A Holiday of Sorts, Remus/Sirius, PG13
Title: A Holiday of Sorts
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: After Christmas, during their sixth year at Hogwarts, Sirius visits Remus.
Notes: A bit different from my usual stuff. Many thanks to wildestranger for the read-through. Written for the birthday of the lovely liadlaith. Crossposted, pro'lly.
A Holiday of Sorts
Sunday (Boxing Day)
The train is claustrophobically busy, packed with loud chattering passengers, too much luggage and screeching, bawling children. Sirius cowers down into his seat and passes the too-long journey staring blankly out the window at rolling grey-green scenery, continuing even when all he can see is darkness flickered with streetlights. No-one speaks to him, save for to ask for his ticket, and it's a relief because he barely understands these people so he tunes them out and huddles down into his unfamiliar clothes.
When they finally pull in at their destination he notices Remus immediately; standing alone and somehow lonely-looking even in a whirling, bustling crowd. Sirius watches him, watches his wide eyes flashing over the faces of the people hurrying past him, skinny body swamped by an oversized grey duffle-coat. Sirius makes his way over slowly, claps Remus on the shoulder and sees Remus' face coming to life from its previously vague, dreamy expression.
They hurry away from the rushing swarm inside the station and walk up onto the dark street in silence, Sirius marvelling at their surroundings; enclosed by tall elegant buildings the colour of dark, dirty ash as they trudge uphill. Remus is quiet as they walk, having performed the usual polite pleasantries while they were still on the platform, and Sirius is unsure whether or not to be relieved. But he pushes away the niggling ache of foreboding and concentrates on the scenery - bright bars and restaurants, full due to the chill, howling wind - and learning their path.
Remus has insisted on carrying his suitcase for him, and Sirius watches him swing it in his hand as they make their way into a park spread with sharply frosted grass and criss-crossed with many tree-lined walkways. Remus walks hunched up, head dipped low and with his eyes on his plain, sensible shoes. Remus is usually happy enough to be quiet, and Sirius can't read anything from his silence, so he stares dumbly down at his own scuffed boots and wonders why he's here.
Eventually they're surrounded by houses again, more uphill climbs and straight, neat streets, pale grey brick tenements with arched slate roofs. "Just here," Remus says, catching Sirius by the elbow with his spare hand and steering him up a narrow path that has hedges on either side. Remus fumbles through his pockets and finally produces a set of keys and lets them in. Sirius follows him down the hallway and up a cold spiral staircase, clinging to the ornate iron handrail as they drag themselves up to the third floor.
Sirius has only met Remus' mother a few times before. Mrs Lupin is a small, slim woman, the sort with long, fuzzy, grey-ribboned hair, always dressed in flouncy, trailing skirts or robes, and woolly, too-big cardigans. The kind of woman you expect to have cats, but instead she has Remus.
She's waiting for them once Remus has twisted another key and pushed the door open, with a hopeful, nervy smile and a jumper she must have knitted herself. Sirius cringes inwardly a little as she takes him by the shoulders and presses a dry kiss to his cheek, but he allows it and smiles politely afterwards, says the right things and promises to find the present he's brought for her as soon as he can unpack.
Supper is vegetable soup, with cold ham and coarse bread rolls that are satisfyingly rough when Sirius' teeth tear through them, though the awkward silence at the table rings all too loudly in his ears.
#
Sirius is faintly appalled when he realises he's expected to share Remus' narrow single bed. Mrs Lupin promises him that it's only for tonight, though Sirius doesn't know how, because the brief tour of the flat showed him how small their living space is. Remus' bedroom is almost exactly how Sirius would have presumed had he ever thought about it; tidy and sparse and the opposite of the chintzy clutter of the rest of the flat. The walls are white and the polished floorboards pale gold. There's no posters and only one solitary picture of Remus' father placed on the corner of the desk that's set in the wide bay window.
"Sorry," Remus mumbles as he shuffles awkwardly into his pyjamas, back turned, the white bones of his spine shining through his skin.
Sirius buttons his nightshirt and pulls on long woollen socks to protect against the cold, the weather here more bitter than he'd realised. "S'okay," he lies and scrambles gratefully under the blankets.
They sleep top-and-tail, each hugging a rapidly cooling hot water bottle. Sirius snuggles into the bedclothes that smell of Remus and washing powder, mixed with the rubber of the water bottle, and wonders when Remus got so tall that his arched white feet would poke out from under the covers. Sirius tucks the blankets back around Remus' toes and drifts off watching the dark shadowed shapes of the elaborate coving that circles the ceiling.
#
Monday
He wakes up facing the wall, with Remus' slim feet tangled into the back of his hair. There's fresh orange juice, cornflakes, a jug of milk, toast in a rack and jam and butter on the table once they've washed and dressed, though Mrs Lupin is already buttoning herself into a heavy coat by the time they've sat down.
"Well, I'm off then," she tells them expectantly, and Remus stands to peck a thin-lipped kiss to her cheek. "You be good," she whispers to him. "And you two look after each other while I'm gone," she adds, and Sirius is rather bemused until she lifts the suitcase that he's only just noticed and he realises that she's leaving him alone with Remus for more than just the day.
"Where's she…?" Sirius asks, once the door has thunked closed.
Remus pours cornflakes and pokes at them with a spoon. "T'see me uncle Robert," Remus says with a sigh.
"And that's why I'm here, she didn't want to leave you alone." Sirius feels betrayed, somehow.
#
Remus walks him into what he calls the New Town, and they wander along the grand main street, surrounded by bustling Muggles. When they're bored of the shops, and Remus is twitchy and jumpy from Sirius talking and laughing too loudly about the unusual items these shops sell, they head into the frozen park, which even in this weather is full of families and couples and people walking nervous dogs that balk at the frosted grass.
They share a bench with a dubious-looking tramp as they eat their sandwiches. Sirius wanted to buy them fresh food, something better than the corned-beef rolls that Remus' mum left them, but Remus refuses and once they've finished eating he makes Sirius give some money to the shivering homeless man who accepts it with minimal shame and waits only a few seconds before hurrying off.
"He's going to buy whisky," Sirius points out.
"So?" Remus says with a shrug, and Sirius doesn't really mind either as Remus mood is a little lighter for the rest of the afternoon.
#
This is what he was afraid of really, the being alone with Remus. Sirius watches his friend make dinner, though it's just re-heated soup and cold things from the fridge. "She left money to go shopping," Remus comments as he stirs, leant so far forward that his dusty brown hair is almost in the soup.
Being in the house, just the two of them, is infinitely worse than earlier. At least when they wandered the streets there was something to do, to look at and remark upon. Now there's just each other and the empty flat, and Sirius has never been good at being alone with Remus.
Peter can be relied upon to chatter, often gossipy or inane, but at least there's sound and it feels like friendship, even if it isn't the ease and comfort that Sirius and James have together. Sirius longs for James; back in London and probably bored and confused too, longs for James' straightforward smiles and the effortless way they converse.
There's a strange otherness to Remus, dreamy and unnatural, and it makes Sirius feel out of place and uncomfortable. He never knows what to say to Remus, or even how to say it. For some reason he's never been able to tell Remus dirty jokes or tease him properly, wrestle him to the floor or prattle on about nothing the way he can with everyone else. Somehow, Remus makes him shy. They've never had much in common, but they're fine in a group, with the four of them, but since October any sense of simple friendly normality has gone completely, and their friendship is cold and hollow and Sirius doesn't know how to act.
Remus ladles up the soup and hands Sirius a bowl of it. They carry the food into the sitting room and turn the tellyvision on. Sirius musters all his strength and makes jokes, laughing at the bizarre things Muggle find interesting, wishing that Remus' smile looked like it had come easily and wondering if this was really all just because of one silly trick.
#
Tuesday
Sirius was supposed to sleep in Remus' mother's room last night, but neither of them made the effort to make up the bed in there, so they shared Remus' again instead. Remus and one of the blankets are gone when Sirius wakes, so he gathers his own blanket closer and pads into the kitchen, finding Remus in there, curled up with a cup of tea. "Oh," he says as Sirius walks in, "the kettle's still warm." Sirius makes himself tea, and they sit there sipping in silence, and maybe Remus is also wondering how they'll last the week like this.
#
Probably mindful of yesterdays near misses, Remus takes him to wizarding shops the next day. Most of these are secreted in the Old Town, down grimy cobbled alleys, and some are merely Muggle shops with a special hidden section at the back. As they trawl these shops, Remus tells him stories of the city and how magic is woven into the very atmosphere of the place and wizards shaped its history, peppered with ghost stories, bloody murder and war. Sirius finds himself strangely enthralled listening to Remus' soft words and they pass a long morning that way, Sirius almost forgetting to shiver.
At two pm on the dot, Remus drags him into a quaint and empty bookshop and through an archway into the back section, which Sirius bets is hidden with plenty of concealment charms.
There is a young assistant -- not yet nineteen probably, Sirius thinks -- and he seems incredibly pleased to see them, or rather Remus. Within minutes, Remus is perched, almost provocatively, on the desk next to the till and his head is bowed towards the young man's, deep in conversation. After the two of them have marvelled over a new book the shop has in stock, Remus remembers to introduce Sirius, though he doesn't get up and merely waves his hand carelessly as he says, "My friend Sirius". The robed teenager, apparently called Alistair, lifts his curly-haired head slightly to bestow a suspicious glare upon Sirius before plunging immediately into discussion of another thrilling Dark Arts tome.
Sirius trails aimlessly through the dusty shelves, running one finger along the spines as he walks, and listens jealously to the low, secretive whispering of Remus' voice.
"Didn't come here so you could flirt with shop assistants," Sirius hisses once they've left. Remus laughs and tells him not to be such a wanker, but his eyes are too bright as they settle at a table in a nearby café, and they're halfway through their fish and chips before Sirius can turn Remus' conversation away from Alistair and defence and The Magical Mile Bookshop.
#
They eat dinner late because all their meals have been late so far that day, and besides, it takes a while for the shepherds pie Remus took out of the freezer that morning to cook, probably because the temperature difference between inside and outside the freezer is minimal. Remus seems worn out, from all their walking and talking, and he seems set to say hardly another word that evening. James could have talked all day, all night and then some, and Sirius misses it, so he borrows some parchment and scrawls a letter while Remus reads after dinner, voices on the television creating a pleasant background hum that softens the itchy tension.
Dear James, Sirius writes, then almost immediately has no words. 'I miss you' would be too much, however true, but then what else can he say? Remus' bloody mother has buggered off and abandoned me with him and I don't know what to do. Sirius crosses that out.
Remus has been showing me around the city and it's all very grand or quaint, and sometimes both at once. It's bloody freezing, I'm surprised it hasn't snowed yet. He puts his pen down and pouts, because it hasn't snowed while they've been at Hogwarts yet this winter, and he and James have such fun in the snow; snowballs that last for hours, spontaneous avalanches, long, long fights that only end when they're both soaked and gasping and half buried in a snowdrift.
Remus turns another page of his book.
I was surprised to discover that there are so many wizarding shops here, no wonder Remus manages to get most of his school stuff before he meets us in Diagon Alley.
Sirius screws it into a ball and throws it on the fire. It sounds like the sort of letter you'd write to your mother, not your best friend, but Sirius can't write the letter he'd normally have written, because he won't admit to James how lost and out-of-place he feels here. He cheers up a little thinking about his mother though, glad he didn't have to participate in that dreadful farce of a Christmas they have back at Grimmauld Place. He rubs his hands over the jeans he's wearing and grins, thinking of Regulus who is probably still starched into his dress robes, prim and trapped until after New Year.
"What are you smirking at?" Remus asks suddenly, and Sirius tears his eyes away from the fire, towards Remus' questioning look.
"Nothing," Sirius replies, and smiles again, because it could be worse.
#
Wednesday
Even just writing the words I'm surprised it hasn't snowed yet must have been too tempting for the fates, and Sirius wakes to find it swirling from the sky and white drifts along the window sills. He takes a blanket and goes to sit on Remus' desk to watch, the browning slush of the roads and paths continually being covered with a new layer of whiteness. Swathed in blanket, he wraps his arms around his knees and wishes this had happened on Christmas day and further south, snow being the one thing that his first happy, perfect Christmas had lacked. He pushes away the image of wrestling with James, trying to shove snow down his collar, and attempts instead to imagine doing the same thing with Remus, and he promises to force himself to try.
#
Remus is perfectly willing to wander out into the snow, even when Sirius suggests they go to the park and throw snowballs. When they arrive there's children swarming everywhere, buried inside winter clothing and layers and layers of wool, and Remus himself isn't much better, having insisted on wrapping them both up tightly, and Sirius is wearing many jumpers, two pairs of socks and even a ridiculous bobbly hat.
Sirius stoops to roll up a handful of snow the minute they reach grass, whacking it into the back of Remus' head before Remus even notices he's stopped. Remus yelps "Hey!" and then they're running through the thick snow, kicking showers of it up in their wake, weaving between groups building snowmen and ducking away from the students that are maliciously throwing ice. Once Remus catches him, Sirius twists, yanking Remus' hat away and scrubbing snow into his hair, only to gasp and fall as Remus lifts his coat and jumpers and presses a ball of crushed snow to his bare belly.
For one blissful hour it's like this, running and panting, Remus squealing girlishly whenever he's hit, and Sirius is so, so grateful for it. And then he's lying on Remus, giddy and cold and hot all at once, struggling to shove snow into any gap he can find in Remus' clothing, enjoying the way Remus feels squirming beneath him.
And then it's over as suddenly as it started. Sirius is taken by surprise when Remus pushes him off, claiming he's hungry and they have to buy food. It's a sick, dirty feeling, like another betrayal, because if Remus could push him away so effortlessly, then he must have been faking it too, letting himself be attacked and played with, pretending everything was natural when it never, never would be.
Sirius fidgets like a disobedient child as they buy bread and meat and cheese and other necessities, hating Remus with a passion he's never felt before.
#
In the afternoon they're in the park again, but Sirius can't muster the energy or willing to play again, so they sit on a bench instead, and watch how real friends do it. Remus has adopted a newer and more extreme level of oddness, as if ashamed of his pretence, and won't speak or look Sirius in the eye.
"Do you still hate me then?" Sirius asks, because the silence was starting to seem endless and even this would be better.
Remus sinks further inside himself, fiddling with his coat buttons. "Never hated you," he mumbles, muffled by the thick scarf.
Sirius watches his friend steadily, angry that Remus could claim it was nothing. "But - I mean, you - it's not like it used to be, is it?"
Remus chews on his chapped lower lip, watching the creation of a particularly ugly snowman. "Won't be. You aren't - It was my fault."
"Was it?" Sirius spits into the swirling snow. "All your fault. You enjoying the self-pity?"
Remus lifts one gloved hand to pull his hat down tighter and curls his legs up to rest his heels on the bench. "Fuck off. I just had a higher opinion of you than I should've, really."
"Ah," Sirius says, because he's on familiar ground now. "Dumbledore-esq guilt-tripping. I know, I'm so terribly disappointed in myself."
Remus is silent and Sirius turns to look at him again, the solemn expression. So what was this visit for anyway? Some masochistic inner need of Remus' for emotional self-flagellation maybe, because if they're supposed to reconcile then Remus clearly isn't trying and doesn't want to.
"Bloody crappy holiday," Sirius snaps as a snowflake gets him right in the eyeball.
#
Thursday
"Right s'too cold," Sirius declares next morning. "Light a fire, we ain't leaving the house."
"Sorry?" Remus gasps, but Sirius talks him into it anyway. They huddle into heavy jumpers and nestle down by the fire along with every blanket in the house, and some bread and chicken and cake.
"Seeing that it's a real fireplace an' all," Sirius says, "why don't you just get it connected to the Floo Network?" After all, it would have spared him that awful train journey.
"She doesn't like it," Remus replies vaguely, "to be reminded of it."
Sirius is faintly shocked. Of course the Black family are good at secrecy, webs of intricate lies and denial, but for Remus' mother to pretend as if they were normal Muggles. "But she can't," he says stumblingly, "I mean, it's what you are."
"I think she's all too aware of what I am," Remus tells him, and Sirius almost smacks himself in the face for his own stupidity.
"I didn't mean-" Sirius sighs and gives up.
"She doesn't trust them anymore," Remus begins suddenly, after a long pause. "What with me and the way they treat that, and when my dad died-" Remus' eyes are glassy, though only because he's far away, not with tears. Sirius is silent and tries hard not to shuffle, watching the firelight licking reflected orange curls in the shine of Remus' eyes.
"When my dad died," Remus starts up again, "they didn't treat her right then either, so she doesn't want to be part of that anymore."
Sirius wants to say "But you're still not a Muggle", or ask what it was Remus' father really died of, but there's a constricting tightness in his chest, and he can already see Remus retreating within himself; long eyelashes lowered onto heat-flushed cheeks as he stares vacantly at his own hands.
#
The day drags long in a similar vein: sharp little conversations that are too close for comfort, brought on by their self-enforced imprisonment. The room infuses slowly with heat and they begin to peel off clothes, until late in the afternoon Remus is wearing only grey wool trousers and a t-shirt, and Sirius is in his shirt sleeves, pants and long, over-the-knee socks.
By six, Sirius is bored playing with the television, because all it shows are serious men sat at desks talking about Muggles, and they escape to the kitchen for more food. While Remus is snagging the last of the sliced meat they bought on Wednesday, Sirius finds a bottle of red wine and turns hopeful, innocent eyes on Remus. Remus says no at first, claiming they need hot drinks, but Sirius sways him by promising to replace the bottle and suggesting they make warm mulled wine. Sirius notices how Remus shuffles uncomfortably because of his pleading looks, tugging the blanket he brought with him closer to his body, and Sirius wonders if he isn't allowed to ask anything of Remus ever again.
But Remus places a pan on the hob anyway, and they fill it with wine and vanilla and sugar and cinnamon, and Remus stirs it slowly with the same reverence he shows for potion-making.
Once back in the living room, the wine tastes thick and rich, burning strongly in Sirius' chest on the way down. Remus sips his carefully, with nervous pinched lips, savouring it and rescuing stray drops with a pointed tip of tongue.
#
After one mugful each, Remus is wriggly and sleepy and relaxed. He nestles into his blankets with little twitches and stretches, content with the warmth and the heavy, languid feel the wine seems to be lending to his long limbs, and Sirius decides to wait a little longer.
After the second mug Remus is comfortable enough to talk almost properly to Sirius, the way James does and the way Sirius has craved ever since he arrived. Remus has trailed off and is gazing into the fireplace, shadows rising and falling over the contours of his face, when Sirius says, "Will it ever be the same?"
"What?" Remus asks, though Sirius can tell by the way his eyes flick down and towards Sirius that he knows, and that he just feels too lazy to mind anymore.
"Just-"
"No," Remus interrupts, the pointed corner of an eerie, wistful smile attempting to break onto his face. "No, it won't."
Sirius almost cries out, because now, because of whatever the smooth wine has done to him too, he needs this. "But-"
"It's my fault," Remus says, as if he's explaining something simple. But he doesn't continue, just curls slowly around and down, resting his cheek to the floor in front of the hearth, still with that unnatural-looking, contemplative curve to his lips. "It doesn't matter."
Remus has always been different, too far away. Sirius says, "There's nothing I can do", and it's no longer a question
For some reason that comment makes Remus' smile slip into more of a grin, and he sits up, slowly, but with a tense grace that Sirius knows his own wine-heavy body won't have. "Maybe," Remus says, and he's wicked now, flames in his eyes and his lips a dyed-purple smear. He leans and reaches, one hot, clammy palm cupping around Sirius' jaw, head slightly tilted, and Sirius doesn't understand until Remus leans further and presses his warm, dry mouth against Sirius'.
When he pulls away, after several long, aching seconds, there's that odd smile again and watching the way it twists Remus' lips makes Sirius lightheaded.
"Is it better now?" Sirius asks, but he can't tell if Remus has shook his head or not, because Remus turns a little, half closes his eyes, hiding pupils dilated by the bright fire and a strange expression of shame that causes a thick rush of inner cold to run through Sirius. Not a kiss of forgiveness or friendship, but that unnatural feeling of intrusion and Sirius remembers the guarded look of mistrustful jealousy on the face of the shopkeeper, Alistair.
"No," Remus says eventually, and turns back to the fireplace.
Sirius longs for something more than this silence and is breathless from sudden new ideas about what Remus was and is. He's no longer a scruffy, shy little werewolf boy, instead he's tall and gangly and his lips are stained too dark. He has feelings in the same way James has feelings, or Sirius, and he's flushed with wine and heat and humiliation, and he's right when he says nothing will be the same.
Sirius clambers awkwardly forward, pressing his fingers against the back of Remus' neck to pull their heads together, and their lips. Remus makes a squashed, squeaky sort of noise in shock, and Sirius slides his tongue between his friend's lips, because if he's going to do this, then he's going to do it right. There's a frightened little whimper, but Remus is letting himself be kissed anyway. He takes almost too long to move and start kissing back, and Sirius experiences a lurching hitch of anxiety before Remus tilts his head in and curls his tongue along the side of Sirius'. Drowsy with alcohol, it's all rather sloppy; slicky-wet sounds and the cinnamon taste of Remus' damp breath. But it's good, and fear pushes heavily down on Sirius' chest, that kissing a friend, a boy, could be just like any other kiss.
Only better. One of Remus' hands lifts from the floor and rests against Sirius' neck before slipping lower and nestling just under the soft collar of his undershirt. Remus' fingers dig into Sirius' back, bringing him closer, and the kisses get more forceful, lips mushed together. Sirius can't tell if it's adrenaline or fear rushing through him, or adrenaline caused by fear. Or something else: hot and even heavier than the wine makes him.
Sirius can feel the warm huffs of Remus' breathing where Remus' nose his pushed into his cheek, and Remus is lapping at his mouth now, slow but eager and his tongue pushing deep. It was frightening how easy it was to fall into this, too good and alarmingly better than either of the girls Sirius has kissed before, though it could just be the drink. Yes, the drink, Sirius thinks, then is horrified at his own gasp of loss as Remus' palm slides down to his chest and he pushes Sirius firmly away.
"It's still not better," Remus says, calm and matter-of-fact, but with a hint of regret. And he moves away then, lies down, attempting to hide amongst the blankets.
For someone who's just been kissing one of his friends, Remus falls asleep quickly. Sirius can tell now when he sleeps and when he doesn't. When he's pretending, Remus shifts too often, turns and uncurls, but now he's somehow drifted off with only thin blankets protecting him from the smooth, hard floor.
Sirius doesn't think Remus has ever kissed anyone before. He wonders if it's him, if sleeping in the same bed made Remus excited or nervous or sickened, or whether it was just anyone and with eyes shut Remus had been thinking of the attractive shop assistant with the pretty brown curls.
The fire is dying slowly, and Sirius rakes the soft glowing embers, an occasional mote of hot ash sparking on his forearm. He watches Remus' handsome face, not sure when Remus stopped being Remus and a child and started being handsome and tall, with a beautiful grace to his long limbs, one leg stretched out along the floor and one knee hitched as he lies splayed on his front, graceful even when he shouldn't be. Remus' left hand is spread flat to the wooden floorboards, fingers wide apart, and Sirius idly traces the outline of his hand and wonders what happens now.
#
Friday (New Years Eve)
Sirius wakes to the chink of a tray being placed next to him and the heady smell of tea and burnt toast. Remus has even spread the toast just how he likes it; thickly with butter and just a thin scrape of jam. Sirius mutters "Thanks", but he hovers over the tray, nuzzling his face into his teacup and not looking at Remus.
#
By mutual consent they dress quickly and head outside. Remus doesn't even try to speak, and Sirius hasn't anything to say. Sirius is so nervous, just walking alongside Remus, that he feels like he might be sick. Apart from that argument with his father, the last time he felt this nervous was sitting in front of the whole school on his first day, the sorting hat picking through his head. And worse is the fact that he isn't even so worried about actually throwing up, even though he hates it. It's throwing up in front of Remus that bothers him, mad though it seems, because Remus has seen him being sick many times; when he's had too much whisky or food, that time James fed him frogspawn and he vomited deformed baby frogs, and even when his first transformation made him disoriented and dizzy and the way his bones and tendons creaked back into place made him retch.
Remus is terribly pale, or so Sirius thinks anyway, because he can only manage the briefest of glances. At the first bench they reach in the park, Sirius mumbles "Sit", and slumps down. He can feel Remus' concerned look, but ignores it, taking enough deep breaths to steady himself until he feels less ill, though the shaking doesn't stop.
"I-" he starts, then panics wildly, though quietly, before forcing himself to continue. "I kissed you, why isn't it better?"
Remus doesn't say Why do you think? because he doesn't need to: his sigh says it all.
"Is it just me?" Sirius asks, unable to keep the plea out of his voice, "or-"
"Or?" Remus asks and sighs again. Sirius watches the way his friend's fingers curl and uncurl rested on his knee, nails grating on the material putting Sirius on edge. On impulse he reaches to press his gloved hand over Remus' own.
"It's not because of what I did-" Sirius flails for the least specific way he can say it. "-in October, is it?"
"Doesn't matter."
"No." Sirius' hand clenches, trapping Remus' underneath, and he finds himself wishing their hands were bare so there would be skin and warmth. He wants to be warm, and though his stomach lurches he rocks sideways to press his face against Remus' cheek. Of course, Remus' cheeks are scarlet with the sharp whip of the icy wind, just like his own are, so he tilts his head to kiss the edge of Remus' mouth, flicking his tongue at the corner of Remus' lips. He sees Remus' eyes flutter closed, and slowly Remus turns.
Remus' mouth and breath are so hot, though he's shyer, more careful this time, mouth less open and his licks are smaller. Remus turns his hand and links his fingers between Sirius' and they sit there, battered by the bitter winds, kissing and not caring.
When they break apart, only for a quick breath, there is a woman pushing a pram, another child hanging off her hand, stopped in front of them and staring in horror. Sirius wants to argue, but Remus just mutters "Sorry", and pulls him up off the bench and away into the driving snow.
Further into the city, the streets are nearly deserted, harsh winds forcing most people indoors to shelter and prepare for the coming of the new year. So there's no-one around to concern themselves with two silly teenage boys, shuffling through the blinding blizzard and pausing occasionally to press their cold-blued lips together.
#
There are worse ways to spend Hogmanay, Sirius thinks.
He'd been disappointed, for days, that he'd miss the Potters' yearly party, a raucous affair, during which he and James would run riot, playing tricks and stealing alcohol and competing to see who could stay awake longest.
Of course it's only half-eleven, and they've already finished the bubbly wine Mrs Lupin left for them, and Remus has already fallen asleep, head on Sirius' chest, leaving Sirius to stare into the fire or at the television pictures of ecstatic celebrations going on not too far away. But yes, it could be worse. He'd thought he would be leaving tomorrow with, at best, a head-cold and a renewed friendship, but instead he has more, and he's not complaining.
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: After Christmas, during their sixth year at Hogwarts, Sirius visits Remus.
Notes: A bit different from my usual stuff. Many thanks to wildestranger for the read-through. Written for the birthday of the lovely liadlaith. Crossposted, pro'lly.
A Holiday of Sorts
Sunday (Boxing Day)
The train is claustrophobically busy, packed with loud chattering passengers, too much luggage and screeching, bawling children. Sirius cowers down into his seat and passes the too-long journey staring blankly out the window at rolling grey-green scenery, continuing even when all he can see is darkness flickered with streetlights. No-one speaks to him, save for to ask for his ticket, and it's a relief because he barely understands these people so he tunes them out and huddles down into his unfamiliar clothes.
When they finally pull in at their destination he notices Remus immediately; standing alone and somehow lonely-looking even in a whirling, bustling crowd. Sirius watches him, watches his wide eyes flashing over the faces of the people hurrying past him, skinny body swamped by an oversized grey duffle-coat. Sirius makes his way over slowly, claps Remus on the shoulder and sees Remus' face coming to life from its previously vague, dreamy expression.
They hurry away from the rushing swarm inside the station and walk up onto the dark street in silence, Sirius marvelling at their surroundings; enclosed by tall elegant buildings the colour of dark, dirty ash as they trudge uphill. Remus is quiet as they walk, having performed the usual polite pleasantries while they were still on the platform, and Sirius is unsure whether or not to be relieved. But he pushes away the niggling ache of foreboding and concentrates on the scenery - bright bars and restaurants, full due to the chill, howling wind - and learning their path.
Remus has insisted on carrying his suitcase for him, and Sirius watches him swing it in his hand as they make their way into a park spread with sharply frosted grass and criss-crossed with many tree-lined walkways. Remus walks hunched up, head dipped low and with his eyes on his plain, sensible shoes. Remus is usually happy enough to be quiet, and Sirius can't read anything from his silence, so he stares dumbly down at his own scuffed boots and wonders why he's here.
Eventually they're surrounded by houses again, more uphill climbs and straight, neat streets, pale grey brick tenements with arched slate roofs. "Just here," Remus says, catching Sirius by the elbow with his spare hand and steering him up a narrow path that has hedges on either side. Remus fumbles through his pockets and finally produces a set of keys and lets them in. Sirius follows him down the hallway and up a cold spiral staircase, clinging to the ornate iron handrail as they drag themselves up to the third floor.
Sirius has only met Remus' mother a few times before. Mrs Lupin is a small, slim woman, the sort with long, fuzzy, grey-ribboned hair, always dressed in flouncy, trailing skirts or robes, and woolly, too-big cardigans. The kind of woman you expect to have cats, but instead she has Remus.
She's waiting for them once Remus has twisted another key and pushed the door open, with a hopeful, nervy smile and a jumper she must have knitted herself. Sirius cringes inwardly a little as she takes him by the shoulders and presses a dry kiss to his cheek, but he allows it and smiles politely afterwards, says the right things and promises to find the present he's brought for her as soon as he can unpack.
Supper is vegetable soup, with cold ham and coarse bread rolls that are satisfyingly rough when Sirius' teeth tear through them, though the awkward silence at the table rings all too loudly in his ears.
#
Sirius is faintly appalled when he realises he's expected to share Remus' narrow single bed. Mrs Lupin promises him that it's only for tonight, though Sirius doesn't know how, because the brief tour of the flat showed him how small their living space is. Remus' bedroom is almost exactly how Sirius would have presumed had he ever thought about it; tidy and sparse and the opposite of the chintzy clutter of the rest of the flat. The walls are white and the polished floorboards pale gold. There's no posters and only one solitary picture of Remus' father placed on the corner of the desk that's set in the wide bay window.
"Sorry," Remus mumbles as he shuffles awkwardly into his pyjamas, back turned, the white bones of his spine shining through his skin.
Sirius buttons his nightshirt and pulls on long woollen socks to protect against the cold, the weather here more bitter than he'd realised. "S'okay," he lies and scrambles gratefully under the blankets.
They sleep top-and-tail, each hugging a rapidly cooling hot water bottle. Sirius snuggles into the bedclothes that smell of Remus and washing powder, mixed with the rubber of the water bottle, and wonders when Remus got so tall that his arched white feet would poke out from under the covers. Sirius tucks the blankets back around Remus' toes and drifts off watching the dark shadowed shapes of the elaborate coving that circles the ceiling.
#
Monday
He wakes up facing the wall, with Remus' slim feet tangled into the back of his hair. There's fresh orange juice, cornflakes, a jug of milk, toast in a rack and jam and butter on the table once they've washed and dressed, though Mrs Lupin is already buttoning herself into a heavy coat by the time they've sat down.
"Well, I'm off then," she tells them expectantly, and Remus stands to peck a thin-lipped kiss to her cheek. "You be good," she whispers to him. "And you two look after each other while I'm gone," she adds, and Sirius is rather bemused until she lifts the suitcase that he's only just noticed and he realises that she's leaving him alone with Remus for more than just the day.
"Where's she…?" Sirius asks, once the door has thunked closed.
Remus pours cornflakes and pokes at them with a spoon. "T'see me uncle Robert," Remus says with a sigh.
"And that's why I'm here, she didn't want to leave you alone." Sirius feels betrayed, somehow.
#
Remus walks him into what he calls the New Town, and they wander along the grand main street, surrounded by bustling Muggles. When they're bored of the shops, and Remus is twitchy and jumpy from Sirius talking and laughing too loudly about the unusual items these shops sell, they head into the frozen park, which even in this weather is full of families and couples and people walking nervous dogs that balk at the frosted grass.
They share a bench with a dubious-looking tramp as they eat their sandwiches. Sirius wanted to buy them fresh food, something better than the corned-beef rolls that Remus' mum left them, but Remus refuses and once they've finished eating he makes Sirius give some money to the shivering homeless man who accepts it with minimal shame and waits only a few seconds before hurrying off.
"He's going to buy whisky," Sirius points out.
"So?" Remus says with a shrug, and Sirius doesn't really mind either as Remus mood is a little lighter for the rest of the afternoon.
#
This is what he was afraid of really, the being alone with Remus. Sirius watches his friend make dinner, though it's just re-heated soup and cold things from the fridge. "She left money to go shopping," Remus comments as he stirs, leant so far forward that his dusty brown hair is almost in the soup.
Being in the house, just the two of them, is infinitely worse than earlier. At least when they wandered the streets there was something to do, to look at and remark upon. Now there's just each other and the empty flat, and Sirius has never been good at being alone with Remus.
Peter can be relied upon to chatter, often gossipy or inane, but at least there's sound and it feels like friendship, even if it isn't the ease and comfort that Sirius and James have together. Sirius longs for James; back in London and probably bored and confused too, longs for James' straightforward smiles and the effortless way they converse.
There's a strange otherness to Remus, dreamy and unnatural, and it makes Sirius feel out of place and uncomfortable. He never knows what to say to Remus, or even how to say it. For some reason he's never been able to tell Remus dirty jokes or tease him properly, wrestle him to the floor or prattle on about nothing the way he can with everyone else. Somehow, Remus makes him shy. They've never had much in common, but they're fine in a group, with the four of them, but since October any sense of simple friendly normality has gone completely, and their friendship is cold and hollow and Sirius doesn't know how to act.
Remus ladles up the soup and hands Sirius a bowl of it. They carry the food into the sitting room and turn the tellyvision on. Sirius musters all his strength and makes jokes, laughing at the bizarre things Muggle find interesting, wishing that Remus' smile looked like it had come easily and wondering if this was really all just because of one silly trick.
#
Tuesday
Sirius was supposed to sleep in Remus' mother's room last night, but neither of them made the effort to make up the bed in there, so they shared Remus' again instead. Remus and one of the blankets are gone when Sirius wakes, so he gathers his own blanket closer and pads into the kitchen, finding Remus in there, curled up with a cup of tea. "Oh," he says as Sirius walks in, "the kettle's still warm." Sirius makes himself tea, and they sit there sipping in silence, and maybe Remus is also wondering how they'll last the week like this.
#
Probably mindful of yesterdays near misses, Remus takes him to wizarding shops the next day. Most of these are secreted in the Old Town, down grimy cobbled alleys, and some are merely Muggle shops with a special hidden section at the back. As they trawl these shops, Remus tells him stories of the city and how magic is woven into the very atmosphere of the place and wizards shaped its history, peppered with ghost stories, bloody murder and war. Sirius finds himself strangely enthralled listening to Remus' soft words and they pass a long morning that way, Sirius almost forgetting to shiver.
At two pm on the dot, Remus drags him into a quaint and empty bookshop and through an archway into the back section, which Sirius bets is hidden with plenty of concealment charms.
There is a young assistant -- not yet nineteen probably, Sirius thinks -- and he seems incredibly pleased to see them, or rather Remus. Within minutes, Remus is perched, almost provocatively, on the desk next to the till and his head is bowed towards the young man's, deep in conversation. After the two of them have marvelled over a new book the shop has in stock, Remus remembers to introduce Sirius, though he doesn't get up and merely waves his hand carelessly as he says, "My friend Sirius". The robed teenager, apparently called Alistair, lifts his curly-haired head slightly to bestow a suspicious glare upon Sirius before plunging immediately into discussion of another thrilling Dark Arts tome.
Sirius trails aimlessly through the dusty shelves, running one finger along the spines as he walks, and listens jealously to the low, secretive whispering of Remus' voice.
"Didn't come here so you could flirt with shop assistants," Sirius hisses once they've left. Remus laughs and tells him not to be such a wanker, but his eyes are too bright as they settle at a table in a nearby café, and they're halfway through their fish and chips before Sirius can turn Remus' conversation away from Alistair and defence and The Magical Mile Bookshop.
#
They eat dinner late because all their meals have been late so far that day, and besides, it takes a while for the shepherds pie Remus took out of the freezer that morning to cook, probably because the temperature difference between inside and outside the freezer is minimal. Remus seems worn out, from all their walking and talking, and he seems set to say hardly another word that evening. James could have talked all day, all night and then some, and Sirius misses it, so he borrows some parchment and scrawls a letter while Remus reads after dinner, voices on the television creating a pleasant background hum that softens the itchy tension.
Dear James, Sirius writes, then almost immediately has no words. 'I miss you' would be too much, however true, but then what else can he say? Remus' bloody mother has buggered off and abandoned me with him and I don't know what to do. Sirius crosses that out.
Remus has been showing me around the city and it's all very grand or quaint, and sometimes both at once. It's bloody freezing, I'm surprised it hasn't snowed yet. He puts his pen down and pouts, because it hasn't snowed while they've been at Hogwarts yet this winter, and he and James have such fun in the snow; snowballs that last for hours, spontaneous avalanches, long, long fights that only end when they're both soaked and gasping and half buried in a snowdrift.
Remus turns another page of his book.
I was surprised to discover that there are so many wizarding shops here, no wonder Remus manages to get most of his school stuff before he meets us in Diagon Alley.
Sirius screws it into a ball and throws it on the fire. It sounds like the sort of letter you'd write to your mother, not your best friend, but Sirius can't write the letter he'd normally have written, because he won't admit to James how lost and out-of-place he feels here. He cheers up a little thinking about his mother though, glad he didn't have to participate in that dreadful farce of a Christmas they have back at Grimmauld Place. He rubs his hands over the jeans he's wearing and grins, thinking of Regulus who is probably still starched into his dress robes, prim and trapped until after New Year.
"What are you smirking at?" Remus asks suddenly, and Sirius tears his eyes away from the fire, towards Remus' questioning look.
"Nothing," Sirius replies, and smiles again, because it could be worse.
#
Wednesday
Even just writing the words I'm surprised it hasn't snowed yet must have been too tempting for the fates, and Sirius wakes to find it swirling from the sky and white drifts along the window sills. He takes a blanket and goes to sit on Remus' desk to watch, the browning slush of the roads and paths continually being covered with a new layer of whiteness. Swathed in blanket, he wraps his arms around his knees and wishes this had happened on Christmas day and further south, snow being the one thing that his first happy, perfect Christmas had lacked. He pushes away the image of wrestling with James, trying to shove snow down his collar, and attempts instead to imagine doing the same thing with Remus, and he promises to force himself to try.
#
Remus is perfectly willing to wander out into the snow, even when Sirius suggests they go to the park and throw snowballs. When they arrive there's children swarming everywhere, buried inside winter clothing and layers and layers of wool, and Remus himself isn't much better, having insisted on wrapping them both up tightly, and Sirius is wearing many jumpers, two pairs of socks and even a ridiculous bobbly hat.
Sirius stoops to roll up a handful of snow the minute they reach grass, whacking it into the back of Remus' head before Remus even notices he's stopped. Remus yelps "Hey!" and then they're running through the thick snow, kicking showers of it up in their wake, weaving between groups building snowmen and ducking away from the students that are maliciously throwing ice. Once Remus catches him, Sirius twists, yanking Remus' hat away and scrubbing snow into his hair, only to gasp and fall as Remus lifts his coat and jumpers and presses a ball of crushed snow to his bare belly.
For one blissful hour it's like this, running and panting, Remus squealing girlishly whenever he's hit, and Sirius is so, so grateful for it. And then he's lying on Remus, giddy and cold and hot all at once, struggling to shove snow into any gap he can find in Remus' clothing, enjoying the way Remus feels squirming beneath him.
And then it's over as suddenly as it started. Sirius is taken by surprise when Remus pushes him off, claiming he's hungry and they have to buy food. It's a sick, dirty feeling, like another betrayal, because if Remus could push him away so effortlessly, then he must have been faking it too, letting himself be attacked and played with, pretending everything was natural when it never, never would be.
Sirius fidgets like a disobedient child as they buy bread and meat and cheese and other necessities, hating Remus with a passion he's never felt before.
#
In the afternoon they're in the park again, but Sirius can't muster the energy or willing to play again, so they sit on a bench instead, and watch how real friends do it. Remus has adopted a newer and more extreme level of oddness, as if ashamed of his pretence, and won't speak or look Sirius in the eye.
"Do you still hate me then?" Sirius asks, because the silence was starting to seem endless and even this would be better.
Remus sinks further inside himself, fiddling with his coat buttons. "Never hated you," he mumbles, muffled by the thick scarf.
Sirius watches his friend steadily, angry that Remus could claim it was nothing. "But - I mean, you - it's not like it used to be, is it?"
Remus chews on his chapped lower lip, watching the creation of a particularly ugly snowman. "Won't be. You aren't - It was my fault."
"Was it?" Sirius spits into the swirling snow. "All your fault. You enjoying the self-pity?"
Remus lifts one gloved hand to pull his hat down tighter and curls his legs up to rest his heels on the bench. "Fuck off. I just had a higher opinion of you than I should've, really."
"Ah," Sirius says, because he's on familiar ground now. "Dumbledore-esq guilt-tripping. I know, I'm so terribly disappointed in myself."
Remus is silent and Sirius turns to look at him again, the solemn expression. So what was this visit for anyway? Some masochistic inner need of Remus' for emotional self-flagellation maybe, because if they're supposed to reconcile then Remus clearly isn't trying and doesn't want to.
"Bloody crappy holiday," Sirius snaps as a snowflake gets him right in the eyeball.
#
Thursday
"Right s'too cold," Sirius declares next morning. "Light a fire, we ain't leaving the house."
"Sorry?" Remus gasps, but Sirius talks him into it anyway. They huddle into heavy jumpers and nestle down by the fire along with every blanket in the house, and some bread and chicken and cake.
"Seeing that it's a real fireplace an' all," Sirius says, "why don't you just get it connected to the Floo Network?" After all, it would have spared him that awful train journey.
"She doesn't like it," Remus replies vaguely, "to be reminded of it."
Sirius is faintly shocked. Of course the Black family are good at secrecy, webs of intricate lies and denial, but for Remus' mother to pretend as if they were normal Muggles. "But she can't," he says stumblingly, "I mean, it's what you are."
"I think she's all too aware of what I am," Remus tells him, and Sirius almost smacks himself in the face for his own stupidity.
"I didn't mean-" Sirius sighs and gives up.
"She doesn't trust them anymore," Remus begins suddenly, after a long pause. "What with me and the way they treat that, and when my dad died-" Remus' eyes are glassy, though only because he's far away, not with tears. Sirius is silent and tries hard not to shuffle, watching the firelight licking reflected orange curls in the shine of Remus' eyes.
"When my dad died," Remus starts up again, "they didn't treat her right then either, so she doesn't want to be part of that anymore."
Sirius wants to say "But you're still not a Muggle", or ask what it was Remus' father really died of, but there's a constricting tightness in his chest, and he can already see Remus retreating within himself; long eyelashes lowered onto heat-flushed cheeks as he stares vacantly at his own hands.
#
The day drags long in a similar vein: sharp little conversations that are too close for comfort, brought on by their self-enforced imprisonment. The room infuses slowly with heat and they begin to peel off clothes, until late in the afternoon Remus is wearing only grey wool trousers and a t-shirt, and Sirius is in his shirt sleeves, pants and long, over-the-knee socks.
By six, Sirius is bored playing with the television, because all it shows are serious men sat at desks talking about Muggles, and they escape to the kitchen for more food. While Remus is snagging the last of the sliced meat they bought on Wednesday, Sirius finds a bottle of red wine and turns hopeful, innocent eyes on Remus. Remus says no at first, claiming they need hot drinks, but Sirius sways him by promising to replace the bottle and suggesting they make warm mulled wine. Sirius notices how Remus shuffles uncomfortably because of his pleading looks, tugging the blanket he brought with him closer to his body, and Sirius wonders if he isn't allowed to ask anything of Remus ever again.
But Remus places a pan on the hob anyway, and they fill it with wine and vanilla and sugar and cinnamon, and Remus stirs it slowly with the same reverence he shows for potion-making.
Once back in the living room, the wine tastes thick and rich, burning strongly in Sirius' chest on the way down. Remus sips his carefully, with nervous pinched lips, savouring it and rescuing stray drops with a pointed tip of tongue.
#
After one mugful each, Remus is wriggly and sleepy and relaxed. He nestles into his blankets with little twitches and stretches, content with the warmth and the heavy, languid feel the wine seems to be lending to his long limbs, and Sirius decides to wait a little longer.
After the second mug Remus is comfortable enough to talk almost properly to Sirius, the way James does and the way Sirius has craved ever since he arrived. Remus has trailed off and is gazing into the fireplace, shadows rising and falling over the contours of his face, when Sirius says, "Will it ever be the same?"
"What?" Remus asks, though Sirius can tell by the way his eyes flick down and towards Sirius that he knows, and that he just feels too lazy to mind anymore.
"Just-"
"No," Remus interrupts, the pointed corner of an eerie, wistful smile attempting to break onto his face. "No, it won't."
Sirius almost cries out, because now, because of whatever the smooth wine has done to him too, he needs this. "But-"
"It's my fault," Remus says, as if he's explaining something simple. But he doesn't continue, just curls slowly around and down, resting his cheek to the floor in front of the hearth, still with that unnatural-looking, contemplative curve to his lips. "It doesn't matter."
Remus has always been different, too far away. Sirius says, "There's nothing I can do", and it's no longer a question
For some reason that comment makes Remus' smile slip into more of a grin, and he sits up, slowly, but with a tense grace that Sirius knows his own wine-heavy body won't have. "Maybe," Remus says, and he's wicked now, flames in his eyes and his lips a dyed-purple smear. He leans and reaches, one hot, clammy palm cupping around Sirius' jaw, head slightly tilted, and Sirius doesn't understand until Remus leans further and presses his warm, dry mouth against Sirius'.
When he pulls away, after several long, aching seconds, there's that odd smile again and watching the way it twists Remus' lips makes Sirius lightheaded.
"Is it better now?" Sirius asks, but he can't tell if Remus has shook his head or not, because Remus turns a little, half closes his eyes, hiding pupils dilated by the bright fire and a strange expression of shame that causes a thick rush of inner cold to run through Sirius. Not a kiss of forgiveness or friendship, but that unnatural feeling of intrusion and Sirius remembers the guarded look of mistrustful jealousy on the face of the shopkeeper, Alistair.
"No," Remus says eventually, and turns back to the fireplace.
Sirius longs for something more than this silence and is breathless from sudden new ideas about what Remus was and is. He's no longer a scruffy, shy little werewolf boy, instead he's tall and gangly and his lips are stained too dark. He has feelings in the same way James has feelings, or Sirius, and he's flushed with wine and heat and humiliation, and he's right when he says nothing will be the same.
Sirius clambers awkwardly forward, pressing his fingers against the back of Remus' neck to pull their heads together, and their lips. Remus makes a squashed, squeaky sort of noise in shock, and Sirius slides his tongue between his friend's lips, because if he's going to do this, then he's going to do it right. There's a frightened little whimper, but Remus is letting himself be kissed anyway. He takes almost too long to move and start kissing back, and Sirius experiences a lurching hitch of anxiety before Remus tilts his head in and curls his tongue along the side of Sirius'. Drowsy with alcohol, it's all rather sloppy; slicky-wet sounds and the cinnamon taste of Remus' damp breath. But it's good, and fear pushes heavily down on Sirius' chest, that kissing a friend, a boy, could be just like any other kiss.
Only better. One of Remus' hands lifts from the floor and rests against Sirius' neck before slipping lower and nestling just under the soft collar of his undershirt. Remus' fingers dig into Sirius' back, bringing him closer, and the kisses get more forceful, lips mushed together. Sirius can't tell if it's adrenaline or fear rushing through him, or adrenaline caused by fear. Or something else: hot and even heavier than the wine makes him.
Sirius can feel the warm huffs of Remus' breathing where Remus' nose his pushed into his cheek, and Remus is lapping at his mouth now, slow but eager and his tongue pushing deep. It was frightening how easy it was to fall into this, too good and alarmingly better than either of the girls Sirius has kissed before, though it could just be the drink. Yes, the drink, Sirius thinks, then is horrified at his own gasp of loss as Remus' palm slides down to his chest and he pushes Sirius firmly away.
"It's still not better," Remus says, calm and matter-of-fact, but with a hint of regret. And he moves away then, lies down, attempting to hide amongst the blankets.
For someone who's just been kissing one of his friends, Remus falls asleep quickly. Sirius can tell now when he sleeps and when he doesn't. When he's pretending, Remus shifts too often, turns and uncurls, but now he's somehow drifted off with only thin blankets protecting him from the smooth, hard floor.
Sirius doesn't think Remus has ever kissed anyone before. He wonders if it's him, if sleeping in the same bed made Remus excited or nervous or sickened, or whether it was just anyone and with eyes shut Remus had been thinking of the attractive shop assistant with the pretty brown curls.
The fire is dying slowly, and Sirius rakes the soft glowing embers, an occasional mote of hot ash sparking on his forearm. He watches Remus' handsome face, not sure when Remus stopped being Remus and a child and started being handsome and tall, with a beautiful grace to his long limbs, one leg stretched out along the floor and one knee hitched as he lies splayed on his front, graceful even when he shouldn't be. Remus' left hand is spread flat to the wooden floorboards, fingers wide apart, and Sirius idly traces the outline of his hand and wonders what happens now.
#
Friday (New Years Eve)
Sirius wakes to the chink of a tray being placed next to him and the heady smell of tea and burnt toast. Remus has even spread the toast just how he likes it; thickly with butter and just a thin scrape of jam. Sirius mutters "Thanks", but he hovers over the tray, nuzzling his face into his teacup and not looking at Remus.
#
By mutual consent they dress quickly and head outside. Remus doesn't even try to speak, and Sirius hasn't anything to say. Sirius is so nervous, just walking alongside Remus, that he feels like he might be sick. Apart from that argument with his father, the last time he felt this nervous was sitting in front of the whole school on his first day, the sorting hat picking through his head. And worse is the fact that he isn't even so worried about actually throwing up, even though he hates it. It's throwing up in front of Remus that bothers him, mad though it seems, because Remus has seen him being sick many times; when he's had too much whisky or food, that time James fed him frogspawn and he vomited deformed baby frogs, and even when his first transformation made him disoriented and dizzy and the way his bones and tendons creaked back into place made him retch.
Remus is terribly pale, or so Sirius thinks anyway, because he can only manage the briefest of glances. At the first bench they reach in the park, Sirius mumbles "Sit", and slumps down. He can feel Remus' concerned look, but ignores it, taking enough deep breaths to steady himself until he feels less ill, though the shaking doesn't stop.
"I-" he starts, then panics wildly, though quietly, before forcing himself to continue. "I kissed you, why isn't it better?"
Remus doesn't say Why do you think? because he doesn't need to: his sigh says it all.
"Is it just me?" Sirius asks, unable to keep the plea out of his voice, "or-"
"Or?" Remus asks and sighs again. Sirius watches the way his friend's fingers curl and uncurl rested on his knee, nails grating on the material putting Sirius on edge. On impulse he reaches to press his gloved hand over Remus' own.
"It's not because of what I did-" Sirius flails for the least specific way he can say it. "-in October, is it?"
"Doesn't matter."
"No." Sirius' hand clenches, trapping Remus' underneath, and he finds himself wishing their hands were bare so there would be skin and warmth. He wants to be warm, and though his stomach lurches he rocks sideways to press his face against Remus' cheek. Of course, Remus' cheeks are scarlet with the sharp whip of the icy wind, just like his own are, so he tilts his head to kiss the edge of Remus' mouth, flicking his tongue at the corner of Remus' lips. He sees Remus' eyes flutter closed, and slowly Remus turns.
Remus' mouth and breath are so hot, though he's shyer, more careful this time, mouth less open and his licks are smaller. Remus turns his hand and links his fingers between Sirius' and they sit there, battered by the bitter winds, kissing and not caring.
When they break apart, only for a quick breath, there is a woman pushing a pram, another child hanging off her hand, stopped in front of them and staring in horror. Sirius wants to argue, but Remus just mutters "Sorry", and pulls him up off the bench and away into the driving snow.
Further into the city, the streets are nearly deserted, harsh winds forcing most people indoors to shelter and prepare for the coming of the new year. So there's no-one around to concern themselves with two silly teenage boys, shuffling through the blinding blizzard and pausing occasionally to press their cold-blued lips together.
#
There are worse ways to spend Hogmanay, Sirius thinks.
He'd been disappointed, for days, that he'd miss the Potters' yearly party, a raucous affair, during which he and James would run riot, playing tricks and stealing alcohol and competing to see who could stay awake longest.
Of course it's only half-eleven, and they've already finished the bubbly wine Mrs Lupin left for them, and Remus has already fallen asleep, head on Sirius' chest, leaving Sirius to stare into the fire or at the television pictures of ecstatic celebrations going on not too far away. But yes, it could be worse. He'd thought he would be leaving tomorrow with, at best, a head-cold and a renewed friendship, but instead he has more, and he's not complaining.