry twist in his mouth delicious enough to taste - but not yet, not yet. "Why does it have to be one of the two? Sometimes things are more complicated than two extremes, Sirius."
"So you're beating yourself up, then? Thinking you're not worthy or some shite because you believed I was a traitor and let me rot in prison. Thinking you still hate me a little bit, out of habit or just because you need something to hate, and you don't know what to do about that. Thinking maybe your life would be a thousand times easier if you let me walk out of it - and a thousand times again if you pushed me on my way." Sirius is sitting up now, his long legs crossed in front of him as he drums his fingers frenetically on his narrow knees. The wan waxing moon streaks through the room and dusts his skin with ethereal softness, a glow that Remus thinks is so beautiful and so unfair. All the fight goes out of him then, all the anger, all the hurt.
Remus doesn't believe in God and he doesn't believe in angels, but he believes that maybe Sirius was given to him by someone who wanted to apologize, and now here he is in front of him again explaining exactly how well he still knows him after all this time and all this space, and it is this more than anything else that convinces Remus they can mend it: this chasm between them, this horrible insurmountable black thing, is just something to be slowly eroded. He sits up and grips Sirius' shirt with both hands, folding his fingers into it until his knuckles ache.
"I love you, Remus," Sirius says to him with their faces this close, their breath mingling in the air between them.
They kiss into the sunrise, until the shadows are gone.