Fic: I've kept you like a secret
Title: I've Kept You like a Secret
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter (Remus/Sirius)
A/N: For dawn_afterglowwho requested it (and is a million sorts of lovely) and for all those who ever wanted me to write more Harry Potter fic.
*
Someone has spilt oil across canvas tonight. Thick and black and ghastly, it kills all the shadows, drowns out any source of light, any source of peace or refuge. It leaks beneath the doorways, through the antique glass of the window panes, and Sirius, if he looks out hard enough he might be able to see the moon, because the artist, he couldn’t quite maintain the self-control of one single colour. He had to put the moon there, had to blend the white and grey and just that hint of yellow, slot it into the sky like a woman does coins in the slot machines of Las Vegas. The glow is similar. Maybe.
Sirius, if he looks hard enough he can see James, bruised and furious, can see him pulling a positively hysterical Severus out from the hole beneath the Weeping Willow.
Everyone’s angry down there, and Sirius can’t bring himself to care.
*
Remus has stepped through the doorway, stumbled into the dorm, and he’s supposed to go straight to the medical bay, but today he’s come here. He’s come here before cleaning himself up, and none of the boys, not James, Peter or Sirius has ever seen him this angry, this bloody. Remus Lupin is a mess.
“Remus,” James starts, and he wrings his fingers a little, furrows his brow, and well, there’s a fist that flies out of nowhere.
Sirius figures that he probably deserves it.
*
The next morning, Sirius rolls over just enough to see Remus staring at him from the next bed over.
“Just for the record,” Remus says, “I am completely not sorry for punching you.”
*
“I understand why he’d be pissed off, but honestly, I am the one in trouble here. McGonagall says I’m lucky I didn’t get expelled.”
“Sirius,” James starts, and he’s staring with half-lidded brown eyes, arms tucked around the back of his chair. “Sirius, you are lucky you didn’t get expelled. I don’t know what possessed you to do that-”
“James,” Sirius interrupts, and his eyes are wide this morning, unblinking and bold. “James, have you met Severus Snape, because if not I rather think I should introduce the pair of you. The introduction could go something like this; Good Friend James, please be acquainted with the Fairly Gaping Arsehole that is Snivellus Snape.”
“Oh for Gods sake,” Lily says, and she closes her book too quickly, slams it so hard that both the boys jump (not that either would ever admit to it). “It is impossible to study with the two of you in any form of general vicinity.”
“I resent that,” James says, “I think if you were to take a look at our grades, you’d find that we-”
“Shut up, James,” she says, “and Sirius, please, Severus is a decent guy. You, good friend, just chose not to see it.”
Saturdays are arguably one of the best days of the week, this being, when one is not at a boarding school. When one is at a boarding school, Saturdays (and Sundays for that matter) tend to just be like every other day. Studying, working, causing havoc and watching James ogle Lily.
Watching Sirius ogle anything with legs, tits and an arse.
Lily, she is the epitome of maturity here today, the poster child of elegance, sophistication and class, from the way she crosses her legs to the way she raises her eyebrows into her hairline. She is very, very beautiful, and it’s easy to see why James loves her in the moments such as these. In the moments such as whenever.
“Doesn’t seem so decent when he’s calling you a mudblood,” Sirius replies, and Lily, her face flushes to the roots of her hair, but she recovers quickly with a roll of grass-green eyes.
James though, he’s ever the well-dressed knight. “Shut up, Sirius. I know Severus is an arsehole-”
“For God’s sake, James!”
“I know he’s an arsehole, but can we please exercise methods of torture that don’t actually involve death.” James presses his hands together, might scoot a little away from where Lily fumes beside him.
“Whatever,” Sirius says, casts a glance at where the librarian watches on with snake eyes. They’re the canaries, Peter had said once, sitting helplessly in the cage. “Point is, I don’t know why Remus is so angry at me.”
“Sirius,” Lily starts, and she’s staring with something akin to disbelief. “Sirius, why wouldn’t he be mad at you?”
“I didn’t do anything to him,” Sirius replies, and his gestures are a little too large, knocks a stack of books and parchment off the table.
Lily quirks a brow, blows a chunk of red fringe off her pale face. She turns to look at James, where he sits sprawled on the chair beside her. “Are all boys this stupid?”
“What?” James asks, and he blinks too hard, rubs at his eyes with tired fingertips.
“Forget I said anything.”
*
Sirius receives a piece of parchment that afternoon telling him that one of his library books is over due. Peter seems to think this is both incredibly entertaining and incredibly awful. He proceeds to make a rather big fuss about it.
Sirius, he just finds the whole thing rather amusing since Peter appears to be over due one growth spurt.
“Peter,” Remus says, and he’s hiding behind a mountain of scrolls, of parchment, of books that move on their own. “Peter, I’m ready to help you with your potions if you still want it.”
Peter almost leaps from his seat next to Sirius, blond hair bobbing, “Yes! Remus, you have no idea how behind I am, my mum will kill me if I fail again.”
In a matter of seconds, Sirius finds himself all on his own, left beneath a blanket of rather indignant dust bunnies. “Right,” he says, and promptly follows the other two out of the room. He’s not one for loneliness.
Peter and Remus collapse onto opposite stools, and Peter is the first to crack out the scrolls. Sirius opts to collapse onto the floor beside them, folds like a deck of cards.
“What do you add here?”
“The stems of the Periwinkle plant and maybe a bit of arrowroot. Depends, it needs to turn blue.”
“Remus,” Sirius says, and he brushes fingers through his hair, stares up at the other two from the floor.
“Powder blue,” Remus says, “if it’s dark then you’ve added too much of the Piskie dust.”
“Remus,” Sirius says, and he sits up too quickly, almost bangs his head on the underside of the desk. “Remus.”
“You’ll have to start again if that happens.” Remus says, and he’s speaking a little louder, a little curter.
“Remus-”
“Sirius,” he says, slams his fists down onto the table before him. Maybe, maybe if Sirius looks hard enough he can see the other boy shaking. “Just, stop.”
“Remus-”
“No, Sirius. You just need to stop for a bit, just…just leave me alone.”
*
Sirius is the Dog right now, because when he is the Dog he is free.
And really, that is horrendously clichéd in itself, but Sirius, he needs this, he needs the air beneath his fur, because it’s been a month since the incident with Snape and James and Remus. A month, and Sirius, he knows he fucked up, but he figured that everyone would be over it by now.
He figured that he would be at least.
Maybe he figured that it wouldn’t hurt this much, with Remus not talking to him, with Remus angry and bitter and ignoring him.
Remus Lupin, James had said once, is incredibly passive aggressive.
The werewolf however, that deep, dark thing inside of Remus, it is not. In fact, the werewolf is rather terrifying.
Remus - the werewolf, Sirius corrects, it’s sitting on its hind legs, staring at the moon with glowing yellow eyes, and Sirius, he came out on his own tonight. James and Peter, they were both busy and exhausted and Remus had asked, told them not to come.
Sirius, he’s never been good with orders.
The werewolf knows he’s there, of course he knows he’s there, because the nose on that thing, it can smell better than anything Sirius has ever heard of, can hear and feel and just know. The werewolf, he looks almost lethargic, lazy and bored but, Sirius supposes, the way his ears twitch, the way his tail moves against the dank forest floor, he’s more alert than a watchdog on duty, more alert than a mother to her child’s dying breath.
Sirius, he shouldn’t be surprised when the werewolf turns his head, when he bares his teeth. Sirius, all of these senses that he gets as the Dog, they’re telling him to run, only everything that makes Sirius Sirius, all those human attachments are telling him that this is Remus, and no matter how angry he is, he would not - will not - hurt him.
A snarl escapes the dark lips of the werewolf, and Sirius, he caves because right now he’s the Dog, and maybe the dog senses rule. Sirius, he runs, and as soon as his paws hit the ground, so do Remus’.
*
“Ngh,” Sirius says, and his eyelids are sore and heavy, each eyelash has a ten ton weight tied to it, and Sirius, even at his most hung over, has never felt like this. “Ngh,” he says again, brings an aching hand to a throbbing forehead, and tries to get up, tries to sit properly, because at the moment he’s half-collapsed on some ancient wooden floor paneling.
“I didn’t bite you when you were a person,” says a rather tiny, morose voice. “That blood, it’s just left over from when you were a dog.”
Sirius forces his eyes open, pushes himself up onto his elbows and here they both are, him and Remus, in this unstable box of a house, the one that hides behind the tunnels of the Weeping Willow. Remus is on the other side of the room, tucked away into the corner like Sirius’ little cousin used to put away her dolls. Remus is not crying, but he’s bloody and bruised and his eyes are wild, almost yellow still, and if Sirius looks really hard he can see the wolf behind them still. Remus is not happy.
“Remus…” Sirius mumbles, and his voice claws its way out of his throat, all angry syllables entrapped in a raw voice box.
“No, Sirius,” he says, and his eyes are suddenly blisteringly angry, “no, just, go back to the dorms.”
Sirius, he’d much rather put up a fight, fist Remus’ torn shirt and tell him no, because none of this is Remus’ fault, all of this, it’s…well, it’s probably Sirius’ fault. He says “Okay,” instead, because he’s sore and aching from the inside out, his clothes are ripped up and Remus isn’t much better off.
Sirius, he really wanted to make things right again, however everything he touches just seems to turn to shit.
*
Transfiguration appears to be one of those subjects that is actually very, very hard for sixteen year-old-boys to stay awake in. So the fact that Sirius is half-asleep right now, half-asleep and sore, with cuts on his neck and his back and bruises in places he didn’t even think possible, well, it’s not much of a surprise to anyone.
James however, James seems eager to talk, and he makes this apparent by slamming his books onto the table much harder than necessary. The desk, it shudders beneath them and Sirius thinks that if tables could flip someone off, then this one would be doing so.
“What did you do?”
“What?” Sirius replies and he moves fingers to his bleary eyes. He rubs hard enough that his eyelids feel solid and unmovable beneath his fingertips.
“I’ve never seen Remus this pissed off before,” James says, and he widens his eyes almost comically, flips through the pages of his open textbook.
“I have,” Sirius says, “last month after I told Snape.”
“Yes, well,” James says, rolls his eyes before fixing brown eyes on Sirius, “understandably. I was pretty pissed off as well.”
“Sirius,” James says, “What part of ‘stay away tonight’ didn’t you understand? Remus made it pretty damn obvious that none of us should be there.”
Sirius sighs, runs a hand through his hair before collapsing head-first onto the desk. “He hates me.”
James exhales too hard, closes his eyes and counts to five.
“Remus is your friend, but you’ve hurt him, and he’s angry,” he says, and rests his head on the desk, looks at Sirius through his hair. “You just need to give him space.”
*
The clock spins in almost slow motion, so by the time the next week rolls around, Sirius is rather sure that he’s surpassed the age of eighty-nine. He feels old, his bones and his joints and his chest, they all ache too hard and too much and Remus got back four days ago, back from the house and the medical bay and so far he hasn’t said a word to Sirius. Not one. Not even an ‘I’m sorry for ripping you apart the other day’ not even a ‘You’re an arsehole.’
Sirius sighs, kicks off his shoes and scratches his feet on the side of the coffee table. Everyone’s at dinner, but Sirius, his stomach has been quite content to feed off the guilt for the past few days, fills up on it really, and then, well, it doesn’t have much room for anything else.
He leans further into the sofa, and maybe if he tries hard enough he can merge with it, be consumed by it, grope people’s arses all day long with no one being any the wiser.
The portrait flings open, and Sirius can almost hear the fat lady grumbling, whining through her teeth, and before he can think anything more on the matter, Remus is standing opposite him.
“You weren’t at dinner,” he says, scratches the back of his neck with blunt fingertips and bitten down nails.
Sirius shrugs, and if he’s perfectly honest with himself, he can’t quite meet Remus’ gaze.
Remus sighs, blows a bit of his fringe off his face, “you need to eat, Sirius, you’ve lost weight.”
Neither says anything else for a few minutes, but Sirius, there are thoughts and words and possibilities racing passed the backs of his eyelids.
“Sirius,” Remus starts, and before he can stop himself, Sirius turns around and leaves.
“Sirius,” Remus drops his messenger bag onto the sofa, hesitates a little before following with intent. “Sirius, wait.”
“No,” he says, and almost throws himself up the stairs to the dorm. He plugs both his ears with sure fists.
“Sirius,” Remus latches onto his arm, uses that strength that he normally hides beneath layers of insecurity, and the werewolf, it’s fraying at Remus’ edges, at his sides. “What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you space,” Sirius says, and he says it deliberately with a set face and closed eyelids.
“Oh,” Remus replies, and he blinks too hard, let’s go of Sirius’ arm. “Thank you.”
*
The clock in the Common Room is actually an incredibly loud thing that rings with the intent of waking up the masses. Three months ago, Louisa had attempted to put a silencing charm on it, but had really failed miserably, and since then, people had just learnt to grumble beneath their breaths and put up with it. This does not change the fact that it wakes Sirius up every time it strikes midnight.
The sound echoes through his head, rumbles through his chest, and Sirius, he groans, rolls over too hard, and forces his head into the pillow. There’s a chuckle somewhere above him, and he glances up to see Remus, complete with sallow skin and bags beneath his eyes that would make an insomniac cringe.
“It’s an awful clock,” Remus says, and he runs a hand through his sandy hair before tugging at the blankets on Sirius’ bed. “Well, are you going to let me in?”
In their first year at Hogwarts, homesickness ate at James’ legs and arms and heart, Peter got nightmares and Remus got depressed (which they’d later learn was from the moon) and although Sirius never admit to it, he got lonely. They took to sleeping in one another’s beds quite often, not that they ever told anyone, but they were eleven year old boys who were suddenly very far from home.
Sirius, this is a feeling of familiarity that he hasn’t felt in years, because they all agreed never to do it again after they surpassed the age of fourteen. They wouldn’t want anyone thinking they were queer or what not. Sirius though, tonight, just for tonight, he tugs back the covers and lets Remus slide in beside him.
They’re so quiet in these moments that Sirius, he swears he can hear that godforsaken clock ticking, the charms and cogs that keep it alive clanging and pushing against each other. Remus lets loose a wayward sigh from that space beside him, and really, they’re worlds apart tonight, not like when they were eleven and clung to each other like the world was ending. There’s so much space between them, as they each clutch to opposite ends of the mattress. Wallflowers, Sirius thinks, and maybe it’s ironic, coz at the dances, Sirius never leaves the floor, always a girl at his waist.
“I think,” Remus starts, and it jolts Sirius too hard from his musings, “that the reason it hurt so much is because I’m in love with you.”
“Oh,” Sirius says, and this is all, well, it’s rather new. “Really?”
“Yes,” Remus says, and chews on his bottom lip in thoughtful contemplation. “I was thinking it over, and thought that if it were James or Peter I wouldn’t be quite as mad, but it wasn’t them,” Remus says, “it was you.”
Remus shifts over the mattress, tangles himself in the sheets and stares at Sirius with big blue eyes, and there isn’t a trace of the wolf in sight. “Makes sense, really,” Remus murmurs, “I’ve never had a serious girlfriend, and I always feel sick when you have one. Jealousy is rather an awful thing.”
“Almost as bad as the clock,” Sirius agrees, and he rolls over too, lies on the side that aches with bruises courtesy the werewolf. “Are you really in love with me?”
“Suppose so,” Remus says, furrows his forehead and exhales too hard. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“Yeah,” Sirius says, “why is it so easy for you to say this?”
“It’s not,” Remus replies, “I am merely an incredibly good actor.” He laughs a little, rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “If you could see my insides right now, it’s rather reminiscent of the occasions in which James attempts to cook.”
“Ah, a bit of a mess then?”
“Yes.”
The silence settles like a sheet over Remus, more like a stifling blanket with murderous attempts over Sirius. His throat swells shut, and his chest constricts so hard that his lungs shrivel and his heart aches.
“In the last month,” Sirius starts, “I have felt more like a thirteen-year-old girl than I have ever though possible.”
“If that’s not love,” Sirius says, “with the aching heart and the blind trust and the wistful sighs, then I don’t know what is.”
Remus smiles through his teeth, rolls back onto his side, and stares with crinkling eyes. “Good,” he says, “now that that’s settled,” and really, without further adieu, without cause or effect, Remus Lupin kisses Sirius Black.
“Are we boyfriends now?” Sirius mumbles into Remus’ mouth, fingers tangled in the other boy’s hair.
“I’d assume so,” Remus says, “but maybe a definition should wait.”
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter (Remus/Sirius)
A/N: For dawn_afterglowwho requested it (and is a million sorts of lovely) and for all those who ever wanted me to write more Harry Potter fic.
*
Someone has spilt oil across canvas tonight. Thick and black and ghastly, it kills all the shadows, drowns out any source of light, any source of peace or refuge. It leaks beneath the doorways, through the antique glass of the window panes, and Sirius, if he looks out hard enough he might be able to see the moon, because the artist, he couldn’t quite maintain the self-control of one single colour. He had to put the moon there, had to blend the white and grey and just that hint of yellow, slot it into the sky like a woman does coins in the slot machines of Las Vegas. The glow is similar. Maybe.
Sirius, if he looks hard enough he can see James, bruised and furious, can see him pulling a positively hysterical Severus out from the hole beneath the Weeping Willow.
Everyone’s angry down there, and Sirius can’t bring himself to care.
*
Remus has stepped through the doorway, stumbled into the dorm, and he’s supposed to go straight to the medical bay, but today he’s come here. He’s come here before cleaning himself up, and none of the boys, not James, Peter or Sirius has ever seen him this angry, this bloody. Remus Lupin is a mess.
“Remus,” James starts, and he wrings his fingers a little, furrows his brow, and well, there’s a fist that flies out of nowhere.
Sirius figures that he probably deserves it.
*
The next morning, Sirius rolls over just enough to see Remus staring at him from the next bed over.
“Just for the record,” Remus says, “I am completely not sorry for punching you.”
*
“I understand why he’d be pissed off, but honestly, I am the one in trouble here. McGonagall says I’m lucky I didn’t get expelled.”
“Sirius,” James starts, and he’s staring with half-lidded brown eyes, arms tucked around the back of his chair. “Sirius, you are lucky you didn’t get expelled. I don’t know what possessed you to do that-”
“James,” Sirius interrupts, and his eyes are wide this morning, unblinking and bold. “James, have you met Severus Snape, because if not I rather think I should introduce the pair of you. The introduction could go something like this; Good Friend James, please be acquainted with the Fairly Gaping Arsehole that is Snivellus Snape.”
“Oh for Gods sake,” Lily says, and she closes her book too quickly, slams it so hard that both the boys jump (not that either would ever admit to it). “It is impossible to study with the two of you in any form of general vicinity.”
“I resent that,” James says, “I think if you were to take a look at our grades, you’d find that we-”
“Shut up, James,” she says, “and Sirius, please, Severus is a decent guy. You, good friend, just chose not to see it.”
Saturdays are arguably one of the best days of the week, this being, when one is not at a boarding school. When one is at a boarding school, Saturdays (and Sundays for that matter) tend to just be like every other day. Studying, working, causing havoc and watching James ogle Lily.
Watching Sirius ogle anything with legs, tits and an arse.
Lily, she is the epitome of maturity here today, the poster child of elegance, sophistication and class, from the way she crosses her legs to the way she raises her eyebrows into her hairline. She is very, very beautiful, and it’s easy to see why James loves her in the moments such as these. In the moments such as whenever.
“Doesn’t seem so decent when he’s calling you a mudblood,” Sirius replies, and Lily, her face flushes to the roots of her hair, but she recovers quickly with a roll of grass-green eyes.
James though, he’s ever the well-dressed knight. “Shut up, Sirius. I know Severus is an arsehole-”
“For God’s sake, James!”
“I know he’s an arsehole, but can we please exercise methods of torture that don’t actually involve death.” James presses his hands together, might scoot a little away from where Lily fumes beside him.
“Whatever,” Sirius says, casts a glance at where the librarian watches on with snake eyes. They’re the canaries, Peter had said once, sitting helplessly in the cage. “Point is, I don’t know why Remus is so angry at me.”
“Sirius,” Lily starts, and she’s staring with something akin to disbelief. “Sirius, why wouldn’t he be mad at you?”
“I didn’t do anything to him,” Sirius replies, and his gestures are a little too large, knocks a stack of books and parchment off the table.
Lily quirks a brow, blows a chunk of red fringe off her pale face. She turns to look at James, where he sits sprawled on the chair beside her. “Are all boys this stupid?”
“What?” James asks, and he blinks too hard, rubs at his eyes with tired fingertips.
“Forget I said anything.”
*
Sirius receives a piece of parchment that afternoon telling him that one of his library books is over due. Peter seems to think this is both incredibly entertaining and incredibly awful. He proceeds to make a rather big fuss about it.
Sirius, he just finds the whole thing rather amusing since Peter appears to be over due one growth spurt.
“Peter,” Remus says, and he’s hiding behind a mountain of scrolls, of parchment, of books that move on their own. “Peter, I’m ready to help you with your potions if you still want it.”
Peter almost leaps from his seat next to Sirius, blond hair bobbing, “Yes! Remus, you have no idea how behind I am, my mum will kill me if I fail again.”
In a matter of seconds, Sirius finds himself all on his own, left beneath a blanket of rather indignant dust bunnies. “Right,” he says, and promptly follows the other two out of the room. He’s not one for loneliness.
Peter and Remus collapse onto opposite stools, and Peter is the first to crack out the scrolls. Sirius opts to collapse onto the floor beside them, folds like a deck of cards.
“What do you add here?”
“The stems of the Periwinkle plant and maybe a bit of arrowroot. Depends, it needs to turn blue.”
“Remus,” Sirius says, and he brushes fingers through his hair, stares up at the other two from the floor.
“Powder blue,” Remus says, “if it’s dark then you’ve added too much of the Piskie dust.”
“Remus,” Sirius says, and he sits up too quickly, almost bangs his head on the underside of the desk. “Remus.”
“You’ll have to start again if that happens.” Remus says, and he’s speaking a little louder, a little curter.
“Remus-”
“Sirius,” he says, slams his fists down onto the table before him. Maybe, maybe if Sirius looks hard enough he can see the other boy shaking. “Just, stop.”
“Remus-”
“No, Sirius. You just need to stop for a bit, just…just leave me alone.”
*
Sirius is the Dog right now, because when he is the Dog he is free.
And really, that is horrendously clichéd in itself, but Sirius, he needs this, he needs the air beneath his fur, because it’s been a month since the incident with Snape and James and Remus. A month, and Sirius, he knows he fucked up, but he figured that everyone would be over it by now.
He figured that he would be at least.
Maybe he figured that it wouldn’t hurt this much, with Remus not talking to him, with Remus angry and bitter and ignoring him.
Remus Lupin, James had said once, is incredibly passive aggressive.
The werewolf however, that deep, dark thing inside of Remus, it is not. In fact, the werewolf is rather terrifying.
Remus - the werewolf, Sirius corrects, it’s sitting on its hind legs, staring at the moon with glowing yellow eyes, and Sirius, he came out on his own tonight. James and Peter, they were both busy and exhausted and Remus had asked, told them not to come.
Sirius, he’s never been good with orders.
The werewolf knows he’s there, of course he knows he’s there, because the nose on that thing, it can smell better than anything Sirius has ever heard of, can hear and feel and just know. The werewolf, he looks almost lethargic, lazy and bored but, Sirius supposes, the way his ears twitch, the way his tail moves against the dank forest floor, he’s more alert than a watchdog on duty, more alert than a mother to her child’s dying breath.
Sirius, he shouldn’t be surprised when the werewolf turns his head, when he bares his teeth. Sirius, all of these senses that he gets as the Dog, they’re telling him to run, only everything that makes Sirius Sirius, all those human attachments are telling him that this is Remus, and no matter how angry he is, he would not - will not - hurt him.
A snarl escapes the dark lips of the werewolf, and Sirius, he caves because right now he’s the Dog, and maybe the dog senses rule. Sirius, he runs, and as soon as his paws hit the ground, so do Remus’.
*
“Ngh,” Sirius says, and his eyelids are sore and heavy, each eyelash has a ten ton weight tied to it, and Sirius, even at his most hung over, has never felt like this. “Ngh,” he says again, brings an aching hand to a throbbing forehead, and tries to get up, tries to sit properly, because at the moment he’s half-collapsed on some ancient wooden floor paneling.
“I didn’t bite you when you were a person,” says a rather tiny, morose voice. “That blood, it’s just left over from when you were a dog.”
Sirius forces his eyes open, pushes himself up onto his elbows and here they both are, him and Remus, in this unstable box of a house, the one that hides behind the tunnels of the Weeping Willow. Remus is on the other side of the room, tucked away into the corner like Sirius’ little cousin used to put away her dolls. Remus is not crying, but he’s bloody and bruised and his eyes are wild, almost yellow still, and if Sirius looks really hard he can see the wolf behind them still. Remus is not happy.
“Remus…” Sirius mumbles, and his voice claws its way out of his throat, all angry syllables entrapped in a raw voice box.
“No, Sirius,” he says, and his eyes are suddenly blisteringly angry, “no, just, go back to the dorms.”
Sirius, he’d much rather put up a fight, fist Remus’ torn shirt and tell him no, because none of this is Remus’ fault, all of this, it’s…well, it’s probably Sirius’ fault. He says “Okay,” instead, because he’s sore and aching from the inside out, his clothes are ripped up and Remus isn’t much better off.
Sirius, he really wanted to make things right again, however everything he touches just seems to turn to shit.
*
Transfiguration appears to be one of those subjects that is actually very, very hard for sixteen year-old-boys to stay awake in. So the fact that Sirius is half-asleep right now, half-asleep and sore, with cuts on his neck and his back and bruises in places he didn’t even think possible, well, it’s not much of a surprise to anyone.
James however, James seems eager to talk, and he makes this apparent by slamming his books onto the table much harder than necessary. The desk, it shudders beneath them and Sirius thinks that if tables could flip someone off, then this one would be doing so.
“What did you do?”
“What?” Sirius replies and he moves fingers to his bleary eyes. He rubs hard enough that his eyelids feel solid and unmovable beneath his fingertips.
“I’ve never seen Remus this pissed off before,” James says, and he widens his eyes almost comically, flips through the pages of his open textbook.
“I have,” Sirius says, “last month after I told Snape.”
“Yes, well,” James says, rolls his eyes before fixing brown eyes on Sirius, “understandably. I was pretty pissed off as well.”
“Sirius,” James says, “What part of ‘stay away tonight’ didn’t you understand? Remus made it pretty damn obvious that none of us should be there.”
Sirius sighs, runs a hand through his hair before collapsing head-first onto the desk. “He hates me.”
James exhales too hard, closes his eyes and counts to five.
“Remus is your friend, but you’ve hurt him, and he’s angry,” he says, and rests his head on the desk, looks at Sirius through his hair. “You just need to give him space.”
*
The clock spins in almost slow motion, so by the time the next week rolls around, Sirius is rather sure that he’s surpassed the age of eighty-nine. He feels old, his bones and his joints and his chest, they all ache too hard and too much and Remus got back four days ago, back from the house and the medical bay and so far he hasn’t said a word to Sirius. Not one. Not even an ‘I’m sorry for ripping you apart the other day’ not even a ‘You’re an arsehole.’
Sirius sighs, kicks off his shoes and scratches his feet on the side of the coffee table. Everyone’s at dinner, but Sirius, his stomach has been quite content to feed off the guilt for the past few days, fills up on it really, and then, well, it doesn’t have much room for anything else.
He leans further into the sofa, and maybe if he tries hard enough he can merge with it, be consumed by it, grope people’s arses all day long with no one being any the wiser.
The portrait flings open, and Sirius can almost hear the fat lady grumbling, whining through her teeth, and before he can think anything more on the matter, Remus is standing opposite him.
“You weren’t at dinner,” he says, scratches the back of his neck with blunt fingertips and bitten down nails.
Sirius shrugs, and if he’s perfectly honest with himself, he can’t quite meet Remus’ gaze.
Remus sighs, blows a bit of his fringe off his face, “you need to eat, Sirius, you’ve lost weight.”
Neither says anything else for a few minutes, but Sirius, there are thoughts and words and possibilities racing passed the backs of his eyelids.
“Sirius,” Remus starts, and before he can stop himself, Sirius turns around and leaves.
“Sirius,” Remus drops his messenger bag onto the sofa, hesitates a little before following with intent. “Sirius, wait.”
“No,” he says, and almost throws himself up the stairs to the dorm. He plugs both his ears with sure fists.
“Sirius,” Remus latches onto his arm, uses that strength that he normally hides beneath layers of insecurity, and the werewolf, it’s fraying at Remus’ edges, at his sides. “What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you space,” Sirius says, and he says it deliberately with a set face and closed eyelids.
“Oh,” Remus replies, and he blinks too hard, let’s go of Sirius’ arm. “Thank you.”
*
The clock in the Common Room is actually an incredibly loud thing that rings with the intent of waking up the masses. Three months ago, Louisa had attempted to put a silencing charm on it, but had really failed miserably, and since then, people had just learnt to grumble beneath their breaths and put up with it. This does not change the fact that it wakes Sirius up every time it strikes midnight.
The sound echoes through his head, rumbles through his chest, and Sirius, he groans, rolls over too hard, and forces his head into the pillow. There’s a chuckle somewhere above him, and he glances up to see Remus, complete with sallow skin and bags beneath his eyes that would make an insomniac cringe.
“It’s an awful clock,” Remus says, and he runs a hand through his sandy hair before tugging at the blankets on Sirius’ bed. “Well, are you going to let me in?”
In their first year at Hogwarts, homesickness ate at James’ legs and arms and heart, Peter got nightmares and Remus got depressed (which they’d later learn was from the moon) and although Sirius never admit to it, he got lonely. They took to sleeping in one another’s beds quite often, not that they ever told anyone, but they were eleven year old boys who were suddenly very far from home.
Sirius, this is a feeling of familiarity that he hasn’t felt in years, because they all agreed never to do it again after they surpassed the age of fourteen. They wouldn’t want anyone thinking they were queer or what not. Sirius though, tonight, just for tonight, he tugs back the covers and lets Remus slide in beside him.
They’re so quiet in these moments that Sirius, he swears he can hear that godforsaken clock ticking, the charms and cogs that keep it alive clanging and pushing against each other. Remus lets loose a wayward sigh from that space beside him, and really, they’re worlds apart tonight, not like when they were eleven and clung to each other like the world was ending. There’s so much space between them, as they each clutch to opposite ends of the mattress. Wallflowers, Sirius thinks, and maybe it’s ironic, coz at the dances, Sirius never leaves the floor, always a girl at his waist.
“I think,” Remus starts, and it jolts Sirius too hard from his musings, “that the reason it hurt so much is because I’m in love with you.”
“Oh,” Sirius says, and this is all, well, it’s rather new. “Really?”
“Yes,” Remus says, and chews on his bottom lip in thoughtful contemplation. “I was thinking it over, and thought that if it were James or Peter I wouldn’t be quite as mad, but it wasn’t them,” Remus says, “it was you.”
Remus shifts over the mattress, tangles himself in the sheets and stares at Sirius with big blue eyes, and there isn’t a trace of the wolf in sight. “Makes sense, really,” Remus murmurs, “I’ve never had a serious girlfriend, and I always feel sick when you have one. Jealousy is rather an awful thing.”
“Almost as bad as the clock,” Sirius agrees, and he rolls over too, lies on the side that aches with bruises courtesy the werewolf. “Are you really in love with me?”
“Suppose so,” Remus says, furrows his forehead and exhales too hard. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“Yeah,” Sirius says, “why is it so easy for you to say this?”
“It’s not,” Remus replies, “I am merely an incredibly good actor.” He laughs a little, rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “If you could see my insides right now, it’s rather reminiscent of the occasions in which James attempts to cook.”
“Ah, a bit of a mess then?”
“Yes.”
The silence settles like a sheet over Remus, more like a stifling blanket with murderous attempts over Sirius. His throat swells shut, and his chest constricts so hard that his lungs shrivel and his heart aches.
“In the last month,” Sirius starts, “I have felt more like a thirteen-year-old girl than I have ever though possible.”
“If that’s not love,” Sirius says, “with the aching heart and the blind trust and the wistful sighs, then I don’t know what is.”
Remus smiles through his teeth, rolls back onto his side, and stares with crinkling eyes. “Good,” he says, “now that that’s settled,” and really, without further adieu, without cause or effect, Remus Lupin kisses Sirius Black.
“Are we boyfriends now?” Sirius mumbles into Remus’ mouth, fingers tangled in the other boy’s hair.
“I’d assume so,” Remus says, “but maybe a definition should wait.”