Neither Sign Nor Symbol by _kenaz_
Title: Neither Sign Nor Symbol
Author: _kenaz_
Summary: Outside, it is snowing, snowing. I am like snow, Sirius thinks: pale and cold and drifting on invisible currents, falling without sound.
Rating: PG-13
Recipient: thistlerose
Notes: Includes a (very) subtle nod to thistlerose's own story, Storytelling. Happy Holidays, Thistlerose!
~*~
Neither Sign Nor Symbol
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
- James Joyce
And the snow is at the window, making neither sign nor symbol
- Current 93
The windows in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place are old, the sashes warped in the casement. Most things in this house are warped; it is only fitting that the windows conspire with the winter wind to chill the room and noursle ferns of frost as they bloom in the corners of the muntins both inside and out, hoary fractals eclipsing the glass inward from the edges.
In the half-light, Sirius presses his hands to the panes and when he pulls them away the frost momentarily recedes, leaving wet holes in the shape of his palms and the pads of his fingers. He can peer through the holes for a moment or two before the skin of ice returns and swallows all evidence that his hands have ever been there.
Again, he puts hands to glass, a different spot this time. Sirius sees things in those empty spaces: some are outside, distant; others are inside, close. Some are both and neither. It is often difficult for him to tell exactly what he sees when the morning is still pale and young and he has slept little and not well. Once, he saw a flash of ginger hair in the glass and his breath caught in his throat and he spun around, hopeful, but it was only Molly standing in the hallway and watching him curiously over a mug of chamomile tea. He had hated her in that moment as much for the look of pity on her face, framed in curlicues of steam, as for the simple fact that she was not who he wanted her to be.
In the space left by his palm he can see the bed reflected, the indentation of his body on the mattress, the sheets already cold from his absence. He can see the shape of Remus lying curled on his side beneath the blankets, only a thatch of grey-brown hair on the pillow and one long-toed foot, fish-belly white, protruding from the cocoon of flannel and down. The blankets steadily rise and fall with Remus' breathing and Sirius slows his own to match it, pale vapor buffeting glass, each exhalation clearing more ice.
Outside, it is snowing, snowing. I am like snow, Sirius thinks: pale and cold and drifting on invisible currents, falling without sound. But snow is white and I am Black, Black, Black, he also thinks, and he laughs a little desperately. He knows it isn't funny, knows it doesn't really even make sense, but sometimes, in the morning, in the cold room, when it is snowing, snowing, and his mind is a little muzzy, these funny-not-funny thoughts drift through his mind and settle in the corners, creeping like frost.
Sirius rests his forehead against the panes and savors the first shock of cold against his face. He lets his eyes lose their focus and the room behind him disappears. The bed is gone. Remus is gone. The creases around his eyes are gone, too, as is the stubble on his cheeks, which are fuller now and not so ashen. Outside it is snowing, snowing, and the drooping branches of the yew tree drop their burdens on the unsuspecting below. James is there, white flakes clinging to the hem of his coat. Peter throws a snowball that hits him squarely and then flees. Sirius laughs. Through the glass, despite the distance between them, James hears him and looks up. His glasses are fogged and Sirius cannot see his eyes but he knows James is looking at him, especially when he sticks out his tongue and waggles a rude gesture up at the window with his winter-reddened fingers, and then smiles. Sirius smiles too, and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, the frost has started to swallow the glass again, transfiguring panes to old, rheumy eyes, blank and sightless. He frantically rubs them but it is too late; James is gone.
James is gone, and it is still snowing, snowing.
There is the rustle of sheets and then the floorboards groan under Remus' slow steps and Sirius refocuses his eyes on the refracted vision of the man moving toward him, waits for the cold to claim it in its crystalline deceit like it claimed James, but this vision doesn't waver. He wonders how long Remus has been awake, how long he has been watching (not long, he thinks), and he wonders how long he has been standing at this window, scrying for ghosts in the glass (too long, he knows). He doesn't ask what Remus sees because he is half afraid to know, couldn't bear to hear him say I only see snow, Sirius, nothing but snow.
Incendio, Remus whispers, and the logs in the fireplace ignite, steady warmth spreading out from the hearth. Sirius can no longer see his breath.
The weight of Remus' hand on his shoulder is also steady warmth, but it is tentative. Sirius remembers that Remus hasn't always hesitated, that once a flying tackle might have been as likely or more than this cautious hand. But there is something brittle and unpredictable about him now, he knows it as well as anyone, something cold and insubstantial as snow. Even though he wants--needs--Remus' touch, Remus will not come closer until Sirius gives him some sort of sign.
So Sirius cants his head to rub his cheek against the back of Remus' hand, burgeoning whiskers rough on the thin, scarred skin, and that is when Remus steps close. Sirius sees their faces, sees the creases around their eyes and the stubble on their ashen cheeks, reflected in the glass. The room is warm now, the frost is gone, and the window is just a window, panes and wood, warped and drafty. Outside it is still snowing.
I am like the snow, he thinks, and Remus is like the hearth. He is ready comfort and predictable warmth, carefully banked and still glowing. Sirius lets his head fall back into Remus' chest, lets the other man's arms enfold him, and he breathes deep, breathes in the sharp edge of stale sweat, Remus' and his own, the musk reminding him that Remus' body keeps him tethered late at night when he feels cold and weightless and is afraid of drifting.
Remus' lips are smooth on his skin, on that place just below and behind his ear, and in the crook of his shoulder. Remus' heart is invariably steady and sound in its rhythm, dully thumping against his back. Remus' hands are no longer hesitant as they touch him; they inspire another kind of fire and a different source of heat, and Sirius is melting, melting into his touch.
"Let's go back to bed," Remus whispers, his voice still thick with sleep, and Sirius lets the slow, insistent pull of strong hands guide him away from the window and all it shows him, and back to the one place where everything is warm and solid and real.
~*~
Author: _kenaz_
Summary: Outside, it is snowing, snowing. I am like snow, Sirius thinks: pale and cold and drifting on invisible currents, falling without sound.
Rating: PG-13
Recipient: thistlerose
Notes: Includes a (very) subtle nod to thistlerose's own story, Storytelling. Happy Holidays, Thistlerose!
~*~
Neither Sign Nor Symbol
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
- James Joyce
And the snow is at the window, making neither sign nor symbol
- Current 93
The windows in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place are old, the sashes warped in the casement. Most things in this house are warped; it is only fitting that the windows conspire with the winter wind to chill the room and noursle ferns of frost as they bloom in the corners of the muntins both inside and out, hoary fractals eclipsing the glass inward from the edges.
In the half-light, Sirius presses his hands to the panes and when he pulls them away the frost momentarily recedes, leaving wet holes in the shape of his palms and the pads of his fingers. He can peer through the holes for a moment or two before the skin of ice returns and swallows all evidence that his hands have ever been there.
Again, he puts hands to glass, a different spot this time. Sirius sees things in those empty spaces: some are outside, distant; others are inside, close. Some are both and neither. It is often difficult for him to tell exactly what he sees when the morning is still pale and young and he has slept little and not well. Once, he saw a flash of ginger hair in the glass and his breath caught in his throat and he spun around, hopeful, but it was only Molly standing in the hallway and watching him curiously over a mug of chamomile tea. He had hated her in that moment as much for the look of pity on her face, framed in curlicues of steam, as for the simple fact that she was not who he wanted her to be.
In the space left by his palm he can see the bed reflected, the indentation of his body on the mattress, the sheets already cold from his absence. He can see the shape of Remus lying curled on his side beneath the blankets, only a thatch of grey-brown hair on the pillow and one long-toed foot, fish-belly white, protruding from the cocoon of flannel and down. The blankets steadily rise and fall with Remus' breathing and Sirius slows his own to match it, pale vapor buffeting glass, each exhalation clearing more ice.
Outside, it is snowing, snowing. I am like snow, Sirius thinks: pale and cold and drifting on invisible currents, falling without sound. But snow is white and I am Black, Black, Black, he also thinks, and he laughs a little desperately. He knows it isn't funny, knows it doesn't really even make sense, but sometimes, in the morning, in the cold room, when it is snowing, snowing, and his mind is a little muzzy, these funny-not-funny thoughts drift through his mind and settle in the corners, creeping like frost.
Sirius rests his forehead against the panes and savors the first shock of cold against his face. He lets his eyes lose their focus and the room behind him disappears. The bed is gone. Remus is gone. The creases around his eyes are gone, too, as is the stubble on his cheeks, which are fuller now and not so ashen. Outside it is snowing, snowing, and the drooping branches of the yew tree drop their burdens on the unsuspecting below. James is there, white flakes clinging to the hem of his coat. Peter throws a snowball that hits him squarely and then flees. Sirius laughs. Through the glass, despite the distance between them, James hears him and looks up. His glasses are fogged and Sirius cannot see his eyes but he knows James is looking at him, especially when he sticks out his tongue and waggles a rude gesture up at the window with his winter-reddened fingers, and then smiles. Sirius smiles too, and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, the frost has started to swallow the glass again, transfiguring panes to old, rheumy eyes, blank and sightless. He frantically rubs them but it is too late; James is gone.
James is gone, and it is still snowing, snowing.
There is the rustle of sheets and then the floorboards groan under Remus' slow steps and Sirius refocuses his eyes on the refracted vision of the man moving toward him, waits for the cold to claim it in its crystalline deceit like it claimed James, but this vision doesn't waver. He wonders how long Remus has been awake, how long he has been watching (not long, he thinks), and he wonders how long he has been standing at this window, scrying for ghosts in the glass (too long, he knows). He doesn't ask what Remus sees because he is half afraid to know, couldn't bear to hear him say I only see snow, Sirius, nothing but snow.
Incendio, Remus whispers, and the logs in the fireplace ignite, steady warmth spreading out from the hearth. Sirius can no longer see his breath.
The weight of Remus' hand on his shoulder is also steady warmth, but it is tentative. Sirius remembers that Remus hasn't always hesitated, that once a flying tackle might have been as likely or more than this cautious hand. But there is something brittle and unpredictable about him now, he knows it as well as anyone, something cold and insubstantial as snow. Even though he wants--needs--Remus' touch, Remus will not come closer until Sirius gives him some sort of sign.
So Sirius cants his head to rub his cheek against the back of Remus' hand, burgeoning whiskers rough on the thin, scarred skin, and that is when Remus steps close. Sirius sees their faces, sees the creases around their eyes and the stubble on their ashen cheeks, reflected in the glass. The room is warm now, the frost is gone, and the window is just a window, panes and wood, warped and drafty. Outside it is still snowing.
I am like the snow, he thinks, and Remus is like the hearth. He is ready comfort and predictable warmth, carefully banked and still glowing. Sirius lets his head fall back into Remus' chest, lets the other man's arms enfold him, and he breathes deep, breathes in the sharp edge of stale sweat, Remus' and his own, the musk reminding him that Remus' body keeps him tethered late at night when he feels cold and weightless and is afraid of drifting.
Remus' lips are smooth on his skin, on that place just below and behind his ear, and in the crook of his shoulder. Remus' heart is invariably steady and sound in its rhythm, dully thumping against his back. Remus' hands are no longer hesitant as they touch him; they inspire another kind of fire and a different source of heat, and Sirius is melting, melting into his touch.
"Let's go back to bed," Remus whispers, his voice still thick with sleep, and Sirius lets the slow, insistent pull of strong hands guide him away from the window and all it shows him, and back to the one place where everything is warm and solid and real.
~*~