Fic: A Peripheral Vision for coldneedles
Michaelmas Term - 1896
He makes his first mistake in allowing himself to fall for Sirius Black.
Remus knows that there are far too many risks involved when it comes to lingering touches, secret smiles and the smoke of shared cigarettes on a cold October`s day. Everywhere they go, he can feel the eyes of strangers boring holes into the spaces between them, following them under every arch and spire, through every courtyard and gate of the university.
Remus also knows that they exist only in the periphery of the real world. It is all too clear they are confined to the gaps between the stories that matter, hidden between the words black and bold enough to make the headline news. He has spent years learning to walk between the lines, and therefore he doesn’t understand Sirius’ brash confidence and carefree smiles, doesn’t understand how Sirius’ eyes shine with laughter when Remus’ body is thin and sparse against his own. His hands are cold against the forbidden warmth, and when Sirius bends down to whisper in his ear, all Remus can hear is the sound of imaginary footfalls echoing close behind them on the cobblestone walks.
“Stop your worrying, Lupin.” Sirius teases, arm slung casually over his shoulders. “We’re perfectly upstanding citizens of the law. We’re no more criminals than the Dean himself.”
Not yet, anyway, thinks Remus, but he doesn’t argue. Unlike Sirius, his actions are not backed by the bank, nor does he have the sharp cheekbones and pale skin to feign high society. It is in his best interests to keep his head down and his eyes low, especially when he has more than one secret to keep.
At first he tries to refuse Sirius’ advances, knowing it can only end in disaster for the both of them, mouthing please don’t and not here under street-lights and shadows, in the quiet secret spaces of the university. But there is only so long he can resist the boy’s black hair and smirking red lips. He soon finds himself addicted to the sight and smell and touch of Sirius, blood thrumming for a sense of danger more bright and alive than his own. Their encounters leave Remus nervous and on edge, but he hides his trembling fingers in his trouser pockets, and always returns to meet Sirius again the following day.
Often, he has trouble concentrating in lectures, too tightly wound to pay attention to his texts. Far from listening to myths about murder, repentance and madness sent down from the gods, Remus is only aware of the constant ticking of the clock. The sound, magnified in Remus’ anxiety, is like a mechanical heartbeat - although perhaps too steady and predictable to be his own.
“Mr. Black? The speech at the bottom of the page, if you will, ” the professor calls out, and Remus’ head snaps up to the sound of Sirius’ all-too audible groan.
"Behold him!" cries Sirius, brandishing an arm. "See how even now he is wildly tossing his head at the outset, and rolling his eyes fiercely from side to side without word; nor can he control his panting breath; but like a bull in act to charge, he bellows fearfully -"
Remus tenses, his fingernails digging treacherous little half-moons into his palms, and feels a strange desire to punch something. He thumbs through Euripedes’ Herakles until he gets to the right page, and proceeds to glare at the words until they grow harmless and blurry under his stinging eyes.
The reading is horribly over-dramatic, the terrible facial expressions exaggerated to the point of ridicule, but Sirius is making such a show of it that it is difficult for anyone to tear their eyes away. The class is enraptured, deaf to the meaning of the words, but even Remus can’t quite tune out Sirius’ speech. It’s like a train-wreck, he thinks vaguely; painful and somewhat sickening to witness, but once it begins it’s impossible to deny the perverse sense of fascination at watching it go up in flames.
Lent Term -1897
“It’s bloody depressing, that’s what it is,” says James Potter, blowing in his hands and rubbing them together against the cold as the four of them walk back from Chapel. “What’s the point in getting a new bat for Christmas when I can’t use it until the season starts up? Never thought my own mum could be so cruel.”
Sirius laughs, his breath wisps of smoke against the star-speckled blackness of the night sky. “Lots of time to become a half-decent cricketer.”
“Wanker,” James replies, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “Did I ever tell you about the match where I-”
“Yes,” interrupts Sirius, grinning, just as Peter says the opposite.
“Oh come off it, Pettigrew,” says Sirius, “We’ve heard all the stories a thousand times.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing it again. I haven’t heard any decent stories all hols, and besides, I’m thinking of going out for the team next year.”
James raises an eyebrow. “Your old man’s a copper, you can’t tell us he never has anything interesting to say. Don’t you get, I dunno, bedtime stories about murderers, madmen and that sort of thing?”
Peter laughs, and it sounds as cold and bitter as the January air. “I wish. He doesn’t always tell us, me and my mum, but I think he spent most of the break rounding up perverts who couldn’t keep it in their pants.”
“Hah,” says Remus, deceptively calm. He doesn’t have to look up to feel Sirius’ eyes on him, no doubt burning with worry and resentment. The bruising pressure of fingers closing around his wrist is enough.
“ Well,” Sirius cuts in before anyone has a chance to respond. “We’re heading back to Trinity, see you idiots later,” He waves them off with a hesitant grin, a little rough and wary around the edges. Potter and Pettigrew shrug and head off in the opposite direction.
Sirius leads Remus up the stairs to his rooms and doesn’t say another word until they’ve both taken off their hats and boots and are sitting on the soft scarlet comforter of Sirius’ bed.
“Are you still cold?” Sirius asks quietly. Remus hates himself for shaking like this, and wishes Sirius’ didn’t have to be there to see it.
“He must be so proud,” Remus says finally.
“Shut up.”
“You can’t pretend -” starts Remus, and his voice is sick with the unavoidable truth.
“I know. Lie down,” Sirius commands, his tone strange. When Remus doesn’t respond, Sirius moves to unbutton Remus’ vest and shirt, sliding them off his too-thin shoulders. He pushes Remus face down onto the bed and straddles him, weight resting back on his heels. Remus tenses. He can’t quite process the hard muscle of Sirius’ thighs against the backs of his legs or the lips suddenly at the nape of his neck, not understanding why Sirius is touching him like this, or what he did to deserve it. Even under the insistent pressure of Sirius’ warm, skilled hands, he lies motionless, mouth full of soft cotton and his hair still wet from the snow. The careful precision of Sirius’ movements is foreign and dangerously welcome and Remus does not want Sirius to comfort his body like this, because Remus cannot allow himself to want more.
It’s only when he allows himself to relax under the fingers soothing his aching muscles that his body suddenly goes rigid. There’s a brief moment of confusion and panic before his head falls back against the pillow and everything goes black.
He wakes to the sound of heavy breathing, and Sirius’ face peering expectantly over his own.
“You’re,” Sirius stammers, eyes wide. “Are you -”
“Yeah,” mutters Remus, unthinking. “I’m bloody Herakles.” He jumps off the bed and throws on his shirt, his head spinning from the sudden movement.
“What? No, I didn’t - Remus, wait!” calls Sirius, but Remus is already out the door and down the stairs, his hands balled tightly into fists.
The next day, Remus tries desperately to avoid Sirius, clambering over stone centuries through deserted corridors and alleyways in search of an uninterrupted passage back to his rooms. Head down, he doesn’t notice the figure around the corner until it is too late, and he nearly slips on the ice as he is pulled forcefully under the alcove.
“What did you think I was going to do?” hisses Sirius, as he pushes Remus towards the wall. “Turn you in? Cart you off to Bedlam? We’re unspeakables - I get it, I know. We’re perverts and madmen and fucking threats to society and if they end up locking us up it won’t matter if you’re Herakles or Oscar bloody Wilde because we’d all be prisoners in the end. What difference did you think it would make? ”
Remus blinks, purses his lips. “I don’t know,” he says at length.
Sirius releases his grip at this, deflating, and reaches a hand out to tuck a strand of hair behind Remus’ ear. He shifts his feet and mutters: “You know how I feel about you.”
Remus stares at him. “I don’t want your pity.”
Sirius growls - a violent, frustrated sound that tears itself from the back of his throat, and shoves Remus hard up against the stone. “What is wrong with you?” he nearly shouts, stepping forward and crushing his body against Remus’, his face threateningly close, and suddenly they are kissing - not the careful, fleeting encounters between classes and after meals, but a real kiss, hard and biting and consuming. There are cold hands and sharp intakes of breath, and Sirius shoves his thigh between Remus’ legs, the fabric of his uniform scratchy and snow-damp as he strains against it. They shove and claw and grab at one another in attempts to explain an urgency made too dangerous by words; biting curses into flushed skin, signing unspoken agreements with the swell of purpling seals. And when Sirius’ fingernails scrape their promises raw and red into his skin, Remus breathes in the smell of cigarettes, cider and self-destruction and allows himself to fall.
It is a moment before Sirius pulls back, his breathing harsh. “I...” he begins weakly, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Remus touches his swollen lips and darkening bruises, and looks at Sirius with a starved, manic heat in his eyes. He seems more alive than he has in weeks.
“Yes,” he whispers. “Please.”
Easter Term - 1897
They do not talk about Fabian Prewett. The news is splashed across the front pages of the newspapers, gossip spreading like wildfire among the students, but Remus and Sirius refuse to talk about his “gross indecencies” despite his “good breeding” or how he “seemed like such a nice young man, but then again, I suppose one can never know.”
They sit down for lunch in the dining hall and ignore their food. Remus isn’t hungry - you never are, Sirius says, biting his lip and stabbing pieces of chicken with Remus’ fork - and Sirius is flinging peas at the sullen, greasy-haired boy over at the next table.
“What did he do this time?” Remus asks politely.
Sirius grimaces, eyes squinting around his makeshift spoon catapult. “Insulted my mother.”
Remus raises his eyebrows. “Thought you hated her.”
“I can’t stand the old hag, but it’s the principle of thing, you know? I’d have him hanged for less.”
Remus looks at him sharply. Sirius is picking at his fingernails, and for a moment the air is knotted with unspoken tension.
“How very medieval of you,” Remus says a moment later.
Sirius smiles hesitantly. “Do you think so? I could arrange for a firing squad instead, if you’d like. Or perhaps a guillotine, you know, to add that sense of exoticism.”
“You and I both know France is hardly exotic,” Remus remarks dryly.
``What about heads on sticks? Chinese water torture? We’ll send out the king’s men and have him trampled to death, if you want. Awfully embarrassing way to go, death by trampling.``
Remus allows himself to laugh then - he really shouldn`t, all things considered, but he’s tired and anxious and a little lonely, and it’s always been easier to plot the death of others than to contemplate his own.
*
In the afternoon, they cut class and go punting along the Cam. It’s not the first time Sirius has wheedled him into insignificant acts of rebellion, and it’s only a matter of time before they get written up, but Remus enjoys the blue skies and the smell of freshly cut grass, and Sirius is determined to keep him outside for as long as possible.
“The sun’s out,” Remus remarks, and it pains Sirius to hear the surprise in his voice.
“We can’t have piss-poor weather all the time, I suppose,” he shrugs. “Better luck tomorrow, maybe,” he adds with a chuckle.
Remus doesn’t respond, but leans back against his elbows and half-smiles as the soft spring warmth illuminates the lines around his closed eyes, the gold flecks in his hair. He looks peaceful, body rocking gently with the creak and sway of the boat, but Sirius doesn’t miss the infinitesimal twitch of his head, or the involuntary shudder that ripples through his long limbs.
Remus cracks an eye open before Sirius has a chance to hide his surprise. He sits up and brushes his fingers lightly over Sirius’ knuckles, white and wrapped around the edge of the boat.
“Are you frightened?” he asks quietly.
“A little. Maybe.”
Remus smiles and reaches out to stroke Sirius’ hair. A church bell tolls somewhere in the distance, and the ducks scatter on the crystalline shore.
“You’ll wire me over the summer hols, Remus. You’ll come to Grimmauld and stay with me in London.”
“I noticed I don’t have a say in the matter,” Remus frowns, but the corners of his mouth threaten to betray him.
Sirius’ eyes are dark and defiant as they observe Remus; the crinkle of his smile, the slow, laboured pace of his breathing, the way his hair falls into his eyes. “I’m not giving up on you, you know,” he says, trying and failing miserably to seem nonchalant.
Remus nods and watches as the colleges drift down the river.
He allows himself to hope it is enough.
"The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
and your throat is filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you so heavily
it’s like heat, tropical, moist
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
How can a body withstand this? you think
And yet you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no twinkle in her eye,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again."
- Ellen Bass