On Being Born
Title: On Being Born
Rating: Solidest G Evah
Pairing: Sirius/Remus (preslash, really)
Summary: In Which Remus Leaves Home and Sirius Helps Him Pack; it is That. Exciting.
:::
One broken quill, a pot full of dried paste, the ripped note, the bent key and Remus examines the contents of the topmost drawer and says, "You know, I never could bear to throw any of it away. I always thought something might happen if I did."
"Yes. You'd have one less drawer full of rubbish," Sirius says, and falls deeply and irrevocably in love with a stopped wristwatch.
It is eleven o'clock in the morning and Remus is leaving. In a minute Mrs. Lupin will poke her head in the room, say hello dears and make her hourly promise of sandwiches like they are twelve not eighteen years old, ready for everything everything everything.
There are four hundred million wire hangers in the cupboard, draped with his navy clothes; they smell like rain; they smell like four hundred million lost afternoons reading under the apple tree in the narrow backyard. You can see that tree out the kitchen window. Every time Sirius goes for a glass of water he sees the ghost of a boy sitting at the table, drinking tea and watching the white blossoms fall and smiling because he likes it so well. When Remus turns his back Sirius likes to lean in and bury his face in a jumper, smelling every kind of spring smell and hardly being able to stand it. There's a nail above the clothes and a hat perched on top of it. Remus is too shy to wear it and he says Sirius should keep it because it looks better on him anyway.
Now the cupboard is empty and done and they can move on.
He has the best-loved library in the world on six creaking shelves, with Wilde next to Woolf and Remus swears that's just a coincidence of alphabetization so you can shut your mouth, Padfoot.
"I believe you," Sirius says. "This time."
You have to be most careful with the books. The binding is falling apart and they have strange insides, thick glossy paper with a pattern like oil slicks and they curl up on the edges. Bookmarks fall out all the time: two of Madame Pomfrey's passes back to class, a rather bad caricature of Peter, too many notes that Sirius wrote that Remus throws away promptly, upon seeing them. But Sirius catches them out of the corner of his eye every time.
Under the bed he finds a stack of old schoolwork, including a parchment titled How Not to Use Electricity, by Remus Lupin. Sirius thinks it is quite nice:
Mr. Sprogs was having a fine old time licking the lamp plug (because of his iron deficiency you see, he liked the metallic taste). It was about that time Mr. Spadfoot came in and told Mr. Sprogs what a fine old idea it would be if he would take that plug out of his mouth and stick it in the electrical outlet, for surely it would be safe. Mr. Sprogs was about to do just this, the metal of the plug glistening quite dangerously, when Mr. Spoony rushed in...
"Would you believe I got top marks for that?" Remus says.
"I would indeed," Sirius says. "This is literature, Remus."
At lunchtime they spread out an old fringed blanket over the floor despite the perfectly good dining room down the hall. Remus says he feels like picnics but he isn't smiling and he has said 61 words in the last hour. He can't eat his promised sandwich and sets it down wearily, he's so sad, and Sirius means to say precisely the right thing to make him smile but instead he eats the crusts of the leftover sandwich and draws patterns on the floor. He writes words. He writes Moony Moony Moony, hello Moony and hopes Remus can read upside down.
At two o'clock the room is packed with sunlight and two boys and five walls, one all of boxes. Sirius has brought too many and the empty ones sit inside each other like Russian dolls. In a former life they all held oranges but in their new life they hold things rather more precious than fruit, though he must say he likes the citrus smell. Now the room echoes. Remus sighs. When they Apparate to his new flat, Sirius says he'll help him get good and pissed tonight and Remus's mouth quirks a little, just a little, and he says all right then.
So soon there is just one box left and Sirius says, "Ready then?" and Remus says no, not quite.
"Not like that," Remus says. "We can't."
He says never leave without a journey. Apparation positively, absolutely will not do, and maybe a taxi ride won't either but you can't just disappear all at once. You understand, Padfoot. You just can't do that.
On the last trip from the house where Remus was born, in the last trip side by side in a taxi, Sirius gets it wrong: he reaches over and takes Remus's wrist, not his hand, but if you can make Remus Lupin smile it's really not so bad.
Rating: Solidest G Evah
Pairing: Sirius/Remus (preslash, really)
Summary: In Which Remus Leaves Home and Sirius Helps Him Pack; it is That. Exciting.
:::
One broken quill, a pot full of dried paste, the ripped note, the bent key and Remus examines the contents of the topmost drawer and says, "You know, I never could bear to throw any of it away. I always thought something might happen if I did."
"Yes. You'd have one less drawer full of rubbish," Sirius says, and falls deeply and irrevocably in love with a stopped wristwatch.
It is eleven o'clock in the morning and Remus is leaving. In a minute Mrs. Lupin will poke her head in the room, say hello dears and make her hourly promise of sandwiches like they are twelve not eighteen years old, ready for everything everything everything.
There are four hundred million wire hangers in the cupboard, draped with his navy clothes; they smell like rain; they smell like four hundred million lost afternoons reading under the apple tree in the narrow backyard. You can see that tree out the kitchen window. Every time Sirius goes for a glass of water he sees the ghost of a boy sitting at the table, drinking tea and watching the white blossoms fall and smiling because he likes it so well. When Remus turns his back Sirius likes to lean in and bury his face in a jumper, smelling every kind of spring smell and hardly being able to stand it. There's a nail above the clothes and a hat perched on top of it. Remus is too shy to wear it and he says Sirius should keep it because it looks better on him anyway.
Now the cupboard is empty and done and they can move on.
He has the best-loved library in the world on six creaking shelves, with Wilde next to Woolf and Remus swears that's just a coincidence of alphabetization so you can shut your mouth, Padfoot.
"I believe you," Sirius says. "This time."
You have to be most careful with the books. The binding is falling apart and they have strange insides, thick glossy paper with a pattern like oil slicks and they curl up on the edges. Bookmarks fall out all the time: two of Madame Pomfrey's passes back to class, a rather bad caricature of Peter, too many notes that Sirius wrote that Remus throws away promptly, upon seeing them. But Sirius catches them out of the corner of his eye every time.
Under the bed he finds a stack of old schoolwork, including a parchment titled How Not to Use Electricity, by Remus Lupin. Sirius thinks it is quite nice:
Mr. Sprogs was having a fine old time licking the lamp plug (because of his iron deficiency you see, he liked the metallic taste). It was about that time Mr. Spadfoot came in and told Mr. Sprogs what a fine old idea it would be if he would take that plug out of his mouth and stick it in the electrical outlet, for surely it would be safe. Mr. Sprogs was about to do just this, the metal of the plug glistening quite dangerously, when Mr. Spoony rushed in...
"Would you believe I got top marks for that?" Remus says.
"I would indeed," Sirius says. "This is literature, Remus."
At lunchtime they spread out an old fringed blanket over the floor despite the perfectly good dining room down the hall. Remus says he feels like picnics but he isn't smiling and he has said 61 words in the last hour. He can't eat his promised sandwich and sets it down wearily, he's so sad, and Sirius means to say precisely the right thing to make him smile but instead he eats the crusts of the leftover sandwich and draws patterns on the floor. He writes words. He writes Moony Moony Moony, hello Moony and hopes Remus can read upside down.
At two o'clock the room is packed with sunlight and two boys and five walls, one all of boxes. Sirius has brought too many and the empty ones sit inside each other like Russian dolls. In a former life they all held oranges but in their new life they hold things rather more precious than fruit, though he must say he likes the citrus smell. Now the room echoes. Remus sighs. When they Apparate to his new flat, Sirius says he'll help him get good and pissed tonight and Remus's mouth quirks a little, just a little, and he says all right then.
So soon there is just one box left and Sirius says, "Ready then?" and Remus says no, not quite.
"Not like that," Remus says. "We can't."
He says never leave without a journey. Apparation positively, absolutely will not do, and maybe a taxi ride won't either but you can't just disappear all at once. You understand, Padfoot. You just can't do that.
On the last trip from the house where Remus was born, in the last trip side by side in a taxi, Sirius gets it wrong: he reaches over and takes Remus's wrist, not his hand, but if you can make Remus Lupin smile it's really not so bad.