'Divergence' (Remus/Sirius, NC-17)
Title: Divergence
Author: Ignited
Rating: Mild NC-17
Category: Drama, Angst
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Summary: "Leaving school gives way to monochrome skies, adulthood, jobs, things Sirius isn't ready for. Not yet."
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Notes: Written for devkel for the rsficathon, the request being that it's set post-Hogwarts and pre-Azkaban. Just past 3,600 words.
I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in
And stops my mind from wandering
-- Fixing A Hole, The Beatles
It is overcast.
The morning appears dingy, grey and smells of wet dog. Which would be amusing had he been the dog himself. But instead he's all "'scuse me sir," and "ma'am", mumbling, constant movement. He quirks an eyebrow, glancing at one particularly shiny and red Muggle car - considers Remus would know the model - before continuing to walk, gruff, not looking at passersby. It's a quiet town, little market, people on their ways to work, school, and the like. There are buildings of different shapes and sizes, residential, commercial. Sirius heads towards one building with a store in the first floor, situated near raised train tracks. The large steel columns line the street below, car trudging along, splashing puddles.
The pavement is littered with garbage, both slick and dirty. Sirius kicks a flyer off of his boot, looking at his hand. Pale, grey almost, as if the sky reflects upon flesh. Turns it to see streaky black marks on his palm, his handwriting, indecipherable numbers and blurry words. An address, written in a rush, just as hurried and flustered as he has been for the past few days.
But then he stops, staring at yellowed flyers and posters on glass dotted with drops. Inside, books piled in little mountains, angled just so, covers faded from sunlight. Books in the windows, and a 'wide array of selections within. Please inquire about special orders,' meaning there's much more than the lackluster exterior. At least, he supposes. Right, here it is - door few feet left, a list of two names. Three floors; quaint little building with a white front, bricks on sides, out of place in the rain. Quaint little area even: markets with shouting blaring the catch of the day, jewelry, furniture, other assorted Muggle goods a wizard could've made quicker and better.
Why they'd bother shouting at people with all this rain about is up to them. There's barely anyone milling about the streets other than people trying to get from point A to point B, without dillydallying in between. Then Sirius figures he's a hypocrite himself for thinking so. After all, pursuing someone who clearly did not want to be pursued - rather, checked on - showed similar tendencies.
Except of course, he'd never sell something so tacky, he thinks, glancing at some winter items across the street. Furry scarf or some such. Remus wouldn't like that.
I've gone off rambling, Sirius thinks, shivering a bit, not out of cold, just out of unbridled energy.
REMUS LUPIN says one name near the door. Sirius presses the doorbell.
Crackle of white noise, then: "Hello?"
"Werewolf Police."
"-What?"
"Open the bloody door. Right this instant. One dashing and rather handsome operative on extended vacation - for fear of insanity, nothing to be afraid of - at your service. Chains or collar preferred on your way to the station?"
A pause, then another blip of static before a voice responds, rather calmly (considering the note of imaginary police at the doorstep): "I do hope you're by yourself and no on can hear you, for your own good."
"The on-loan operative for the Werewolf Police requests permission to bring in one video camera, one tripod, one bottle of champagne and a collection of assorted pornographic music."
"Request denied," says the voice, before more static and the buzzer.
White streak of a grin before the cloudy sky rumbles deep behind him and he rushes inside, shivering further.
Remus,
Where have you been? Considering the fact that the last time I saw you I was most occupied by retching - of which I thank you for pulling me up and out of the gutter - and generally cavorting as all good - natured graduates do. I'm assuming you were offended by my gesture of congratulations - I would be too, as this occurred after the retching incident, and my mouth would undoubtedly taste awful - though I seriously doubt that.
I'm stuck with Prongs, who has nothing better to do than to write sweet nothings to Evans every other hour of the day. Poor owl's going to fall over dead soon. I pointed out he might try getting on one of those Muggle phones and bothering her on that instead. That then resulted in the helpless git shouting like a madman in a red booth later that day. Scaring off passersby is quite a talent that James has.
Other than pursuing Ms. Evans still (who's been quite sensible and sees Prongs on occasion, although shall never forgive him for nearly making her deaf) James has not told me about what occupation he's fit to pursue. Perhaps Cupid on a broom - the terrible poetry and Quidditch hand in hand. He could start an underground movement, and I could sell tickets at exorbitant prices. Of course, being sensible, James is looking for a job in the Ministry. It isn't on his inclination, but on his father's instead.
Honestly, does the idea of sitting at home taking in RELIEF - classes, over! - appeal to no one anymore?
As for Wormtail, I have seen little of him lately, but believe he is better off than I. Had he been relegated to mere cushion and receiver of Woe Is Me And My Romantic Life Unfulfilled Due To Being A Useless And Moaning Dolt ramblings, he would have been a stronger man and flung himself out the window. I am not worthy a cushion. I am bony and yawning and napping due to BOREDOM. If there was something to chase around the premises, I would do so. Or if Prongs wasn't so busy moaning about Evans, he'd participate in raising much hell for the locals. Remus, don't be worried - hell being by definition one crazed mad dog yowling about with one spectacled young man shouting expletives after.
Instead, I take joy in plotting your demise due to not responding to the previous three owls. Three! Two more than one, Remus. TWO more than ONE.
Should this owl also become wasted on another trip - think of the bird, Moony! - it will proceed to peck out my eyes and I will then learn how to spell an unusual amount of curses in Braille.
Off being a bony cushion,
Sirius
P.S. I will come find you and further bother you with my own brand of bored wailing.
The apartment is something Sirius finds to be out of a dream. Rather, a daydream of Remus, hushed and groaning/shifting, pale cotton on burgundy covers. Sparsely furnished, with much items packed in dilapidated boxes tied with worn and overused knotted string. There's a couch on one side, another doorway leading to a room of white, coverlet arranged neatly on a bed.
Yet at the door in secondhand robes, warm pajamas, mug of coffee, light brown hair a bird's nest, is Remus, staring with eyes half open.
"Mornin' to you, too," Sirius says, moving past a flustered Remus into the apartment. He looks around it further, before choosing the small couch to flop unceremoniously upon. Combat boots go up on an armrest as muscles sink into rain soaked denim, relaxing. Sirius eyes Remus as he waves wet strands of hair away from his forehead irritably. "No! No, you'll get no greeting from me, you bloody idiot."
A confused expression at this, Remus opens his mouth to speak, still unused and numb with morning feeling. But Sirius cuts him off again. "Aren't you going to ask me how I got here? That I was nearly run down for food yesterday, practically KILLED even - they're very inhumane about the market, could've sold me off for a sickle or two. Honestly, what they'd want with a yapping dog aiming for some sod's bollocks is beyond me."
Finally, a sigh that seeps into Remus's limbs, long and awkward still, a boy on the verge of a becoming a man. "What are you doing here, Sirius?"
"Moony, I came here for your own well-being. To check up on you!" Sirius nods forward, waving a hand. "Plus, Prongs might have a fit considering that I borrowed his jacket, the one he planned to use on a date. Good on him. He would've mess it up, regardless. And clearly it looks better on me."
"Oh. I see." Remus places his mug of coffee down on a dresser nearby, next to two boxes and a roll of tape. He motions for Sirius to move his legs - who does so, albeit grudgingly - and sits down near him. "I'm perfectly all right."
"All right? You've gone off and left us hanging! You never told us what you were planning to do after school finished. So I'm stuck with Cyrano de Potterac and God Moony when did you get that one?" Without any regard for privacy, those wet fingers reach out and trace Remus' collarbone, a hint of tan underneath dilapidated robes. Raised skin etched, feathery tendrils following.
Remus shrugs, looking at Sirius casually. "Few days ago. Don't-" A muscle in Sirius's jaw twitches, chin lifting in attention- "Don't. It's fine, Sirius. It was fine."
Too late. Sirius bites his lip, a fist clenched, seeming satisfied to break the bones of his own hand. "Fuck. Fucking - fucking forgot. Damn it. Damn it, Remus-" He's sitting up in an instant now, leaning forward near Remus, staring at his own knees. At this, it seems the energy seeps out of him, remaining in the slow gesture of his hand running fingers through his hair. Trying to calm in a room of white with dark wood floors that reflect, a shine of white frosting and-
Then it hits, the rush and rumbling of the raised train tracks nearby, shaking and trembling the walls. Scant traces of dust seep through little cracks in the ceiling, raining down. Something loose shakes within, as if Wormtail's running about the ceiling. But no, it is only Sirius staring out the window through dusty glass at the flash of black and grey. Then as soon as the train rumbles by, it's gone again, and silence remains.
"What are you doing here?" Sirius suddenly blurts out, a rush of feeling warming wet limbs. He regrets it as soon as he speaks; knowing Moony sees the stare against the floor. The way Sirius's gaze falls on the boxes, the secondhand furniture and dust and trains nearby. All wet streaked and stained, cold, alone.
Alone without the warm reds and golds of the Gryffindor common room, the velvets and dark woods of the bedroom. Without his trunk and his bandages - oh they were indeed there - but without Sirius to rifle through them or use them on a monthly basis. Without the books on Sirius's dresser and thrown ties with borrowed trousers and Sirius himself, lounging, hanging off of Remus's bed, reading a book. The smell of the apple Sirius would bite into, look up from upside down with grey eyes and smile, say a joke or two. The sticky and sweet smells of items from kitchen raids were not here. Everything in the room just seems so dull, void...
...so adult.
"-Really, it was quite fortunate that there was an opening," Remus is saying, having been speaking for quite a number of minutes now, but Sirius did not notice. He lets Remus talk in that soft voice, speaking of book shops and jobs and miracles and hope. They didn't know what Remus was. They hired him and would pay him a decent amount. It was a miracle he could get a position, much less a job in the first place, due to his...'condition', as he put it.
This is all static to Sirius's ears.
"It's not fair," Sirius manages to say, interrupting Remus talking about a new shipment of books. "It isn't."
"What's not fair, Sirius?" Remus asks, concerned and barely awake, smelling of morning coffee. He takes another sip, careful, calculated.
"You've all gotten up and left me - didn't bother to ask, did you? And Remus, you never even told me and James what you're up to!" Sirius growls, knowing as soon as he's spoken that it's irrational, childish on his part.
Not that he could care.
"Is that what this is about?" Remus looks amused, which sends Sirius further into his rage. Sirius flops back onto the couch angrily, staring up at the ceiling. He'd push those errant strands out of his face, but knowing Remus, Remus would like that. So he doesn't, and lets them annoy his eyes.
A growl comes from the back of Sirius's throat. "Maybe."
"Sirius, have you bothered to listen to anything I've said in the past few minutes? Or were you off in your own little world again?" It's said with a sigh of resignation, Remus putting the coffee down again. Remus doesn't know that these movements bother Sirius, every little thing here - it's bothersome. So fucking adult and careful, not spontaneous, just... just like Remus.
"I have been listening."
"All right. Then what did I say?"
"Something about books and...boxes. Things. Books in boxes. A shipment! Ah ha. I do know these sorts of words, Remus," Sirius says too loudly, voice not matching his slumped and defeated posture. On the other hand, Remus leans a little, resting his head against Sirius's shoulder. Not too much - only enough to tease him, as Remus knows it will.
He's a bastard in that sense.
"I want to make something of myself, Sirius. It may not be adventure and damsels in distress, like you and James, but in this world, you need to make your own keep in the meantime." Remus shifts his position a little, lazy, eyes half open. "I didn't bother to tell you for fear of interrupting your own budding adventures. I was afraid you'd gone off already and left us all behind."
"Gone off? Gone off?" Sirius repeats, incredulous. Now his eyes are fully open, grey and surprised. "Am I the only one who's keen on the concept of vacation? Staying home for a bit? Hanging about, all that rubbish?"
"You can't wait around for things to happen," Remus points out.
Sirius sighs, looking at fingers that are now outstretched, flexing. "What if I don't want things to happen? If I like the way things are?"
"...The cold has made you pensive. It's not becoming," Remus sniffs, affecting a posh accent before smiling faintly. It's a familiar thing between them, this banter, comfortable and easy to slip into. Yet Sirius will not be consoled, for he is firm and not in the mood for laughter. Leaving school gives way to monochrome skies, adulthood, jobs, things Sirius isn't ready for. Not yet.
His mood is no surprise to Remus. So, Remus does the next thing, and leans forward to plant a kiss on Sirius's forehead.
He doesn't know that is the trigger.
And it is the trigger, nothing glorious, only rushed and fumbling. There is nothing perfect in the conventional sense about the next act, no matter how much Sirius exaggerates or Remus poetically describes it. It is only touch/need/confess, a play set in three acts, and barely twice that particular number in minutes. The kiss, soft and innocent as it is, is the change, and from then on, the fallout takes place.
At the second kiss, it is just Remus pulling Sirius up off his feet, straightening his posture. Remus is tall, strangely taller than Sirius - it's a growth spurt, Sirius knows, denies, and feels jealous of - and condescending in his new position. One, two inches, a perfect fit for the stretch of neck and the curve of lips. Sirius has yet to reach him, for he's only tasted him merely a second, yet getting there - and then Remus does, reaches him, starting to escort Sirius to the bedroom.
Escort being the operative word, considering that he merely shoved and pushed him towards the room, kissing and undressing in the process.
"You're a fucking wanker, y'know that?"
He pulls the belt off hard, a tearing noise. Long legs stumble, trip over boxes of items.
"...Naturally."
When they have arrived - or when Sirius does - the windows shake and the tracks out the window, once light, now dark with shadow. The train rumbles on by, shaking the walls, the floorboards. The overhead beams shift slightly, sending dust down. It's not fully safe, this apartment - Remus will keep it well until he must go on. It's not lived in, warm and alive; no matter how much it seems to fit the quiet young man. It's nothing, this, only a rest stop along the journey. Nothing more.
Sunlight flashes through train cars, playing across twisted sheets and curved flesh. Sinking deeper, legs strain, Remus groaning. Sirius, undeterred, thrusts, hips bucking forward, fevered. Stronger still, fingers sliding over flesh, faster, harder, a devious notion of punishment in the back of his brain. Then it fades and he goes right back to fucking him, a fixed gaze, eyes glancing at the scars on Remus's skin.
There is soft moaning within this room, subtle, but there are barely any words spoken.
"I don't-" Trail of tongue and thrust, moan. "-know what you're afraid of, Sirius."
"You talk too-" Groans, fingers tighten around locks of light brown hair. "Too much."
"...I'll never understand you."
"That's the-" Another noise. "Point."
The apartment seems to shake as the train rumbles by as he's stretching, ever so higher. An arch of pale skin and bones, black hair brushing straining shoulders. Sirius does not howl or speak any sort of uncouth nonsense - this is wonderful, for a moment - and he groans, comes, arrives, whatever the fuck Remus will call it, as Sirius has no words now, and might not for a while - but it is by no means perfect. Remus nearly hurt himself tripping over a box. Sirius rushes. This isn't all choirs and bells. This is a simple fuck when you get right down to it, only made magnificent by the passing train near the window.
It's amplified, the rumbling, window open, barely a flutter of the pale curtain in the breeze.
Sirius sways, pulling himself out and away from Remus.
"That was - good."
"Of course it was."
"Good, but not like before."
Remus stays quiet.
When it is done, and Sirius is standing near the window, peering out, he smokes his last cigarette. Bound to happen, given he's been puffing the rest of them nonstop on the way over, nervous.
His shoulders and chest are cold, the hair on his arms standing up - it's a cold morning, wet, perspiration making the window panes chilly. He traces patterns on the glass while tapping the cigarette on the open window ledge. Outside, past the tracks, are the roofs of small houses and buildings, clouds hanging low and grey with rain. Behind him, Remus lies on his side, propping his head up on his chin.
"I suppose you'll be leaving in a few days." Remus pauses; the bed creaks. "Not that I don't find your company pleasant - just that there's nothing for you to do here, other than watch me sort through books."
If Sirius had enough energy, he'd bother Remus with a naughty suggestion. He doesn't say anything instead.
"I don't mind. Anything's better than watching James take out the trash in his underwear."
He can imagine Remus's eyes widening behind him, how he manages to look uncomfortable in his own skin.
Remus saunters up next to him, still looking rumpled as he'd greeted him earlier, drowsy and graceful. Remus would not think so, for he is always clumsy, awkward. But here he looks lovely, warm, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
Sirius exhales, smoke dissipating in the cold air.
"It's different, this."
He turns to look at Remus, who's trailing a long finger down the window sill, picking up dirt. Before Remus can respond, Sirius goes on, looking to Remus's hand.
"Don't know if I can get used to it. I like things as they were. I mean - Well, I'm not sure what I mean, really. It doesn't settle right with me, y'know? Going off - wedding bells ahead, strippers in cakes and roasters as wedding gifts."
"I think you mean toasters."
"See! There. There. I need that. You're my - you're my dictionary, Moony."
"More loving words have never been spoken."
Remus puts a hand to the small of Sirius's back, rubbing in small circles. He knows it'll upset him - Sirius, with his tics and dislikes, Remus knows them all - but does it still. It's not manly, it isn't, and Remus doesn't really think it is either. But there are curves there, flesh pale, and he feels like moving, quite suddenly. So his hand does.
"D'you think you'll be able to come by James's house? Y'know... For a bit."
"You know there's a war starting, Sirius," Remus says slowly, gaze fixed on the bare flesh of Sirius's back.
Sirius stays quiet. He knows this, knows it is happening but chooses to ignore it, just for a little while longer. They've left Hogwarts, they've gone on and become adults - it's confirmed.
Written in metaphorical ink, all that, and he's not sure if he's willing to sign that decree.
"I know there's a war."
"In war, things change."
"You sound like a professor." He breathes in the smoke, sucks on his cigarette. And with a casual glance, Sirius leans back, letting the smoke out. It brushes Remus's lips, white air that's breathed in, before Sirius kisses him.
It's soft, hesitant, not as rushed as before.
"Before it hits." Sirius points a finger towards the sky outside, the clouds. It will rain before long.
Fingers slipping, Remus moves past Sirius, pulling his robes tighter over bare flesh as he leaves the room.
It takes a while, but soon enough, Sirius follows after him.
END
Author: Ignited
Rating: Mild NC-17
Category: Drama, Angst
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Summary: "Leaving school gives way to monochrome skies, adulthood, jobs, things Sirius isn't ready for. Not yet."
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Notes: Written for devkel for the rsficathon, the request being that it's set post-Hogwarts and pre-Azkaban. Just past 3,600 words.
I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in
And stops my mind from wandering
-- Fixing A Hole, The Beatles
It is overcast.
The morning appears dingy, grey and smells of wet dog. Which would be amusing had he been the dog himself. But instead he's all "'scuse me sir," and "ma'am", mumbling, constant movement. He quirks an eyebrow, glancing at one particularly shiny and red Muggle car - considers Remus would know the model - before continuing to walk, gruff, not looking at passersby. It's a quiet town, little market, people on their ways to work, school, and the like. There are buildings of different shapes and sizes, residential, commercial. Sirius heads towards one building with a store in the first floor, situated near raised train tracks. The large steel columns line the street below, car trudging along, splashing puddles.
The pavement is littered with garbage, both slick and dirty. Sirius kicks a flyer off of his boot, looking at his hand. Pale, grey almost, as if the sky reflects upon flesh. Turns it to see streaky black marks on his palm, his handwriting, indecipherable numbers and blurry words. An address, written in a rush, just as hurried and flustered as he has been for the past few days.
But then he stops, staring at yellowed flyers and posters on glass dotted with drops. Inside, books piled in little mountains, angled just so, covers faded from sunlight. Books in the windows, and a 'wide array of selections within. Please inquire about special orders,' meaning there's much more than the lackluster exterior. At least, he supposes. Right, here it is - door few feet left, a list of two names. Three floors; quaint little building with a white front, bricks on sides, out of place in the rain. Quaint little area even: markets with shouting blaring the catch of the day, jewelry, furniture, other assorted Muggle goods a wizard could've made quicker and better.
Why they'd bother shouting at people with all this rain about is up to them. There's barely anyone milling about the streets other than people trying to get from point A to point B, without dillydallying in between. Then Sirius figures he's a hypocrite himself for thinking so. After all, pursuing someone who clearly did not want to be pursued - rather, checked on - showed similar tendencies.
Except of course, he'd never sell something so tacky, he thinks, glancing at some winter items across the street. Furry scarf or some such. Remus wouldn't like that.
I've gone off rambling, Sirius thinks, shivering a bit, not out of cold, just out of unbridled energy.
REMUS LUPIN says one name near the door. Sirius presses the doorbell.
Crackle of white noise, then: "Hello?"
"Werewolf Police."
"-What?"
"Open the bloody door. Right this instant. One dashing and rather handsome operative on extended vacation - for fear of insanity, nothing to be afraid of - at your service. Chains or collar preferred on your way to the station?"
A pause, then another blip of static before a voice responds, rather calmly (considering the note of imaginary police at the doorstep): "I do hope you're by yourself and no on can hear you, for your own good."
"The on-loan operative for the Werewolf Police requests permission to bring in one video camera, one tripod, one bottle of champagne and a collection of assorted pornographic music."
"Request denied," says the voice, before more static and the buzzer.
White streak of a grin before the cloudy sky rumbles deep behind him and he rushes inside, shivering further.
Remus,
Where have you been? Considering the fact that the last time I saw you I was most occupied by retching - of which I thank you for pulling me up and out of the gutter - and generally cavorting as all good - natured graduates do. I'm assuming you were offended by my gesture of congratulations - I would be too, as this occurred after the retching incident, and my mouth would undoubtedly taste awful - though I seriously doubt that.
I'm stuck with Prongs, who has nothing better to do than to write sweet nothings to Evans every other hour of the day. Poor owl's going to fall over dead soon. I pointed out he might try getting on one of those Muggle phones and bothering her on that instead. That then resulted in the helpless git shouting like a madman in a red booth later that day. Scaring off passersby is quite a talent that James has.
Other than pursuing Ms. Evans still (who's been quite sensible and sees Prongs on occasion, although shall never forgive him for nearly making her deaf) James has not told me about what occupation he's fit to pursue. Perhaps Cupid on a broom - the terrible poetry and Quidditch hand in hand. He could start an underground movement, and I could sell tickets at exorbitant prices. Of course, being sensible, James is looking for a job in the Ministry. It isn't on his inclination, but on his father's instead.
Honestly, does the idea of sitting at home taking in RELIEF - classes, over! - appeal to no one anymore?
As for Wormtail, I have seen little of him lately, but believe he is better off than I. Had he been relegated to mere cushion and receiver of Woe Is Me And My Romantic Life Unfulfilled Due To Being A Useless And Moaning Dolt ramblings, he would have been a stronger man and flung himself out the window. I am not worthy a cushion. I am bony and yawning and napping due to BOREDOM. If there was something to chase around the premises, I would do so. Or if Prongs wasn't so busy moaning about Evans, he'd participate in raising much hell for the locals. Remus, don't be worried - hell being by definition one crazed mad dog yowling about with one spectacled young man shouting expletives after.
Instead, I take joy in plotting your demise due to not responding to the previous three owls. Three! Two more than one, Remus. TWO more than ONE.
Should this owl also become wasted on another trip - think of the bird, Moony! - it will proceed to peck out my eyes and I will then learn how to spell an unusual amount of curses in Braille.
Off being a bony cushion,
Sirius
P.S. I will come find you and further bother you with my own brand of bored wailing.
The apartment is something Sirius finds to be out of a dream. Rather, a daydream of Remus, hushed and groaning/shifting, pale cotton on burgundy covers. Sparsely furnished, with much items packed in dilapidated boxes tied with worn and overused knotted string. There's a couch on one side, another doorway leading to a room of white, coverlet arranged neatly on a bed.
Yet at the door in secondhand robes, warm pajamas, mug of coffee, light brown hair a bird's nest, is Remus, staring with eyes half open.
"Mornin' to you, too," Sirius says, moving past a flustered Remus into the apartment. He looks around it further, before choosing the small couch to flop unceremoniously upon. Combat boots go up on an armrest as muscles sink into rain soaked denim, relaxing. Sirius eyes Remus as he waves wet strands of hair away from his forehead irritably. "No! No, you'll get no greeting from me, you bloody idiot."
A confused expression at this, Remus opens his mouth to speak, still unused and numb with morning feeling. But Sirius cuts him off again. "Aren't you going to ask me how I got here? That I was nearly run down for food yesterday, practically KILLED even - they're very inhumane about the market, could've sold me off for a sickle or two. Honestly, what they'd want with a yapping dog aiming for some sod's bollocks is beyond me."
Finally, a sigh that seeps into Remus's limbs, long and awkward still, a boy on the verge of a becoming a man. "What are you doing here, Sirius?"
"Moony, I came here for your own well-being. To check up on you!" Sirius nods forward, waving a hand. "Plus, Prongs might have a fit considering that I borrowed his jacket, the one he planned to use on a date. Good on him. He would've mess it up, regardless. And clearly it looks better on me."
"Oh. I see." Remus places his mug of coffee down on a dresser nearby, next to two boxes and a roll of tape. He motions for Sirius to move his legs - who does so, albeit grudgingly - and sits down near him. "I'm perfectly all right."
"All right? You've gone off and left us hanging! You never told us what you were planning to do after school finished. So I'm stuck with Cyrano de Potterac and God Moony when did you get that one?" Without any regard for privacy, those wet fingers reach out and trace Remus' collarbone, a hint of tan underneath dilapidated robes. Raised skin etched, feathery tendrils following.
Remus shrugs, looking at Sirius casually. "Few days ago. Don't-" A muscle in Sirius's jaw twitches, chin lifting in attention- "Don't. It's fine, Sirius. It was fine."
Too late. Sirius bites his lip, a fist clenched, seeming satisfied to break the bones of his own hand. "Fuck. Fucking - fucking forgot. Damn it. Damn it, Remus-" He's sitting up in an instant now, leaning forward near Remus, staring at his own knees. At this, it seems the energy seeps out of him, remaining in the slow gesture of his hand running fingers through his hair. Trying to calm in a room of white with dark wood floors that reflect, a shine of white frosting and-
Then it hits, the rush and rumbling of the raised train tracks nearby, shaking and trembling the walls. Scant traces of dust seep through little cracks in the ceiling, raining down. Something loose shakes within, as if Wormtail's running about the ceiling. But no, it is only Sirius staring out the window through dusty glass at the flash of black and grey. Then as soon as the train rumbles by, it's gone again, and silence remains.
"What are you doing here?" Sirius suddenly blurts out, a rush of feeling warming wet limbs. He regrets it as soon as he speaks; knowing Moony sees the stare against the floor. The way Sirius's gaze falls on the boxes, the secondhand furniture and dust and trains nearby. All wet streaked and stained, cold, alone.
Alone without the warm reds and golds of the Gryffindor common room, the velvets and dark woods of the bedroom. Without his trunk and his bandages - oh they were indeed there - but without Sirius to rifle through them or use them on a monthly basis. Without the books on Sirius's dresser and thrown ties with borrowed trousers and Sirius himself, lounging, hanging off of Remus's bed, reading a book. The smell of the apple Sirius would bite into, look up from upside down with grey eyes and smile, say a joke or two. The sticky and sweet smells of items from kitchen raids were not here. Everything in the room just seems so dull, void...
...so adult.
"-Really, it was quite fortunate that there was an opening," Remus is saying, having been speaking for quite a number of minutes now, but Sirius did not notice. He lets Remus talk in that soft voice, speaking of book shops and jobs and miracles and hope. They didn't know what Remus was. They hired him and would pay him a decent amount. It was a miracle he could get a position, much less a job in the first place, due to his...'condition', as he put it.
This is all static to Sirius's ears.
"It's not fair," Sirius manages to say, interrupting Remus talking about a new shipment of books. "It isn't."
"What's not fair, Sirius?" Remus asks, concerned and barely awake, smelling of morning coffee. He takes another sip, careful, calculated.
"You've all gotten up and left me - didn't bother to ask, did you? And Remus, you never even told me and James what you're up to!" Sirius growls, knowing as soon as he's spoken that it's irrational, childish on his part.
Not that he could care.
"Is that what this is about?" Remus looks amused, which sends Sirius further into his rage. Sirius flops back onto the couch angrily, staring up at the ceiling. He'd push those errant strands out of his face, but knowing Remus, Remus would like that. So he doesn't, and lets them annoy his eyes.
A growl comes from the back of Sirius's throat. "Maybe."
"Sirius, have you bothered to listen to anything I've said in the past few minutes? Or were you off in your own little world again?" It's said with a sigh of resignation, Remus putting the coffee down again. Remus doesn't know that these movements bother Sirius, every little thing here - it's bothersome. So fucking adult and careful, not spontaneous, just... just like Remus.
"I have been listening."
"All right. Then what did I say?"
"Something about books and...boxes. Things. Books in boxes. A shipment! Ah ha. I do know these sorts of words, Remus," Sirius says too loudly, voice not matching his slumped and defeated posture. On the other hand, Remus leans a little, resting his head against Sirius's shoulder. Not too much - only enough to tease him, as Remus knows it will.
He's a bastard in that sense.
"I want to make something of myself, Sirius. It may not be adventure and damsels in distress, like you and James, but in this world, you need to make your own keep in the meantime." Remus shifts his position a little, lazy, eyes half open. "I didn't bother to tell you for fear of interrupting your own budding adventures. I was afraid you'd gone off already and left us all behind."
"Gone off? Gone off?" Sirius repeats, incredulous. Now his eyes are fully open, grey and surprised. "Am I the only one who's keen on the concept of vacation? Staying home for a bit? Hanging about, all that rubbish?"
"You can't wait around for things to happen," Remus points out.
Sirius sighs, looking at fingers that are now outstretched, flexing. "What if I don't want things to happen? If I like the way things are?"
"...The cold has made you pensive. It's not becoming," Remus sniffs, affecting a posh accent before smiling faintly. It's a familiar thing between them, this banter, comfortable and easy to slip into. Yet Sirius will not be consoled, for he is firm and not in the mood for laughter. Leaving school gives way to monochrome skies, adulthood, jobs, things Sirius isn't ready for. Not yet.
His mood is no surprise to Remus. So, Remus does the next thing, and leans forward to plant a kiss on Sirius's forehead.
He doesn't know that is the trigger.
And it is the trigger, nothing glorious, only rushed and fumbling. There is nothing perfect in the conventional sense about the next act, no matter how much Sirius exaggerates or Remus poetically describes it. It is only touch/need/confess, a play set in three acts, and barely twice that particular number in minutes. The kiss, soft and innocent as it is, is the change, and from then on, the fallout takes place.
At the second kiss, it is just Remus pulling Sirius up off his feet, straightening his posture. Remus is tall, strangely taller than Sirius - it's a growth spurt, Sirius knows, denies, and feels jealous of - and condescending in his new position. One, two inches, a perfect fit for the stretch of neck and the curve of lips. Sirius has yet to reach him, for he's only tasted him merely a second, yet getting there - and then Remus does, reaches him, starting to escort Sirius to the bedroom.
Escort being the operative word, considering that he merely shoved and pushed him towards the room, kissing and undressing in the process.
"You're a fucking wanker, y'know that?"
He pulls the belt off hard, a tearing noise. Long legs stumble, trip over boxes of items.
"...Naturally."
When they have arrived - or when Sirius does - the windows shake and the tracks out the window, once light, now dark with shadow. The train rumbles on by, shaking the walls, the floorboards. The overhead beams shift slightly, sending dust down. It's not fully safe, this apartment - Remus will keep it well until he must go on. It's not lived in, warm and alive; no matter how much it seems to fit the quiet young man. It's nothing, this, only a rest stop along the journey. Nothing more.
Sunlight flashes through train cars, playing across twisted sheets and curved flesh. Sinking deeper, legs strain, Remus groaning. Sirius, undeterred, thrusts, hips bucking forward, fevered. Stronger still, fingers sliding over flesh, faster, harder, a devious notion of punishment in the back of his brain. Then it fades and he goes right back to fucking him, a fixed gaze, eyes glancing at the scars on Remus's skin.
There is soft moaning within this room, subtle, but there are barely any words spoken.
"I don't-" Trail of tongue and thrust, moan. "-know what you're afraid of, Sirius."
"You talk too-" Groans, fingers tighten around locks of light brown hair. "Too much."
"...I'll never understand you."
"That's the-" Another noise. "Point."
The apartment seems to shake as the train rumbles by as he's stretching, ever so higher. An arch of pale skin and bones, black hair brushing straining shoulders. Sirius does not howl or speak any sort of uncouth nonsense - this is wonderful, for a moment - and he groans, comes, arrives, whatever the fuck Remus will call it, as Sirius has no words now, and might not for a while - but it is by no means perfect. Remus nearly hurt himself tripping over a box. Sirius rushes. This isn't all choirs and bells. This is a simple fuck when you get right down to it, only made magnificent by the passing train near the window.
It's amplified, the rumbling, window open, barely a flutter of the pale curtain in the breeze.
Sirius sways, pulling himself out and away from Remus.
"That was - good."
"Of course it was."
"Good, but not like before."
Remus stays quiet.
When it is done, and Sirius is standing near the window, peering out, he smokes his last cigarette. Bound to happen, given he's been puffing the rest of them nonstop on the way over, nervous.
His shoulders and chest are cold, the hair on his arms standing up - it's a cold morning, wet, perspiration making the window panes chilly. He traces patterns on the glass while tapping the cigarette on the open window ledge. Outside, past the tracks, are the roofs of small houses and buildings, clouds hanging low and grey with rain. Behind him, Remus lies on his side, propping his head up on his chin.
"I suppose you'll be leaving in a few days." Remus pauses; the bed creaks. "Not that I don't find your company pleasant - just that there's nothing for you to do here, other than watch me sort through books."
If Sirius had enough energy, he'd bother Remus with a naughty suggestion. He doesn't say anything instead.
"I don't mind. Anything's better than watching James take out the trash in his underwear."
He can imagine Remus's eyes widening behind him, how he manages to look uncomfortable in his own skin.
Remus saunters up next to him, still looking rumpled as he'd greeted him earlier, drowsy and graceful. Remus would not think so, for he is always clumsy, awkward. But here he looks lovely, warm, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
Sirius exhales, smoke dissipating in the cold air.
"It's different, this."
He turns to look at Remus, who's trailing a long finger down the window sill, picking up dirt. Before Remus can respond, Sirius goes on, looking to Remus's hand.
"Don't know if I can get used to it. I like things as they were. I mean - Well, I'm not sure what I mean, really. It doesn't settle right with me, y'know? Going off - wedding bells ahead, strippers in cakes and roasters as wedding gifts."
"I think you mean toasters."
"See! There. There. I need that. You're my - you're my dictionary, Moony."
"More loving words have never been spoken."
Remus puts a hand to the small of Sirius's back, rubbing in small circles. He knows it'll upset him - Sirius, with his tics and dislikes, Remus knows them all - but does it still. It's not manly, it isn't, and Remus doesn't really think it is either. But there are curves there, flesh pale, and he feels like moving, quite suddenly. So his hand does.
"D'you think you'll be able to come by James's house? Y'know... For a bit."
"You know there's a war starting, Sirius," Remus says slowly, gaze fixed on the bare flesh of Sirius's back.
Sirius stays quiet. He knows this, knows it is happening but chooses to ignore it, just for a little while longer. They've left Hogwarts, they've gone on and become adults - it's confirmed.
Written in metaphorical ink, all that, and he's not sure if he's willing to sign that decree.
"I know there's a war."
"In war, things change."
"You sound like a professor." He breathes in the smoke, sucks on his cigarette. And with a casual glance, Sirius leans back, letting the smoke out. It brushes Remus's lips, white air that's breathed in, before Sirius kisses him.
It's soft, hesitant, not as rushed as before.
"Before it hits." Sirius points a finger towards the sky outside, the clouds. It will rain before long.
Fingers slipping, Remus moves past Sirius, pulling his robes tighter over bare flesh as he leaves the room.
It takes a while, but soon enough, Sirius follows after him.
END