Merry Christmas, chibirhm!
Title: If I Like and You Like
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to JK Rowling and Warner Bros.
Author's Notes: Happy Christmas! I can't shake the feeling that it could be better, but I actually finished something for once, so I'm going to try to be proud of myself.
Warnings: Boy behavior based off of my brothers and cousins; therefore, very mild insanity.
Prompt #17: sweet, pre-Azkaban, beginning sort of fic based off the poem you being in love by e.e. cummings. My kinks are actually pretty much not having them. I'm not a smutty person. I don't like sex (I skip that part because reading about it for some reason makes me uncomfortable). I like innuendo, awkward kissing, boys being BOYS, and James and Peter being existent and having the whole boyish dynamic thing with the whole "we're not gay we just occasionally make out" part going on. And I would like happy (please!) because it is Christmas, after all. I'm aware that this is horrifically specific, and so you can pick and chose as long as you stay within the basic happy, boys dynamic, pre-Azkaban thing with RESOLVED sexual tension. Rating up to R.
To: chibirhm
from your Secret Santa
they wonder. oh and they cry "to be, being, that i am alive
this absurd fraction in its lowest terms
with everything cancelled
but shadows
-what does it all come down to? love? Love
if you like and i like,for the reason that i
hate people and lean out of this window is love,love
and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason
that i do not fall into this street is love."
-cummings
Something has been threading between them for so long, he can't remember the first stitch, but outside the city is soot and snow and hidden war, and inside they sit at careful distances, and when they close their eyes they see green light and he is afraid, so afraid, that this unnamed bond will break beneath their weight.
But then there are these moments, and he hopes.
He, in this case, might be either one of two slender boys (or, if one listens to Remus Lupin, which no one ever does: one slender boy and one too-skinny werewolf) warring valiantly against red and gold wrapping paper.
"Shut up," Sirius says, before Remus can insult himself too much. "I was only saying... Look, now you've taped it to the floor."
Sirius uses the word "floor" loosely. What he actually means is that Remus has taped the ripped-and-wrinkled paper to a pair of jeans lying across the carpet, as well as the edge of a mysterious piece of orange fuzz. (They both refuse to throw it away on the principle that the other was responsible for cleaning the sitting room the day it appeared.)
"I hate Christmas," Remus says.
Sirius holds out a fresh piece of tape. That's his job. Every good army needs a supply manager, even if the rest of the army is a single frustrated soldier. "You love Christmas. You'll love it even more when you see what I got you." He has not actually gotten Remus anything yet, but he knows that when he happens upon his present in a forgotten corner of some obscure bookshop tomorrow night, it will be spectacular. "Anyway, I was saying... What was I saying?"
"That we're -- "
"Two slender, strapping boys with fantastic arses, right." He motions widely between Remus and himself, or possibly between their arses, with absurd little pieces of tape dangling from seven of his fingers. "James is getting married."
After nearly eight years of friendship, Remus has stopped trying to make elegant, insulting analogies about careening trains and Sirius's brain. "Yes, I know," he says, and manages to encase the fireproof gloves Sirius bought for James in paper. He ties a bow over the most-horribly-messy part. "I was there when he told you, remember?"
This is not the point, as would be obvious to anyone except Remus. Sirius exhales through his nose in irritation. "James is getting married, Moony. I'm much better looking than he is."
"You want to get married? When did this develop?"
This is not the point, either, and Sirius breezes on without acknowledging that Remus spoke. "Where's my bird? Or birds, rather. Where's your bird? The neighbors -- " He pauses to cast a significant look toward the wall, behind which Mrs. Pennington is probably making fudge. " -- are going to talk."
Remus drops the gift for James on top of the other messily-wrapped parcels and manages to negotiate his gangly limbs into standing. Luckily, the operation requires enough of Remus's attention that Sirius can watch him closely without risking detection. He has wasted hours of his life, he is sure, trying to scout out telling flickers of... of anything.
But Remus's stupid lovely hair falls into his face. "Sirius," he says with a put-upon sort of patience, "do you not recall setting off half of our leftover fireworks at three o'clock this morning, in your bedroom?" A shake of his head clears the hair out of the way, giving Sirius a clear view of his arched eyebrows. "The neighbors already talk."
Sirius feels as if he has lost, which is not how things are supposed to work in the Black-Lupin Fortress. "They'll talk more," he calls after Remus's retreating back, and does not tell him he has tape stuck in his hair, so it's something more like a draw.
He used to catch snowflakes on his tongue, until someone told him about soot in the clouds. But when the other boy leans back his head to drink them in, he says nothing, because this moment will never come again; and when he trips over a hidden curb the other jerks like a marionette to catch him by the shoulders, and here, look now, he's all right.
Remus expects the thing that keeps him at Sirius's side is the same thing that drove him to complete a 1500-piece jigsaw puzzle when he knew from the start that it actually had more like 1493 pieces. He expects someday this thing will kill him, but in the meantime he enjoys searching vainly for the missing pieces in the curve of Sirius's neck as he wrestles out of his scarf in Peter's foyer.
The four gifts balanced in the crook of Sirius's arm are threatening to fall, but Remus is holding everything that could break. "You might try," he begins, reaching out with the arm that isn't holding gifts, but Sirius jerks away and knocks into the door with both elbows.
"No," he says, and nevermind whether or not he actually knows what Remus was going to say. "That would be surrender." He has somehow managed to tie one end around his wrist and catch the other in the door. He is perilously close to strangulation, but he also has steel in his eyes, and Remus knows better than to push. This is life with Sirius Black. Remus purses his lips, wiggles his feet out of his shoes and leaves Sirius to kill himself.
"Happy Christmas, Moony, and all of that!" James cries, launching himself over the back of Peter's abused pinstripe couch and slamming Remus into the wall. This is life with James Potter, or has been in the weeks since Lily agreed to marry him. It is bordering on unbearable, and Remus suddenly remembers why he hasn't let Sirius kill himself sooner. If good for nothing else, Sirius is at least an effective diversion for James. His eyes light on the packages in Remus's arms. "One of them mine?"
"No," Remus says, judging by the particular pattern of creases and mistakes. He thinks he sounds very reasonable, given that he is still crushed up against the wall and the corner of a portrait of Peter's grandfather, who looks very much like Santa Claus and is laughing loudly, probably at Remus. "Peter's, here, and this one is Lily's -- for you to deliver, and no tampering. I believe Sirius has both of yours."
Sirius thumps ominously from his battleground in the hallway and James's eyes go wide -- "You left him alone with my presents?" -- and he vanishes to rescue them, and hopefully Sirius, as well. Remus walks around the couch (not over it; someone has to be civilized) to put his armful of gifts on the coffee table, which is already strewn with opened bottles of various alcoholic substances and at least three pictures of buxom girls wearing nothing but Santa hats.
"My hair, James! That hurt!"
Remus hates Christmas. He really does. He is in the process of sitting down and rubbing his forehead in a pained manner when Peter's widely-smiling face appears in the kitchen door. He has something that is definitely chocolate on his nose and something that might be coconut shavings in his hair. "They're insane, aren't they?“
"Yes," Remus answers, with none of Peter's admiration. He is joined by a chorus of grunts and bumps that he really does not want to contemplate too deeply. ’Insane. Would you like to borrow --“
"Ha!“
"No,“ Peter says quickly, and disappears back into the kitchen as a timer sounds. He has to raise his voice to be heard over his own clumsy clanging as he gets whatever-it-is out of the oven. "You can keep him.“
Two sets of sock-muted footsteps are not nearly so quiet as their owners would probably like, and then Sirius is swinging his legs over the back of the couch and sliding down. Remus squirms and scoots, but Sirius still manages to get his head onto his lap. "Who are we keeping, hm?" He is perfect angles, clear gray eyes and barest sheen of sweat, and Remus thinks that if he could freeze this instant and stare at it long enough, turn it this way and that, all the pieces would eventually fit into place.
He can't, though, and he is expected to say something. "Certainly not you," he says, his tone balanced measures of annoyance and affection -- it's quite a good tone, he thinks. Socially appropriate.
But before he has even finished talking, Sirius is sitting up and grabbing at the naked pictures on the table, saying, "Holy shit, Moony, look at the size of those!" James sits on top of him, laughing wildly, and Remus doesn't know why he bothers. He comforts himself with the knowledge that it will only be three hours before James has passed out like the lightweight he is, and Remus can drag Sirius home.
We're going to get the bastard, James slurs, and it is to one another that they look, hopeful and terrified in the same way James is, the same way anyone who chances to love in these times should be, whether or not they have rings, promises or even the knowledge that they are wanted. Yes, he says, yes, of course we are. Of course they are.
Sirius is only a little drunk -- just enough to make everything a little bit brighter and happier, and there's nothing wrong with that, especially during the holidays. Unless, of course, you are Remus, and therefore not only predictably sober but brooding as they walk back toward their flat, kicking up the now-settled snow with their boots and clutching opened gifts from Peter, James and Lily.
"You're being morose," Sirius tells him, pulling at his (absolutely ridiculous) cap, which makes his hair stick out from beneath it in unfortunate directions. "It's Christmas Eve and you're being morose. That's not allowed. I'm sure I made a rule against it."
Remus pushes the brim of the hat back into place so that he can see where he's walking. It's a shame; bumping into something or falling down might do him some good. Put a bit of bend into his spine, maybe, or make him laugh at himself. "It's not Christmas Eve," he says, glancing down at his watch. "Well, okay, it's -- but it's not the eve yet. I could be morose if I wanted to be, but I don't. And I'm not. Thinking and being quiet isn't necessarily being morose. Maybe I'm thinking happy thoughts."
"That's not your happy-thoughts face," Sirius says knowingly, gesturing toward Remus's face. "You've got a line between your eyebrows."
"Oh, and you're an expert on my facial expressions, are you?"
It is a fair question. Remus has always been impenetrable, proudly so -- but this much Sirius knows, the difference between a Happy Moony and Morose Moony. It's more than anyone else can figure, except Remus's mother. At least, Sirius hopes Remus's mother understands him, because last time he visited she said Remus was "very fond of him" and gave him a look that seemed important. But after her, Sirius is probably the best Remus-reader in the world, so he says, "Yes, of course I am."
Either that was exactly the wrong thing to say, or exactly the right one, because Remus stops and turns to look at him. The lamplight behind him is making his hair glow and he's looking Sirius right in the eyes, which never seems rare until he actually does it. "All right," he says, "what am I feeling now?"
Sirius knows he should make a joke of it, but he can't ignore the challenge in Remus's voice. He has to at least try. He looks back for a long moment, then smugly quirks the corner of his mouth. "You're scared."
And ha, Remus cannot hide the startled look on his face quickly enough to convince Sirius that he guessed incorrectly. "Well," he says, pausing to begin walking again, so briskly that Sirius nearly trips over his feet trying to keep up, "aren't you?"
"No," Sirius lies. He's scared out of his mind, but perhaps not of the same things Remus is. Sirius's fears are the sort that make him insane, make him tremble at night under the weight of emotion; Remus's, as far as Sirius knows, just remind him to turn off the oven before leaving the flat. "What's there to be afraid of? It's Christmas Eve."
"Maybe the last one we'll have," Remus says.
"So?" Sirius asks. Remus actually sputters. Sirius has never seen anyone sputter before, and hardly thought Remus Lupin would be the first. He would be proud of himself if it were, say, a dirty joke that had caused it, rather than a question of death. He presses forward though, determined to win. It won't do for Remus to be morose on Christmas Eve, no matter what the technicalities. "We can't do anything about it, if it is. We just live as best we can in the meantime. Right?"
Remus stops again and looks sideways at Sirius. "Right," he says, sounding unsure. Sirius edges closer, which is vaguely troubling. He doesn't remember giving his body permission to move. "We just..."
Kissing in the middle of a street -- an empty street, thankfully, but cold -- with arms full of rib-poking presents and too much space to bridge is awkward; kissing at all is a mistake, but when he pulls back, their eyes catch like bare branches and he knows it is a mistake they will make again, again and again and again, madmen that they are.
They reach the flat without speaking and both fumble for their keys, elbows bumping in the cramped stairwell until Sirius's hand emerges with his and he attacks the doorknob, which has proven itself almost as stubborn as either of them.ÊHe looks back once to grin, eyes bright. Remus is trying very, very hard not to think about what will happen when he gets it open, but he fails, and by the time the door swings open, his mouth is dry.
"Sirius," he croaks as the man rushes in ahead of him. It is all a formality, he knows, but he feels he should protest anyway, so when things go horribly wrong he can't be blamed. "Sirius, we shouldn't..."
Sirius ignores him, as is a habit of his, and deposits his gifts on the couch. "Close the door before you let all the heat out," he says, stripping out of his coat and gloves. His hands linger on his scarf for a moment before dropping, leaving it around his neck. Remus wishes he wouldn't -- another fight might give him time to escape. He steps over the threshold and pulls the door shut, watching Sirius watch him. The intensity is troubling. His feet feel too heavy.
The silence has far surpassed uncomfortable when Sirius finally asks, "Are you just going to stand there?" at the same time Remus says, "Don't you think this is too complicated?"
"Maybe," Remus says, but after a stubborn hesitation he moves to set his gifts (books, of course) on the table.
"Maybe," Sirius echoes, moving toward him. He is a bludger: a giant, boy-shaped bludger about to hit Remus in the face with his mouth, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. Remus hates Quidditch, too. "Or maybe it's simple and you're complicating it. Because that's what you do, Moony. Complicate things."
Remus can feel himself bristle, although he would really rather not, considering it is his duty to be unflappable and this is the worst possible time for that to change. "Forgive me for actually thinking things through, instead of -- "
Just doing them, as Sirius does now, arms and hips and lips fitting perfectly against Remus, though the edge of the table digging into his back is unnecessary. Remus makes note of it so he will be able to explain the bruise later, but he can't be bothered to truly feel the pain while Sirius's thumb, grazing over his cheek, obviously requires all of his concentration.
Remus is already naming this moment in his head. Remus's Last Stand. Next time, he knows, he will open his mouth to the heated swipe of Sirius's tongue instead of standing there with his lips pressed stubbornly together. Next time. This time, he has a principle to defend. Friends don't kiss friends, not in the midst of wars, unless they are crazy, which Sirius obviously is but Remus will never be.
He will just hope Sirius is crazy enough for both of them.
"See there?" he breathes when he breaks away. His breath is hot and slightly tinged with alcohol; Remus knows because it is right on his face, heavy and oddly sweet. "Simple. Nothing's different, really. Is it?"
"Yeah," Remus says, blinking several times in succession. He is still wearing his coat -- and his gloves, scarf and hat. It's all uncomfortably hot, which is why his cheeks are flaming, certainly. He doesn't blush. "I mean, no. I mean. I don't know."
"It's not," Sirius informs him, grinning. Remus tries and fails to be angry about his arrogance, his assumption that this is allowed, as Sirius reaches up behind his head and pulls at his hair, or something in it. Remus can feel his fingers wiggling to flick it away. "Tape," he explains, and leaves his hand on the back of Remus's neck.
He leans too far out of the open window, peering down at the early-morning trickle of last-minute shoppers who are caught up in the cruel sweep of time, all so unlucky not to have what he has: a mug of bad coffee and a hand on his back, fingers playing up the bumps of his curving spine, the press of a palm anchoring him, and nothing to fear.