Fic: Noël Nouvelet for bearshorty
Title: Noël Nouvelet
Author/Artist: blanketdinstars
Recipient: bearshorty
Rating: G
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *churches but no religion*
Word count: 3,005
Summary: There are some things that stand the test of time.
Notes: It was such a joy to write a hopeful Remus, so thank you for the wonderful prompts! And thank you to my beta Audrey as well, without whom I would be wallowing.
December 25, 1992
If only, Remus thinks, they had gone to Paris. He’s picked up enough French to get by in the interim of-what is it now, thirteen years? At the very least he’d be able to read the street signs. He shakes his head and smiles to himself, fully aware that he looks like a lunatic. Unfortunately for him, in a fit of unconventionality and a whispered hint from his father, James had settled on Florence, and Remus still does not speak a single word of Italian.
He wonders if there is an alley nearby where he can pull out his wand and at least check that he’s going in the right direction. All around him, Muggles bustle to and fro, and the streets somehow manage to look festive even without any snow. He gets the feeling that nobody would notice if he did cast a furtive Point Me right here. Almost against his will, however, he is swept along with the crowd, going who knows where. It’s the same energy that caught him up the last time he was here, made him want to stay.
Perhaps that was the reason James insisted on it-perhaps he knew, somehow, that it would feel like this. What better way to celebrate newfound independence than to take your girlfriend to one of the most romantic cities in Europe, and forget the war entirely, dragging all your friends behind you? Remus smiles more widely, tucking his chin into his collar. After all, it worked.
A tap on his shoulder make Remus look around. A woman with cold-flushed cheeks smiles back. “You look a little lost,” she says with a slight Italian lilt to the words.
“I, er-I am a bit, yes,” Remus admits, surprised at being addressed by a stranger, and even more taken aback when she leans in close to his face.
But it’s only to say softly in his ear, “There’s a magical bar a few streets over. I can show you if you like.”
Remus smiles to show his gratitude, but shakes his head. “I’m actually looking for someplace specific,” he says.
“Oh?” She grins, showing dimples and sharp teeth. “Where?”
“Well-that’s why I’m lost,” he confesses. The crush of people around them buffets him, and he’s grateful there’s no snow or ice to make him lose his footing. “It’s been a while, and I’m not quite sure. It’s a church.”
The witch blinks at him. “This is Firenze,” she tells him. “We have a lot of those.”
“I know,” Remus says, laughing at himself because it’s clear she wants to do the same. “I think it’s near-er-il maniscolca?”
“Il maniscalco,” she chuckles, “you mean the bar? That’s the one I was going to show you.” She shakes her head. “You must have stayed away for a long time.” Then, suddenly, but with a bright expression in her eyes, she holds out her arm. “Come. We will find it.”
Which is how he learns that she is fond of whiskey, that she spent half her childhood in Glasgow, and that her name is Palmira.
---
Remus stops, blinking through flurries of snow. “Here,” he says; his teeth chatter slightly.
“What?” Sirius stops a few feet ahead and turns around. “Here?” he repeats. “Moony, it’s-”
“Here,” Remus insists, staring at the façade, depicting several saints and what appears to be an occamy twining around the figures. He doesn’t wait for Sirius, but enters the tiny chapel.
The ceiling inside sweeps upward to shadowy heights, far taller than the roof appeared outside. Candles float above the pews, but their light does not illuminate the very top-instead it is the altarpiece that glows a dazzling gold.
“This is a wizarding church,” Sirius murmurs, coming in behind him.
“You think?” Remus says snidely to hide the way he is watching Sirius stare up at the distant and darkened ceiling, and the way he feels breathless at the wonder in Sirius’s eyes.
But Sirius catches him watching and smiles slightly, little more than a twitch of his lips. “Must be Unplottable,” he says. “I barely even noticed it until you said you wanted to go in.”
“Come on,” Remus says, and heads for the back row of pews. He slides onto the bench, which is smooth, the wood polished to a shine beneath his fingertips when he runs his hand over the back of the pew in front. He breathes in. It smells like incense.
Sirius follows him. In the back they are as much in shadow as the peak of the ceiling, hidden from anyone who is not looking for them, though all the other visitors seem lost in their own thoughts and prayers, facing forward, heads bowed. Clearly taking full advantage of the situation, Sirius sits so close that their legs press together. The snow is melting in his hair, his scarf, his eyelashes.
---
“So,” Palmira says, her breath making clouds in the air, “when were you last here? The church may be gone by now. We have had a lot of trouble,” she tells him, “with disillusioned buildings. Corners poke out of the spells sometimes and the Muggles make a fuss.”
“It was still standing in ’79,” Remus says.
“Was it,” she remarks. Her voice is withdrawn, and there is a moment where her gaze skitters between the street and Remus’s face. He remembers suddenly that England was not alone in facing the war, and all at once he knows what she will ask before she speaks. “What brought you here?”
He shrugs, and because their elbows are looped together, it nudges her arm as well. “Business,” he says, “nothing too important.” A long, cold posting outside the city’s wizarding government center.
Palmira lets it pass. “I’m sorry. This city shouldn’t be experienced alone. It’s much better in company.”
“As a matter of fact,” Remus says before he can help himself, “I did have company. I was with-a friend.”
“What do you do?”
The question is nothing more than courtesy, but Remus looks down. “Nothing,” he says, “now.” There is silence between them. Palmira’s boots hit the old cobbled sidewalk and echo off the old stones. Above, clouds begin to blanket the stars. “But,” he says, and forces breath in and out of his lungs. “I’ve made it back at last. And,” he adds, smiling, “I have company again.”
Her laughter is a peal of winter bells: light, twinkling, only a little too understanding.
---
“Did you really forget all of the Italian?” Remus asks softly. “Other than the vulgar stuff,” he adds, because Sirius shows signs of grinning wickedly.
“If you don't understand it, I can just curse at you and you can pretend it's romantic,” Sirius offers. “I know you like it.”
It ought to be embarrassing, Remus is sure, that Sirius can tell Remus wants to hear him speak another language, that he finds it immensely attractive-that apparently he is depraved not only on the full moon but every other night as well, given this information. But to his own surprise it just makes him feel warm inside. “Not in a church,” he laughs.
“We're already damned, what difference does it make?”
And Remus knows before he moves that Sirius is going to lean in and kiss him, here, in the middle of this strange city, and closes his eyes out of instinct. There are lips on his own a moment later.
“Your nose is cold,” Remus says when they separate.
Sirius huffs. “That's all you can say? Not one word about my spectacular kissing skills?” And he leans in again but only to press his nose, like ice, to Remus's cheek, to his neck, making him squirm. “I'll teach you to-”
“Stop,” Remus gasps, “stop, come on-come here-” and he takes Sirius's face in his hands and kisses him back without thinking about it. He is surprised at himself and frightened, even, from a lifetime of trimming himself close to the quick, but he kisses Sirius all the same, and his heart pounds with it.
Trailing his fingers along Remus's jaw, Sirius smiles against his mouth. “Is anyone looking?”
“What?” Remus can't be bothered to turn his head, certain that they are out of sight, but he finds it odd enough to have Sirius asking the question that pulls back a fraction of an inch. “Since when do you give a damn?”
“I want them to see,” Sirius whispers, and leans in again to bite Remus's lip, hard.
“Merlin!” Remus yelps, a tiny, giddy gasp. “We're in a church!”
“You said that. So?”
“So-so there are rules, and-” But mortified as he is, Remus has to laugh.
The sound is drowned out by a sudden surge of music, loud enough that Sirius jumps on the bench beside him. Then he laughs, too, warm and close in Remus's ear. “They're serenading us, eh?”
Remus feels the nagging urge that he ought to comment on Sirius jumping at the noise, ought to make a joke-an urge born out of prolonged contact with idiot friends who have no sense of timing or tact-but something stops him, and he's silent. The moment passes, and the joke withers to nothingness.
In the space that it leaves behind, the music swells. There must be a choir behind the ornate latticework of the full-length chancel screen; in trying to tell for sure, Remus ends up staring at the wood, a dark color burnished to a shine-no, wait. It's actually glowing, faintly yet surely in the dim light, pale in comparison to the altar but unmistakable. He nudges Sirius. “Look-”
“Listen,” Sirius says in a hushed voice, “just listen-” And then he rests his head on Remus's shoulder, half leaning on him, half holding him. His body is warm and solid and wonderfully near.
Remus does as he's told and leans against Sirius as well so that they are holding each other up, like a trinity, a church in the truest sense of the word. As soon as he thinks it he wants to exclaim it, because all at once his heart feels so full that he thinks his skin can barely contain it. But he settles for simply turning his head and kissing Sirius on his snow-damp hair.
---
“What,” Palmira says, “this old place?”
Remus shrugs. “I didn’t come here on purpose,” he explains She raises her eyebrows. “I just-saw it.”
“Nice choice of venue,” she remarks dryly.
“That's what he said then, too,” Remus says, smiling in spite of himself.
Palmira nods. As they step into the church, she is watching him closely. “This is that mysterious friend you mentioned.” It isn't quite a question.
Remus doesn't reply, but neither does he deny it. He's lost in the yawning caverns of the ceiling, lit by a soft golden glow-as if no time has passed at all, his breath stolen.
“You must have cared for him a lot, to look like that,” Palmira says.
“It's beautiful in here,” Remus tells her. “This is how I look when I see beautiful things.”
“But you look sad,” she says, sounding rather melancholy herself.
“Do I?” Remus frowns. He doesn't feel sad. And yet-perhaps there is something there, buried deeper. A twinge. He can almost hear the music again. Barely conscious of what he's doing, he walks forward. When he stops, he is at the end of a pew, the last one, entirely in shadow but for the distant light of the chancel and the small candle floating in the air above their heads.
Palmira has followed him, and now she frowns. “Quite sad,” she insists. “What happened to make you-?” Then she flushes. “Of course it's none of my business,” she says. “I just thought. Well.”
“It's all right,” Remus tells her. He can see in her eyes that she is only sad herself, perhaps because of the ring, visible now that they are inside, which she wears half-hidden beneath her long sleeves and turns around and around without appearing to think about it.
Apparently encouraged, Palmira gives him a small smile. “I’m glad.”
---
The music makes a golden light about the chancel that somehow warms Remus to the tips of his fingers and toes. The song grows, and crescendos, and fills the church-all the spires, the arching vaults, and it doesn't do away with the darkness but instead makes it lovely. Something in Remus aches for it.
And then the song is over. A sweeter, softer one begins. Sirius hums along as he presses a kiss to Remus's neck. “You,” he says, “have a wonderful taste in religious venues.”
“Better than the pub, then?”
“Entirely.” Sirius smiles. “The only thing I love more than burning my liver is ensuring that my soul will burn in hell for all eternity.” He tweaks Remus's nose. “And dragging yours down with me, of course.”
“Of course,” Remus echoes. The music threads the space between them and suddenly he is happier than he's been in months. “Sirius,” he says, “let's stay here.”
“Sure,” Sirius says. “It's warmer in here.” He leans in closer to prove his point.
“No,” Remus says, “I mean let's just stay here. I don't want to go back home.” Back to the flat with its broken tap and thin walls. Back to London with its month-long jobs and frightened stares. Back to England-back to the war. He takes Sirius's hand. “Can we stay?”
Sirius gives him a long, measured look, apparently gauging his earnestness. “Prongs would fall in a puddle and drown,” he says at last, looking down, playing with Remus's fingers. “And he'd drive Pete up the wall, and poor Wormy would kill him in his sleep.”
“But,” Remus says, grasping for what he knows are senseless words, “we'd be happy here.” We’d be safe.
“Aren't you happy at home?”
“I-I am,” Remus says, because he is, and because he hates to see Sirius look suddenly unsure, as if he has just lost his footing at the edge of a cliff. “I am,” he repeats, tries to make it stronger.
Sirius looks away again. “But.”
Remus squirms beneath his gaze, but of course can't keep silent. Where Sirius is concerned he's always been too much at the heart of things, and too quickly. “But,” he says, feeling chained to the word. “But I want to do other things.”
There's something a little too knowing in the way Sirius looks at him now, and it's Remus's turn to blink down and away. He hears, quite clearly and yet so softly that it could almost be his imagination, a sigh. “I know,” Sirius says, tender, gentle, kind. “I'm tired of fighting too.”
It seems almost impossible that these words, which solve nothing, make it all right again. As if the cracks have smoothed over and the world is as pure and white everywhere as it is in the snow-blanketed street outside. Remus feels again that inexpressible swelling of his heart-at the thought that Sirius will be there with him, that they will weather this together, that in the long dark of this winter they will be able to hold each other. All he says is, “Well. All right.”
It's enough. Sirius doesn't smile, doesn't even kiss him. But he runs his fingers over Remus's knuckles and hooks their feet together at the ankle. Between their bodies, there is warmth.
---
With cold-tipped fingers, Remus reaches out and grasps the back of the pew. The wood is worn beneath his palm-the grain smooth, warm to the touch. Standing where he is, he would be looking down the collar of anyone sitting there. For a moment, in the half-light, he imagines he can see two heads bowed close together, one dark-haired, one lighter, close enough to touch-but not quite.
And it is only a trick of the light, helped along by a faint and abstract yearning. For what, Remus wonders? Love, hope, the past? He clutches the pew and feels the weight of the years slip from him, absorbed into the wood by whatever golden thread has tethered him to this spot for all this time. And isn’t it strange, he thinks, that he has come back here again, when so much has changed? The heart that beats in his chest is a different one entirely.
Perhaps for that reason, though he had expected to feel anger here-on this journey driven by some masochistic part of himself that longs for he knows not what-and loss, and an ache deeper than his bones, he discovers that the only thing inside of him is a curious glimmering peace. More than anything he desires to be warm. And it comes to him that his heart may not be so utterly changed after all.
Remus runs his hand over the wood and hears again an echo of that music. “Would you mind taking me to that bar now?” he asks, and turns to look at Palmira. He doesn’t need to tear his eyes away: they lift easily, freed of the burden of looking backwards.
She regards him uncertainly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Remus says. “Honestly,” he adds when she still looks unconvinced. “I’d love to see more of the city. Last time-well-I had other things on my mind.” He smiles. “At least let me buy you a drink in thanks, for showing me the way.”
At that, she grins back. “Don’t you think that’s moving a bit fast?” But she offers him her arm again.
---
“Promise me, though,”-Remus blinks over the luminous chancel, the shadowed heights of the ceiling, the worn and weathered walls-“that we’ll come back when it’s over.” His gaze settles on Sirius: half his face alive with the candlelight, half slipping into the flickering darkness. “Someday, please, let’s come here again.”
---
The choir sings farewell. Remus steps out into the clear, cold night, and sets off down the street with Palmira as, softly, flakes of snow begin to fall.
Author/Artist: blanketdinstars
Recipient: bearshorty
Rating: G
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *churches but no religion*
Word count: 3,005
Summary: There are some things that stand the test of time.
Notes: It was such a joy to write a hopeful Remus, so thank you for the wonderful prompts! And thank you to my beta Audrey as well, without whom I would be wallowing.
December 25, 1992
If only, Remus thinks, they had gone to Paris. He’s picked up enough French to get by in the interim of-what is it now, thirteen years? At the very least he’d be able to read the street signs. He shakes his head and smiles to himself, fully aware that he looks like a lunatic. Unfortunately for him, in a fit of unconventionality and a whispered hint from his father, James had settled on Florence, and Remus still does not speak a single word of Italian.
He wonders if there is an alley nearby where he can pull out his wand and at least check that he’s going in the right direction. All around him, Muggles bustle to and fro, and the streets somehow manage to look festive even without any snow. He gets the feeling that nobody would notice if he did cast a furtive Point Me right here. Almost against his will, however, he is swept along with the crowd, going who knows where. It’s the same energy that caught him up the last time he was here, made him want to stay.
Perhaps that was the reason James insisted on it-perhaps he knew, somehow, that it would feel like this. What better way to celebrate newfound independence than to take your girlfriend to one of the most romantic cities in Europe, and forget the war entirely, dragging all your friends behind you? Remus smiles more widely, tucking his chin into his collar. After all, it worked.
A tap on his shoulder make Remus look around. A woman with cold-flushed cheeks smiles back. “You look a little lost,” she says with a slight Italian lilt to the words.
“I, er-I am a bit, yes,” Remus admits, surprised at being addressed by a stranger, and even more taken aback when she leans in close to his face.
But it’s only to say softly in his ear, “There’s a magical bar a few streets over. I can show you if you like.”
Remus smiles to show his gratitude, but shakes his head. “I’m actually looking for someplace specific,” he says.
“Oh?” She grins, showing dimples and sharp teeth. “Where?”
“Well-that’s why I’m lost,” he confesses. The crush of people around them buffets him, and he’s grateful there’s no snow or ice to make him lose his footing. “It’s been a while, and I’m not quite sure. It’s a church.”
The witch blinks at him. “This is Firenze,” she tells him. “We have a lot of those.”
“I know,” Remus says, laughing at himself because it’s clear she wants to do the same. “I think it’s near-er-il maniscolca?”
“Il maniscalco,” she chuckles, “you mean the bar? That’s the one I was going to show you.” She shakes her head. “You must have stayed away for a long time.” Then, suddenly, but with a bright expression in her eyes, she holds out her arm. “Come. We will find it.”
Which is how he learns that she is fond of whiskey, that she spent half her childhood in Glasgow, and that her name is Palmira.
---
Remus stops, blinking through flurries of snow. “Here,” he says; his teeth chatter slightly.
“What?” Sirius stops a few feet ahead and turns around. “Here?” he repeats. “Moony, it’s-”
“Here,” Remus insists, staring at the façade, depicting several saints and what appears to be an occamy twining around the figures. He doesn’t wait for Sirius, but enters the tiny chapel.
The ceiling inside sweeps upward to shadowy heights, far taller than the roof appeared outside. Candles float above the pews, but their light does not illuminate the very top-instead it is the altarpiece that glows a dazzling gold.
“This is a wizarding church,” Sirius murmurs, coming in behind him.
“You think?” Remus says snidely to hide the way he is watching Sirius stare up at the distant and darkened ceiling, and the way he feels breathless at the wonder in Sirius’s eyes.
But Sirius catches him watching and smiles slightly, little more than a twitch of his lips. “Must be Unplottable,” he says. “I barely even noticed it until you said you wanted to go in.”
“Come on,” Remus says, and heads for the back row of pews. He slides onto the bench, which is smooth, the wood polished to a shine beneath his fingertips when he runs his hand over the back of the pew in front. He breathes in. It smells like incense.
Sirius follows him. In the back they are as much in shadow as the peak of the ceiling, hidden from anyone who is not looking for them, though all the other visitors seem lost in their own thoughts and prayers, facing forward, heads bowed. Clearly taking full advantage of the situation, Sirius sits so close that their legs press together. The snow is melting in his hair, his scarf, his eyelashes.
---
“So,” Palmira says, her breath making clouds in the air, “when were you last here? The church may be gone by now. We have had a lot of trouble,” she tells him, “with disillusioned buildings. Corners poke out of the spells sometimes and the Muggles make a fuss.”
“It was still standing in ’79,” Remus says.
“Was it,” she remarks. Her voice is withdrawn, and there is a moment where her gaze skitters between the street and Remus’s face. He remembers suddenly that England was not alone in facing the war, and all at once he knows what she will ask before she speaks. “What brought you here?”
He shrugs, and because their elbows are looped together, it nudges her arm as well. “Business,” he says, “nothing too important.” A long, cold posting outside the city’s wizarding government center.
Palmira lets it pass. “I’m sorry. This city shouldn’t be experienced alone. It’s much better in company.”
“As a matter of fact,” Remus says before he can help himself, “I did have company. I was with-a friend.”
“What do you do?”
The question is nothing more than courtesy, but Remus looks down. “Nothing,” he says, “now.” There is silence between them. Palmira’s boots hit the old cobbled sidewalk and echo off the old stones. Above, clouds begin to blanket the stars. “But,” he says, and forces breath in and out of his lungs. “I’ve made it back at last. And,” he adds, smiling, “I have company again.”
Her laughter is a peal of winter bells: light, twinkling, only a little too understanding.
---
“Did you really forget all of the Italian?” Remus asks softly. “Other than the vulgar stuff,” he adds, because Sirius shows signs of grinning wickedly.
“If you don't understand it, I can just curse at you and you can pretend it's romantic,” Sirius offers. “I know you like it.”
It ought to be embarrassing, Remus is sure, that Sirius can tell Remus wants to hear him speak another language, that he finds it immensely attractive-that apparently he is depraved not only on the full moon but every other night as well, given this information. But to his own surprise it just makes him feel warm inside. “Not in a church,” he laughs.
“We're already damned, what difference does it make?”
And Remus knows before he moves that Sirius is going to lean in and kiss him, here, in the middle of this strange city, and closes his eyes out of instinct. There are lips on his own a moment later.
“Your nose is cold,” Remus says when they separate.
Sirius huffs. “That's all you can say? Not one word about my spectacular kissing skills?” And he leans in again but only to press his nose, like ice, to Remus's cheek, to his neck, making him squirm. “I'll teach you to-”
“Stop,” Remus gasps, “stop, come on-come here-” and he takes Sirius's face in his hands and kisses him back without thinking about it. He is surprised at himself and frightened, even, from a lifetime of trimming himself close to the quick, but he kisses Sirius all the same, and his heart pounds with it.
Trailing his fingers along Remus's jaw, Sirius smiles against his mouth. “Is anyone looking?”
“What?” Remus can't be bothered to turn his head, certain that they are out of sight, but he finds it odd enough to have Sirius asking the question that pulls back a fraction of an inch. “Since when do you give a damn?”
“I want them to see,” Sirius whispers, and leans in again to bite Remus's lip, hard.
“Merlin!” Remus yelps, a tiny, giddy gasp. “We're in a church!”
“You said that. So?”
“So-so there are rules, and-” But mortified as he is, Remus has to laugh.
The sound is drowned out by a sudden surge of music, loud enough that Sirius jumps on the bench beside him. Then he laughs, too, warm and close in Remus's ear. “They're serenading us, eh?”
Remus feels the nagging urge that he ought to comment on Sirius jumping at the noise, ought to make a joke-an urge born out of prolonged contact with idiot friends who have no sense of timing or tact-but something stops him, and he's silent. The moment passes, and the joke withers to nothingness.
In the space that it leaves behind, the music swells. There must be a choir behind the ornate latticework of the full-length chancel screen; in trying to tell for sure, Remus ends up staring at the wood, a dark color burnished to a shine-no, wait. It's actually glowing, faintly yet surely in the dim light, pale in comparison to the altar but unmistakable. He nudges Sirius. “Look-”
“Listen,” Sirius says in a hushed voice, “just listen-” And then he rests his head on Remus's shoulder, half leaning on him, half holding him. His body is warm and solid and wonderfully near.
Remus does as he's told and leans against Sirius as well so that they are holding each other up, like a trinity, a church in the truest sense of the word. As soon as he thinks it he wants to exclaim it, because all at once his heart feels so full that he thinks his skin can barely contain it. But he settles for simply turning his head and kissing Sirius on his snow-damp hair.
---
“What,” Palmira says, “this old place?”
Remus shrugs. “I didn’t come here on purpose,” he explains She raises her eyebrows. “I just-saw it.”
“Nice choice of venue,” she remarks dryly.
“That's what he said then, too,” Remus says, smiling in spite of himself.
Palmira nods. As they step into the church, she is watching him closely. “This is that mysterious friend you mentioned.” It isn't quite a question.
Remus doesn't reply, but neither does he deny it. He's lost in the yawning caverns of the ceiling, lit by a soft golden glow-as if no time has passed at all, his breath stolen.
“You must have cared for him a lot, to look like that,” Palmira says.
“It's beautiful in here,” Remus tells her. “This is how I look when I see beautiful things.”
“But you look sad,” she says, sounding rather melancholy herself.
“Do I?” Remus frowns. He doesn't feel sad. And yet-perhaps there is something there, buried deeper. A twinge. He can almost hear the music again. Barely conscious of what he's doing, he walks forward. When he stops, he is at the end of a pew, the last one, entirely in shadow but for the distant light of the chancel and the small candle floating in the air above their heads.
Palmira has followed him, and now she frowns. “Quite sad,” she insists. “What happened to make you-?” Then she flushes. “Of course it's none of my business,” she says. “I just thought. Well.”
“It's all right,” Remus tells her. He can see in her eyes that she is only sad herself, perhaps because of the ring, visible now that they are inside, which she wears half-hidden beneath her long sleeves and turns around and around without appearing to think about it.
Apparently encouraged, Palmira gives him a small smile. “I’m glad.”
---
The music makes a golden light about the chancel that somehow warms Remus to the tips of his fingers and toes. The song grows, and crescendos, and fills the church-all the spires, the arching vaults, and it doesn't do away with the darkness but instead makes it lovely. Something in Remus aches for it.
And then the song is over. A sweeter, softer one begins. Sirius hums along as he presses a kiss to Remus's neck. “You,” he says, “have a wonderful taste in religious venues.”
“Better than the pub, then?”
“Entirely.” Sirius smiles. “The only thing I love more than burning my liver is ensuring that my soul will burn in hell for all eternity.” He tweaks Remus's nose. “And dragging yours down with me, of course.”
“Of course,” Remus echoes. The music threads the space between them and suddenly he is happier than he's been in months. “Sirius,” he says, “let's stay here.”
“Sure,” Sirius says. “It's warmer in here.” He leans in closer to prove his point.
“No,” Remus says, “I mean let's just stay here. I don't want to go back home.” Back to the flat with its broken tap and thin walls. Back to London with its month-long jobs and frightened stares. Back to England-back to the war. He takes Sirius's hand. “Can we stay?”
Sirius gives him a long, measured look, apparently gauging his earnestness. “Prongs would fall in a puddle and drown,” he says at last, looking down, playing with Remus's fingers. “And he'd drive Pete up the wall, and poor Wormy would kill him in his sleep.”
“But,” Remus says, grasping for what he knows are senseless words, “we'd be happy here.” We’d be safe.
“Aren't you happy at home?”
“I-I am,” Remus says, because he is, and because he hates to see Sirius look suddenly unsure, as if he has just lost his footing at the edge of a cliff. “I am,” he repeats, tries to make it stronger.
Sirius looks away again. “But.”
Remus squirms beneath his gaze, but of course can't keep silent. Where Sirius is concerned he's always been too much at the heart of things, and too quickly. “But,” he says, feeling chained to the word. “But I want to do other things.”
There's something a little too knowing in the way Sirius looks at him now, and it's Remus's turn to blink down and away. He hears, quite clearly and yet so softly that it could almost be his imagination, a sigh. “I know,” Sirius says, tender, gentle, kind. “I'm tired of fighting too.”
It seems almost impossible that these words, which solve nothing, make it all right again. As if the cracks have smoothed over and the world is as pure and white everywhere as it is in the snow-blanketed street outside. Remus feels again that inexpressible swelling of his heart-at the thought that Sirius will be there with him, that they will weather this together, that in the long dark of this winter they will be able to hold each other. All he says is, “Well. All right.”
It's enough. Sirius doesn't smile, doesn't even kiss him. But he runs his fingers over Remus's knuckles and hooks their feet together at the ankle. Between their bodies, there is warmth.
---
With cold-tipped fingers, Remus reaches out and grasps the back of the pew. The wood is worn beneath his palm-the grain smooth, warm to the touch. Standing where he is, he would be looking down the collar of anyone sitting there. For a moment, in the half-light, he imagines he can see two heads bowed close together, one dark-haired, one lighter, close enough to touch-but not quite.
And it is only a trick of the light, helped along by a faint and abstract yearning. For what, Remus wonders? Love, hope, the past? He clutches the pew and feels the weight of the years slip from him, absorbed into the wood by whatever golden thread has tethered him to this spot for all this time. And isn’t it strange, he thinks, that he has come back here again, when so much has changed? The heart that beats in his chest is a different one entirely.
Perhaps for that reason, though he had expected to feel anger here-on this journey driven by some masochistic part of himself that longs for he knows not what-and loss, and an ache deeper than his bones, he discovers that the only thing inside of him is a curious glimmering peace. More than anything he desires to be warm. And it comes to him that his heart may not be so utterly changed after all.
Remus runs his hand over the wood and hears again an echo of that music. “Would you mind taking me to that bar now?” he asks, and turns to look at Palmira. He doesn’t need to tear his eyes away: they lift easily, freed of the burden of looking backwards.
She regards him uncertainly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Remus says. “Honestly,” he adds when she still looks unconvinced. “I’d love to see more of the city. Last time-well-I had other things on my mind.” He smiles. “At least let me buy you a drink in thanks, for showing me the way.”
At that, she grins back. “Don’t you think that’s moving a bit fast?” But she offers him her arm again.
---
“Promise me, though,”-Remus blinks over the luminous chancel, the shadowed heights of the ceiling, the worn and weathered walls-“that we’ll come back when it’s over.” His gaze settles on Sirius: half his face alive with the candlelight, half slipping into the flickering darkness. “Someday, please, let’s come here again.”
---
The choir sings farewell. Remus steps out into the clear, cold night, and sets off down the street with Palmira as, softly, flakes of snow begin to fall.