Mischief Managed ♦ Fic: another small piece of proof
Title: another small piece of proof
Author: forsanethaec
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,760
Prompt: #122
Warnings: angst; rating is for sensuality/non-sexual nudity
Summary: After Azkaban, it's not enough to have a life again; Sirius has also got to
learn to live it.
Author's Notes: I don't really have my timeline together canonically, but I hope this
makes sense. Title is from Jonathan Safran Foer. Thanks and love to L for the encouragement,
to M for the super great impromptu feedback and to my beta, the other M, ever my savior even
when she's gone all the way across the ocean. I miss you!
[0]
If Remus has a coping mechanism, it's tea. Endless cups of it, pushed across the table to Sirius,
the steam rising in curls. Sirius rotates his teacup a quarter turn by the handle and Remus lifts his
own halfway to his mouth and pauses, as though he's deep in thought, blows through pursed lips,
and Sirius watches him. His tea goes cold on the table. Remus pours it out and fills it again.
"My mother used to say there's nothing a cup of tea can't fix," he's saying, and Sirius thinks he
isn't wrong, only he's not sure if he has the stomach for tea yet, that's all.
[1]
He paces for hours, until Remus steers him gently into a chair, two hands heavy on his shoulders,
and kneels in front of him, looks intently into his eyes, not saying anything.
Sirius tries to steady himself. Remus' gaze is solid and deep and he could wrap himself up in it if
he wanted to, and he does want to, and so he does. The gratitude wells up softly and brims inside
him, a fragile meniscus trembling bright and emotional. He sighs. It would be something like a
drug if it weren't accompanied by such regret. But it's good to have someone here onto whom he
can project everything, all the apologies he's had a hold of for twelve years. Remus is the only
person really fit to receive them anyway.
Sirius has to hand it to him: he's handling this well, being saddled with a mad escaped convict
to care for (and an old friend, and one with whom the word love had been floated
every so often; they'd turned it over in their palms thoughtfully and grinned at one another). It's
strange that they should be thrust back together now and just be expected to function again, to
do anything. But Remus is doing an admirable job keeping both their heads above water, even as
Sirius weighs them down.
And Sirius feels like he's learning to breathe again - there is so much he would say if he could.
He looks at Remus and wants to give him everything, wants to give him an infinite amount of
time and all the words for love in every language. It doesn't seem like anything would be enough,
but he could try.
He forms an apology on the tip of his tongue - a simple one, because he doesn’t think he has the
vocabulary to make it longer: I'm so sorry. It's the worst thing he's ever tasted. He licks
his lips and keeps quiet, and thinks he's let Remus down.
"We all have things to make up for," Remus murmurs, maybe reading it in his face. Sirius thinks
it's a blessing not to have to speak sometimes. There's still that pain in his chest, though - a
bitter, desperate need to do something, something real, visible.
But he thinks he doesn't know how to fix things; he only really knows how to break them.
[2]
Sirius is trying to recount their history. It's easier now, with Remus here in front of him and
not just wispy and distant in his memory, his bad memories, addled ones. He's having a bit of
trouble with words, lately, so he takes solace in the idea of them. He looks at Remus and thinks
of things they've said to one another. There's been a range. Once he'd liked that about them,
their flaws, peaks and valleys and bursts of raw emotion, any emotion, but now it all seems so
imperfect. He tries to remember good times and finds he can only remember bad or what was
bad about the good.
He tries to tell Remus, in the kitchen, in the sun; he wants to say, the things they took,
Moony. But his voice is like sifting sand in his throat, falling away, unable to stay intact.
Remus is behind him, cutting his hair, so Sirius doesn't think he's noticed the struggle that has
come and gone, flickering, on his face.
After, the air is cool on the newly exposed side of his neck, and he remembers the last time
his hair was this short - sixth year. They'd taken a photo, everybody laughing and taking the
piss. He gets a flash of James' face and his chest cracks in on itself for a moment - but then,
unexpectedly, his memory shifts to Remus, the steadfast assertions of his hands on the shell of
the camera, the way the light shafted that day full of dust through the castle windows and made
the gold shimmer in his hair.
It might be the first time since he came back that he's managed to jump to something happy
without trying. Remus is the constant, the one thing he hasn't lost despite so many near misses.
He ghosts his fingers over the skin of his neck, feeling the cropped hair at the nape, and looks
over at Remus, who's dusting the trimmings off into the bin. Sirius doesn't quite have a grip
on why he thinks he's in danger of not having this now after so long, but he does know he'll
do anything to keep it, to make the two of them perfect, fantastic, the way they always tried to
be. And they might have been once, maybe just a few times, in glimpses. But Sirius had never
bothered to take note. He hopes it's not too late to start.
It frightens him a little, this nervous, frantic love, tripping over infinite half-formed prospects. He
touches Remus on the arm.
"Tell me what I can do," he rasps, relieved to find that the words keep their shape in the air
between the two of them. Remus looks a little startled, just for a moment, and then his face falls.
"You don't have to do anything," he says. He's almost grim, and Sirius falters. "I've told you, you
have my forgiveness. And I know I have yours. Can't that be enough?"
Sirius' hand drops to his side. "I don't… I don't know," he says. "I don't think so."
Remus shakes his head. He seems on the verge of continuing the conversation, the emotion
focusing in his face like a growing beam of light, but then Sirius blinks and the next thing he
knows Remus is exiting the kitchen with swift, unhappy steps.
He stares after him. He wishes he could prove it. Remus never would let him love him as much
as he wanted to.
[3]
Sirius finds him in the bath later, the room unlit and humid. Sirius is shaking slightly as he stops
in the doorway, looking at Remus' silhouette, fuzzy and wistful in the dark grey light.
"Remus?"
Remus looks up at him, and Sirius can just make out his face - for one moment it's lit with an
almost customary sort of recognition, wonderfully glad and familiar. But then it collapses into
exhaustion, and he looks away. Sirius knows he's not angry; he's only out of words.
"I don't know how else to tell you," Remus says finally. "We can move on, Sirius." He looks up
again. Sirius takes a step forward to see him more clearly; his face is imploring. "Can't we just do
that? Have a life again?"
Sirius toes off his shoes. He leans on the edge of the sink to pull off his socks; he tugs his shirt
over his head, unbuckles his belt, actually Remus' belt, Remus' things, all of them, and shucks his
trousers.
The water surges over the sides of the tub and spreads thinly to the doorjamb when he climbs in,
soaking his clothes where they lie discarded on the bathroom floor. He pulls his knees up to his
chest, folded into a high round corner in front of the taps.
Remus' face softens.
"Come here," he says, reaching out a hand.
So Sirius pushes forward, pivots and settles himself with his back against Remus' chest, the
warm water and low dark soothing the tension from him, making him feel like it could be his last
night on earth and he would be content. Remus' hands are flat and solid on his thin chest, like an
anchor, the blush of his breath close against Sirius' cheek. Sirius closes his eyes.
"I missed you," comes Remus' whisper. A pause. "And I miss how you were."
Sirius blinks and reaches up to hook his fingers onto the backs of Remus' hands, palms flat. He
wants to say, don't - wants to say, that's not fair. But he doesn't think he has the
right, and so he keeps quiet.
But Remus corrects himself anyway: "I just mean," he takes a quick breath that makes Sirius'
body rise and fall slightly, sending off waves, "that…you can live again. We can-it can just-"
he stops short and Sirius thinks he might be crying, but then he finishes, voice still steady, "be
life, it doesn't have to be about anything."
Sirius nestles further back and closes his eyes again. He tries to focus on the comforting slope of
Remus' thigh beneath his own, the fleeting rise of his knee, the bird-skull machinery of his wrist
beneath the side of Sirius' palm. He's trying not to think about his own misery. The one thing
Remus wants is the one thing he doesn't know how to give.
The water is cooling and Sirius stretches out a leg to turn on the hot tap with his toe.
Remus laughs. The sound is fairly quiet but it fills the room. Sirius feels it ripple through his
chest so happily he's not sure how to handle it.
"See," Remus says, "I remember that."
Sirius shifts to look back at him then, making the warming water slosh, his shoulders cradled in
Remus' arms at the new angle.
Remus lifts one hand and curls it around the back of Sirius' head and bends to kiss him, soft with
the steam from the water and asking for nothing. They've never really had a kiss like this before,
simple, silent, wholly frank, but somehow Sirius still recognizes them in it as plain as if it were
thirteen years earlier.
The water is spilling in earnest over the sides of the tub now; Sirius thinks it might flood the
whole house. He smiles against Remus' lips and breathes in the wet smell of him, his heart
pounding in his chest with desperate, hopeful adoration.
He puts his hand on the curve of Remus' collarbone where it rises into his throat, reassuring in its
humble solidity. He kisses back.
Author: forsanethaec
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,760
Prompt: #122
Warnings: angst; rating is for sensuality/non-sexual nudity
Summary: After Azkaban, it's not enough to have a life again; Sirius has also got to
learn to live it.
Author's Notes: I don't really have my timeline together canonically, but I hope this
makes sense. Title is from Jonathan Safran Foer. Thanks and love to L for the encouragement,
to M for the super great impromptu feedback and to my beta, the other M, ever my savior even
when she's gone all the way across the ocean. I miss you!
[0]
If Remus has a coping mechanism, it's tea. Endless cups of it, pushed across the table to Sirius,
the steam rising in curls. Sirius rotates his teacup a quarter turn by the handle and Remus lifts his
own halfway to his mouth and pauses, as though he's deep in thought, blows through pursed lips,
and Sirius watches him. His tea goes cold on the table. Remus pours it out and fills it again.
"My mother used to say there's nothing a cup of tea can't fix," he's saying, and Sirius thinks he
isn't wrong, only he's not sure if he has the stomach for tea yet, that's all.
[1]
He paces for hours, until Remus steers him gently into a chair, two hands heavy on his shoulders,
and kneels in front of him, looks intently into his eyes, not saying anything.
Sirius tries to steady himself. Remus' gaze is solid and deep and he could wrap himself up in it if
he wanted to, and he does want to, and so he does. The gratitude wells up softly and brims inside
him, a fragile meniscus trembling bright and emotional. He sighs. It would be something like a
drug if it weren't accompanied by such regret. But it's good to have someone here onto whom he
can project everything, all the apologies he's had a hold of for twelve years. Remus is the only
person really fit to receive them anyway.
Sirius has to hand it to him: he's handling this well, being saddled with a mad escaped convict
to care for (and an old friend, and one with whom the word love had been floated
every so often; they'd turned it over in their palms thoughtfully and grinned at one another). It's
strange that they should be thrust back together now and just be expected to function again, to
do anything. But Remus is doing an admirable job keeping both their heads above water, even as
Sirius weighs them down.
And Sirius feels like he's learning to breathe again - there is so much he would say if he could.
He looks at Remus and wants to give him everything, wants to give him an infinite amount of
time and all the words for love in every language. It doesn't seem like anything would be enough,
but he could try.
He forms an apology on the tip of his tongue - a simple one, because he doesn’t think he has the
vocabulary to make it longer: I'm so sorry. It's the worst thing he's ever tasted. He licks
his lips and keeps quiet, and thinks he's let Remus down.
"We all have things to make up for," Remus murmurs, maybe reading it in his face. Sirius thinks
it's a blessing not to have to speak sometimes. There's still that pain in his chest, though - a
bitter, desperate need to do something, something real, visible.
But he thinks he doesn't know how to fix things; he only really knows how to break them.
[2]
Sirius is trying to recount their history. It's easier now, with Remus here in front of him and
not just wispy and distant in his memory, his bad memories, addled ones. He's having a bit of
trouble with words, lately, so he takes solace in the idea of them. He looks at Remus and thinks
of things they've said to one another. There's been a range. Once he'd liked that about them,
their flaws, peaks and valleys and bursts of raw emotion, any emotion, but now it all seems so
imperfect. He tries to remember good times and finds he can only remember bad or what was
bad about the good.
He tries to tell Remus, in the kitchen, in the sun; he wants to say, the things they took,
Moony. But his voice is like sifting sand in his throat, falling away, unable to stay intact.
Remus is behind him, cutting his hair, so Sirius doesn't think he's noticed the struggle that has
come and gone, flickering, on his face.
After, the air is cool on the newly exposed side of his neck, and he remembers the last time
his hair was this short - sixth year. They'd taken a photo, everybody laughing and taking the
piss. He gets a flash of James' face and his chest cracks in on itself for a moment - but then,
unexpectedly, his memory shifts to Remus, the steadfast assertions of his hands on the shell of
the camera, the way the light shafted that day full of dust through the castle windows and made
the gold shimmer in his hair.
It might be the first time since he came back that he's managed to jump to something happy
without trying. Remus is the constant, the one thing he hasn't lost despite so many near misses.
He ghosts his fingers over the skin of his neck, feeling the cropped hair at the nape, and looks
over at Remus, who's dusting the trimmings off into the bin. Sirius doesn't quite have a grip
on why he thinks he's in danger of not having this now after so long, but he does know he'll
do anything to keep it, to make the two of them perfect, fantastic, the way they always tried to
be. And they might have been once, maybe just a few times, in glimpses. But Sirius had never
bothered to take note. He hopes it's not too late to start.
It frightens him a little, this nervous, frantic love, tripping over infinite half-formed prospects. He
touches Remus on the arm.
"Tell me what I can do," he rasps, relieved to find that the words keep their shape in the air
between the two of them. Remus looks a little startled, just for a moment, and then his face falls.
"You don't have to do anything," he says. He's almost grim, and Sirius falters. "I've told you, you
have my forgiveness. And I know I have yours. Can't that be enough?"
Sirius' hand drops to his side. "I don't… I don't know," he says. "I don't think so."
Remus shakes his head. He seems on the verge of continuing the conversation, the emotion
focusing in his face like a growing beam of light, but then Sirius blinks and the next thing he
knows Remus is exiting the kitchen with swift, unhappy steps.
He stares after him. He wishes he could prove it. Remus never would let him love him as much
as he wanted to.
[3]
Sirius finds him in the bath later, the room unlit and humid. Sirius is shaking slightly as he stops
in the doorway, looking at Remus' silhouette, fuzzy and wistful in the dark grey light.
"Remus?"
Remus looks up at him, and Sirius can just make out his face - for one moment it's lit with an
almost customary sort of recognition, wonderfully glad and familiar. But then it collapses into
exhaustion, and he looks away. Sirius knows he's not angry; he's only out of words.
"I don't know how else to tell you," Remus says finally. "We can move on, Sirius." He looks up
again. Sirius takes a step forward to see him more clearly; his face is imploring. "Can't we just do
that? Have a life again?"
Sirius toes off his shoes. He leans on the edge of the sink to pull off his socks; he tugs his shirt
over his head, unbuckles his belt, actually Remus' belt, Remus' things, all of them, and shucks his
trousers.
The water surges over the sides of the tub and spreads thinly to the doorjamb when he climbs in,
soaking his clothes where they lie discarded on the bathroom floor. He pulls his knees up to his
chest, folded into a high round corner in front of the taps.
Remus' face softens.
"Come here," he says, reaching out a hand.
So Sirius pushes forward, pivots and settles himself with his back against Remus' chest, the
warm water and low dark soothing the tension from him, making him feel like it could be his last
night on earth and he would be content. Remus' hands are flat and solid on his thin chest, like an
anchor, the blush of his breath close against Sirius' cheek. Sirius closes his eyes.
"I missed you," comes Remus' whisper. A pause. "And I miss how you were."
Sirius blinks and reaches up to hook his fingers onto the backs of Remus' hands, palms flat. He
wants to say, don't - wants to say, that's not fair. But he doesn't think he has the
right, and so he keeps quiet.
But Remus corrects himself anyway: "I just mean," he takes a quick breath that makes Sirius'
body rise and fall slightly, sending off waves, "that…you can live again. We can-it can just-"
he stops short and Sirius thinks he might be crying, but then he finishes, voice still steady, "be
life, it doesn't have to be about anything."
Sirius nestles further back and closes his eyes again. He tries to focus on the comforting slope of
Remus' thigh beneath his own, the fleeting rise of his knee, the bird-skull machinery of his wrist
beneath the side of Sirius' palm. He's trying not to think about his own misery. The one thing
Remus wants is the one thing he doesn't know how to give.
The water is cooling and Sirius stretches out a leg to turn on the hot tap with his toe.
Remus laughs. The sound is fairly quiet but it fills the room. Sirius feels it ripple through his
chest so happily he's not sure how to handle it.
"See," Remus says, "I remember that."
Sirius shifts to look back at him then, making the warming water slosh, his shoulders cradled in
Remus' arms at the new angle.
Remus lifts one hand and curls it around the back of Sirius' head and bends to kiss him, soft with
the steam from the water and asking for nothing. They've never really had a kiss like this before,
simple, silent, wholly frank, but somehow Sirius still recognizes them in it as plain as if it were
thirteen years earlier.
The water is spilling in earnest over the sides of the tub now; Sirius thinks it might flood the
whole house. He smiles against Remus' lips and breathes in the wet smell of him, his heart
pounding in his chest with desperate, hopeful adoration.
He puts his hand on the curve of Remus' collarbone where it rises into his throat, reassuring in its
humble solidity. He kisses back.