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wildestrangerHappy belated birthday to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kabeyk! I thought I'd write you humourous porn, but then this came out of my brain so you're getting pretentious and soppy wangsty mush instead. I hope you enjoy it. *g*
Title: This Their Desolation
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: light R
Words: 3054
Era: Lying Low at Lupin's
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns these characters, I have no permission to use them and I am making no money out of this. No infringement of copyright is intended.
Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
remusxsirius and remus_centric
Both characters are over 18.
This Their Desolation
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went – and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all heart
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light
Lord Byron, ‘Darkness’
Remus is used to waiting. He knows how to cut the innumerable hours into pieces that can be managed, how to assign activities so that the mind is occupied and not staring at the clock. It takes the weight off, makes the burden of time and waiting easier to bear.
He knows Sirius should arrive within the week, but he doesn’t know the precise time. He has bought extra food; fresh vegetables and some chicken for the man must be hungry. He is ready.
Yet he finds it difficult to concentrate on his book, the crisp academic language throwing him off so that he has to read the same sentence four times. He tries something lighter, a thriller about nuns in the French Revolution and Russian chess-players, but even the convoluted plot and the sexual tension cannot keep his attention. Cooking is no good, it gives him too much time to think and he still manages to spoil the sauce.
Keeping his mind off the thing it most wants to think about is somewhat more difficult, but he manages, most of the time. The key is to keep a constant inner monologue, to produce the right words and find the correct expression, so that the focus is on the language, not on the thing. But his words are broken and his syntax is falling apart, and most of his sentences consist of it, and that, and this.
Waiting is something he knows how to do. But waiting for Sirius, as ever, seems to be beyond his abilities. He cannot sustain the indifference he has practised for thirteen years. Not caring about when he arrives, not caring about how much longer, and what then.
He should be good at waiting.
: :
Sirius eats the ruined sauce. Remus watches as he breaks off a piece of toast, cheap and tasteless as it is, and uses it to wipe the remains of pasta on his plate. Sirius’ fingers are dirty, but it doesn’t occur to Remus to tell him to wash his hands before eating.
Sirius tells him about Harry, and the Triwizard Tournament, and Voldemort. Remus watches his lips move and tries not to lick his own in response. They discuss Dumbledore’s plans and what must be done next, and what they need to do in order to be prepared.
When Sirius asks about the possibility of taking a shower, Remus leads him to the bathroom, hands him a towel, and says he has prepared his parents old bedroom for Sirius. Then he goes back downstairs and washes the dishes.
: :
Sirius’ body isn’t beautiful. His skin is grey and numb and there are marks that Remus doesn’t want to ask about. Remus remembers what it used to be like, the sharp beauty of delicate bones under his skin, the strength and the swift motions of hands that used to touch him. The painfully pleasing arch of his eyebrows. He used to be so graceful in his steps that Remus imagined little wings in his feet, a godlike Sirius who flew with other heroes. These days his walk is as crippled as Remus’. And it is not only his eyes that look dead.
Sirius is lying naked in Remus’ garden. It is too hot to be a dog, too hot to be a man with clothes. When Sirius tells Remus about his plan to lie in the sun in the secluded patch of grass behind his house, Remus gives him a blanket, a bottle of water charmed to stay cool, and tells him he will get plenty of vitamin D from the sun. When Sirius says he could use some sunshine himself, Remus stutters and says it’s too hot for him, and besides, he has work to do. He goes back to the house and escapes upstairs.
He should be dead. Why isn’t he dead? I’m dead.
From the upstairs window Remus watches as Sirius lifts the water bottle to his mouth, drinks a few sips, and spills some water onto his chest. As a rivulet falls down into his stomach, Sirius lifts up his hand and spreads his water over himself with a moan, enjoying the coldness beneath the hot sun. On a younger Sirius this would have been a provocative gesture, a challenge for the observer to come and spread it further. But this is just a man enjoying a reprieve from the heat, and temporary safety.
Godlike Sirius.
: :
When Sirius has had enough of the sun, he escapes into the house and shows Remus where his skin is beginning to peel. There might be new cells underneath that, he might be smooth and supple once again. Remus offers to make a potion to block the damage, but Sirius laughs and says that might be more dangerous than the sun. There is an honest grin, showing an incongruously pink tongue and broken teeth, and Remus shivers, and says we should get your teeth fixed. Sirius stops grinning.
The spell itself isn’t complicated, but it requires concentration, and steady fingers. Remus has to charm his hand into stillness before he dares approach Sirius’ mouth, doesn’t want to risk his friend's teeth with his own nerves. Sirius is sitting by the kitchen table and Remus has to kneel on the floor that hasn’t been washed for many months. He ruins his trousers.
They are both shaking by the time the spell is done and Sirius has new teeth. Sirius feels his tongue around his mouth as Remus watches, without breathing. Then there’s a half a grin two inches from his face, and Remus falls back, falls on his back in the haste to get away.
They don’t look at each other in the eye before they go to bed.
: :
Remus tells himself that he doesn’t want Sirius to come to him. He doesn’t want to be jumped, to be suddenly kissed or groped or flirted with. He doesn’t need Sirius to pull him out of his apathy.
Remus watches as Sirius reads a book, probably for the first time in fourteen years. There is almost a frown that implies an attempt to hide his frustration, a biting of the lip that suggests an attempt to control the panic. But Sirius, who was never patient before, continues to read slow page after page, familiar word after unfamiliar. He is reading the book Remus read when waiting for him. The spine is cracked and old, a second-hand copy, but Sirius caresses the pages with such wonder and awe that Remus has to look away. He gets up and goes to find more clean clothes for Sirius to use, now that he is thinner even than Remus, now that he needs Remus’ old clothes.
Sirius isn’t used to the small buttons on the shirt Remus gives him, and he has no shame in asking for Remus to help. This is something the younger Sirius wouldn’t have done, and Remus still can’t, but there is no frustration in Sirius’ voice when he says I can’t do this. Remus hesitates before offering, but the humiliation he fears is only his, it doesn’t touch Sirius.
: :
They haven’t talked about why they mistrusted each other, back then. Remus wonders whether Sirius doesn’t ask because he can’t bear to talk about it, or because he fears that Remus can’t. He doesn’t really want to, himself; he has had the last year to think about it and come up with reasons why it was his fault. But when Sirius asks, that isn’t the question.
“When you saw me in the map. Why didn’t you tell someone, tell Dumbledore that Sirius Black is the castle? Why did you come by yourself?”
Remus swallows. Why? Because for twelve years, I hadn’t. Because I had been. Because it was you. Because it was you, and I couldn’t not take the chance to see you, even if you were a killer and a traitor.
There had been no thoughts of Peter Pettigrew or Severus Snape, no thoughts on betrayal, or students, or the wolfsbane potion. Just his heart beating too fast, the floor stumbling beneath his feet and his eyesight failing because a dot said Sirius Black, a dot that was moving.
“I didn’t. I didn’t think about it.”
“Ah,”
Because he hadn’t thought, Peter had escaped and Sirius had been on the run and Voldemort had come back. He tries not to think about it, but most nights it isn’t only the heat keeping him awake. He has learned to control the sickness that the thought causes, though.
Sirius closes his book with a grin, says goodnight and walks upstairs. Remus leans his head in his hands and thinks about failure, and how you never get over it.
: :
Sirius has nightmares. The walls of the house are thin and Remus can hear the whimpers Sirius makes in his sleep. Sometimes he thinks about getting up and going to Sirius’ room, but. Sirius wakes up on his own. Remus remembers the startled moan that Sirius makes the moment he wakes up, the intake of breath and then the slow exhale, almost another moan. He hears it every night, through the walls, and doesn’t go.
Sirius was never easy to touch. There were punches and claps on the back, quick and then away again, but intentional touching, longer touching, that was something else. And while Sirius could tickle a boy for hours, could use his hands to attack and stroke and pinch (or something else, Remus thinks and grins a little), he didn’t like to have somebody else’s hands on him. There was a little frown of discomfort, and tension in the muscles, and then a kick or a wrestle or anything to get away. Remus had his own issues with touching people and being touched, so he rarely came close enough to Sirius to disturb him. Until they started sleeping together, and then it was a different kind of touching.
He can imagine hugging Sirius, going to his room and gathering the scraps of a wasted man in his hands. But his hands start to shake when he thinks about it, and Sirius, who moves so that even by accident he doesn’t come too close to Remus, probably wouldn’t want it. Too much like old times, too much a reminder of what they are not.
He listens to Sirius’ nightmares, and counts his own heartbeat as it rises along with Sirius’ whimpers.
: :
There are many days when it rains, and Sirius huddles on the sofa while Remus writes letters. His feet are too long for the chair and the living room table is too low for him to sit comfortably, but there’s a fire for Sirius’ cold bones and it warms him too. Sirius makes comments on the people Remus is writing to, and his voice is still clipped and aristocratic, with a few chosen profanities within the lazy drawl. It used to give Remus a little jolt to hear the “fuck” among the “pray tells” and the “don’t you knows,” but now it only makes him smile. His own voice is rough, he knows, from many months of no use, but it warms up when he talks to Sirius, and becomes easier.
They don’t have much wood for the fire, and it’s pointless to go and cut more while it’s still raining. When the fire dies, Remus hesitates, and then suggests a bottle of Firewhisky he has in the back of a cupboard somewhere. Sirius smiles, and says you’ve written enough letters already, haven’t you, Moony. Remus feels an almost smile on his face, looks at the pile of parchment in front of him, and goes and gets the whisky.
The drink makes him warm, and loosens the knot in the back of his neck. He lies boneless on the sofa, one foot away from Sirius, who is lifting the fourth glass to his lips. It used to be a graceful act, something always worth watching, and Remus can’t help himself now when Sirius licks his lips and closes his eyes. He isn’t elegant and the glass bumps against his teeth, and he spills a little whisky on his chin. And then Remus is paralysed because there is a sudden and irresistible longing to lick it off, and he is not supposed to want that, never want such things anymore. He sits unmoving and waits for his heartbeat to go down but it doesn’t, and then Sirius licks the whisky off his lips and Remus twitches.
He could move his hand across the space between then, such little space but the distance between his skin and Sirius’ is longer. It is difficult enough to occupy his own flesh, to move in on the fingertips and the toes without worrying about contact with others. It had been unbearable to touch anyone, to be touched after James and Lily’s death and he had made himself insensitive, learned to control the sensations of somebody’s hand on his skin, or somebody’s cock in his mouth. But now there is want and Sirius and Remus doesn’t know if he can handle that. Or if Sirius can. And if he wants something, he will have to move and get past Sirius’ boundaries as well as his own.
And that is the most paralysing thought of all.
: :
He starts thinking about touching Sirius, of hugging him in the middle of the kitchen, of finding him in the bathroom and drying him with his tongue, of pressing him against the living room wall and sucking the soul out from his mouth. It was always Sirius who came to him, skittish and uncertain but full of Gryffindor bravery (and, Remus assumes, a certain amount of dares), enough to prod poor Moony out of his reveries. He got used to waiting for Sirius to come to him, knew how to manoeuvre himself so that Sirius would. And Sirius was so hungry and so desperate that Remus didn’t have to think about what it felt like to have his friend’s fingers on his hips, or his tongue in his elbow, didn’t have the time to become paralysed by the thought.
But now Sirius won’t come to him, and it bothers Remus to realise how much he has been waiting for that.
: :
Remus cuts his finger chopping carrots and lets out a muffled bugger. Sirius laughs, walks over from the living room and starts to say only if you, but he catches himself in time, mouth still able to utter such familiar words, and eyes open and helpless against such memories. He looks at Remus’ hand, the little drop of blood forming on his thumb, and swallows.
“Shall I get you something, a bandage or…?”
Remus smiles, and doesn’t tell him to use his wand.
“No, it’s fine, I’ve got some here.”
“Okay.”
Remus gets the plaster from the cupboard, and puts it on his finger while Sirius watches. They both look at his finger, and then Sirius lifts his head and smiles.
“Never would have pegged you for a Mickey Mouse kind of guy.”
Remus frowns.
“They were on sale.”
“I see.”
There is a quirk in the corner of Sirius’ mouth as he turns to go back to the living room, but somehow (Somehow? With no intent at all, Remus thinks, savagely) Remus gets it the way and they bump against each other. And although they move back, they both move back immediately, Sirius starts to shake and Remus feels nerve endings long dead coming back to life. He can see Sirius struggling with the urge to run, his pupils wide and his lip between his teeth, and then there’s a blow that drains all air from Remus’ lungs because Sirius is shaking because of him. Not from fear or discomfort. The dread in Sirius’ eyes is familiar and Remus knows what he should do about it, automatically knows that the way to handle Sirius at this moment is to kiss his cheek and pull him close with careful hands, until he can bear the touch, until they both can. He doesn’t though, and Sirius moves away and Remus has his heart attack alone in the kitchen,
: :
The next time he hears Sirius whimpering in the night, he sits up in bed. He listens, decides to shut down his brain, and gets up. He is careful to make enough noise on the way that Sirius knows he is coming, and bumps against the door before opening it.
“Sirius.”
There’s half a cough, half a groan, and then:
“Moony? What are you doing here?”
No words to explain it, and he isn’t sure if words are what Sirius needs. And he’s pretty sure he can’t handle words as well as.
He closes the door behind him, and walks to the bed.
“Moony.”
There is wariness now, and perhaps knowledge of what Remus is about to do. But Sirius doesn’t push him away when he sits on the bed. He becomes still, and Remus hears the harsh breathing of a man who has been run to the ground. He lifts his hand, and strokes Sirius’ cheek.
It isn’t easy, not for one moment is it easy, as Remus maps Sirius’ body with his fingers and listens to the skin when it shivers. He can see that his hands make Sirius nervous, that it’s difficult to lie still but even more difficult to move. Sirius’ breathing is unsteady and his voice breaks when he tells Remus of how he hasn’t and why he can’t, and it’s too much. For a moment Remus fears, but the words are too familiar for him not to know that they can be conquered.
His mouth traces an ancient path across Sirius’ ribs, sharp under his lips but the trembling subsides and then there are bony hands bringing out the edges in his skin, and with a flicker of one thumb on his wrist, Remus feels his flesh come alive. He licks Sirius’ lips and whispers half words into his mouth, of how he hasn’t, and why he couldn’t, and how it’s too much and never enough, this, again, this.
But the hand that rests on his back, twitching in sleep, is not dead and Remus finds that neither is he.
kabeyk! I thought I'd write you humourous porn, but then this came out of my brain so you're getting pretentious and soppy wangsty mush instead. I hope you enjoy it. *g*Title: This Their Desolation
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: light R
Words: 3054
Era: Lying Low at Lupin's
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns these characters, I have no permission to use them and I am making no money out of this. No infringement of copyright is intended.
Cross-posted to
remusxsirius and remus_centricBoth characters are over 18.
This Their Desolation
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went – and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all heart
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light
Lord Byron, ‘Darkness’
Remus is used to waiting. He knows how to cut the innumerable hours into pieces that can be managed, how to assign activities so that the mind is occupied and not staring at the clock. It takes the weight off, makes the burden of time and waiting easier to bear.
He knows Sirius should arrive within the week, but he doesn’t know the precise time. He has bought extra food; fresh vegetables and some chicken for the man must be hungry. He is ready.
Yet he finds it difficult to concentrate on his book, the crisp academic language throwing him off so that he has to read the same sentence four times. He tries something lighter, a thriller about nuns in the French Revolution and Russian chess-players, but even the convoluted plot and the sexual tension cannot keep his attention. Cooking is no good, it gives him too much time to think and he still manages to spoil the sauce.
Keeping his mind off the thing it most wants to think about is somewhat more difficult, but he manages, most of the time. The key is to keep a constant inner monologue, to produce the right words and find the correct expression, so that the focus is on the language, not on the thing. But his words are broken and his syntax is falling apart, and most of his sentences consist of it, and that, and this.
Waiting is something he knows how to do. But waiting for Sirius, as ever, seems to be beyond his abilities. He cannot sustain the indifference he has practised for thirteen years. Not caring about when he arrives, not caring about how much longer, and what then.
He should be good at waiting.
: :
Sirius eats the ruined sauce. Remus watches as he breaks off a piece of toast, cheap and tasteless as it is, and uses it to wipe the remains of pasta on his plate. Sirius’ fingers are dirty, but it doesn’t occur to Remus to tell him to wash his hands before eating.
Sirius tells him about Harry, and the Triwizard Tournament, and Voldemort. Remus watches his lips move and tries not to lick his own in response. They discuss Dumbledore’s plans and what must be done next, and what they need to do in order to be prepared.
When Sirius asks about the possibility of taking a shower, Remus leads him to the bathroom, hands him a towel, and says he has prepared his parents old bedroom for Sirius. Then he goes back downstairs and washes the dishes.
: :
Sirius’ body isn’t beautiful. His skin is grey and numb and there are marks that Remus doesn’t want to ask about. Remus remembers what it used to be like, the sharp beauty of delicate bones under his skin, the strength and the swift motions of hands that used to touch him. The painfully pleasing arch of his eyebrows. He used to be so graceful in his steps that Remus imagined little wings in his feet, a godlike Sirius who flew with other heroes. These days his walk is as crippled as Remus’. And it is not only his eyes that look dead.
Sirius is lying naked in Remus’ garden. It is too hot to be a dog, too hot to be a man with clothes. When Sirius tells Remus about his plan to lie in the sun in the secluded patch of grass behind his house, Remus gives him a blanket, a bottle of water charmed to stay cool, and tells him he will get plenty of vitamin D from the sun. When Sirius says he could use some sunshine himself, Remus stutters and says it’s too hot for him, and besides, he has work to do. He goes back to the house and escapes upstairs.
He should be dead. Why isn’t he dead? I’m dead.
From the upstairs window Remus watches as Sirius lifts the water bottle to his mouth, drinks a few sips, and spills some water onto his chest. As a rivulet falls down into his stomach, Sirius lifts up his hand and spreads his water over himself with a moan, enjoying the coldness beneath the hot sun. On a younger Sirius this would have been a provocative gesture, a challenge for the observer to come and spread it further. But this is just a man enjoying a reprieve from the heat, and temporary safety.
Godlike Sirius.
: :
When Sirius has had enough of the sun, he escapes into the house and shows Remus where his skin is beginning to peel. There might be new cells underneath that, he might be smooth and supple once again. Remus offers to make a potion to block the damage, but Sirius laughs and says that might be more dangerous than the sun. There is an honest grin, showing an incongruously pink tongue and broken teeth, and Remus shivers, and says we should get your teeth fixed. Sirius stops grinning.
The spell itself isn’t complicated, but it requires concentration, and steady fingers. Remus has to charm his hand into stillness before he dares approach Sirius’ mouth, doesn’t want to risk his friend's teeth with his own nerves. Sirius is sitting by the kitchen table and Remus has to kneel on the floor that hasn’t been washed for many months. He ruins his trousers.
They are both shaking by the time the spell is done and Sirius has new teeth. Sirius feels his tongue around his mouth as Remus watches, without breathing. Then there’s a half a grin two inches from his face, and Remus falls back, falls on his back in the haste to get away.
They don’t look at each other in the eye before they go to bed.
: :
Remus tells himself that he doesn’t want Sirius to come to him. He doesn’t want to be jumped, to be suddenly kissed or groped or flirted with. He doesn’t need Sirius to pull him out of his apathy.
Remus watches as Sirius reads a book, probably for the first time in fourteen years. There is almost a frown that implies an attempt to hide his frustration, a biting of the lip that suggests an attempt to control the panic. But Sirius, who was never patient before, continues to read slow page after page, familiar word after unfamiliar. He is reading the book Remus read when waiting for him. The spine is cracked and old, a second-hand copy, but Sirius caresses the pages with such wonder and awe that Remus has to look away. He gets up and goes to find more clean clothes for Sirius to use, now that he is thinner even than Remus, now that he needs Remus’ old clothes.
Sirius isn’t used to the small buttons on the shirt Remus gives him, and he has no shame in asking for Remus to help. This is something the younger Sirius wouldn’t have done, and Remus still can’t, but there is no frustration in Sirius’ voice when he says I can’t do this. Remus hesitates before offering, but the humiliation he fears is only his, it doesn’t touch Sirius.
: :
They haven’t talked about why they mistrusted each other, back then. Remus wonders whether Sirius doesn’t ask because he can’t bear to talk about it, or because he fears that Remus can’t. He doesn’t really want to, himself; he has had the last year to think about it and come up with reasons why it was his fault. But when Sirius asks, that isn’t the question.
“When you saw me in the map. Why didn’t you tell someone, tell Dumbledore that Sirius Black is the castle? Why did you come by yourself?”
Remus swallows. Why? Because for twelve years, I hadn’t. Because I had been. Because it was you. Because it was you, and I couldn’t not take the chance to see you, even if you were a killer and a traitor.
There had been no thoughts of Peter Pettigrew or Severus Snape, no thoughts on betrayal, or students, or the wolfsbane potion. Just his heart beating too fast, the floor stumbling beneath his feet and his eyesight failing because a dot said Sirius Black, a dot that was moving.
“I didn’t. I didn’t think about it.”
“Ah,”
Because he hadn’t thought, Peter had escaped and Sirius had been on the run and Voldemort had come back. He tries not to think about it, but most nights it isn’t only the heat keeping him awake. He has learned to control the sickness that the thought causes, though.
Sirius closes his book with a grin, says goodnight and walks upstairs. Remus leans his head in his hands and thinks about failure, and how you never get over it.
: :
Sirius has nightmares. The walls of the house are thin and Remus can hear the whimpers Sirius makes in his sleep. Sometimes he thinks about getting up and going to Sirius’ room, but. Sirius wakes up on his own. Remus remembers the startled moan that Sirius makes the moment he wakes up, the intake of breath and then the slow exhale, almost another moan. He hears it every night, through the walls, and doesn’t go.
Sirius was never easy to touch. There were punches and claps on the back, quick and then away again, but intentional touching, longer touching, that was something else. And while Sirius could tickle a boy for hours, could use his hands to attack and stroke and pinch (or something else, Remus thinks and grins a little), he didn’t like to have somebody else’s hands on him. There was a little frown of discomfort, and tension in the muscles, and then a kick or a wrestle or anything to get away. Remus had his own issues with touching people and being touched, so he rarely came close enough to Sirius to disturb him. Until they started sleeping together, and then it was a different kind of touching.
He can imagine hugging Sirius, going to his room and gathering the scraps of a wasted man in his hands. But his hands start to shake when he thinks about it, and Sirius, who moves so that even by accident he doesn’t come too close to Remus, probably wouldn’t want it. Too much like old times, too much a reminder of what they are not.
He listens to Sirius’ nightmares, and counts his own heartbeat as it rises along with Sirius’ whimpers.
: :
There are many days when it rains, and Sirius huddles on the sofa while Remus writes letters. His feet are too long for the chair and the living room table is too low for him to sit comfortably, but there’s a fire for Sirius’ cold bones and it warms him too. Sirius makes comments on the people Remus is writing to, and his voice is still clipped and aristocratic, with a few chosen profanities within the lazy drawl. It used to give Remus a little jolt to hear the “fuck” among the “pray tells” and the “don’t you knows,” but now it only makes him smile. His own voice is rough, he knows, from many months of no use, but it warms up when he talks to Sirius, and becomes easier.
They don’t have much wood for the fire, and it’s pointless to go and cut more while it’s still raining. When the fire dies, Remus hesitates, and then suggests a bottle of Firewhisky he has in the back of a cupboard somewhere. Sirius smiles, and says you’ve written enough letters already, haven’t you, Moony. Remus feels an almost smile on his face, looks at the pile of parchment in front of him, and goes and gets the whisky.
The drink makes him warm, and loosens the knot in the back of his neck. He lies boneless on the sofa, one foot away from Sirius, who is lifting the fourth glass to his lips. It used to be a graceful act, something always worth watching, and Remus can’t help himself now when Sirius licks his lips and closes his eyes. He isn’t elegant and the glass bumps against his teeth, and he spills a little whisky on his chin. And then Remus is paralysed because there is a sudden and irresistible longing to lick it off, and he is not supposed to want that, never want such things anymore. He sits unmoving and waits for his heartbeat to go down but it doesn’t, and then Sirius licks the whisky off his lips and Remus twitches.
He could move his hand across the space between then, such little space but the distance between his skin and Sirius’ is longer. It is difficult enough to occupy his own flesh, to move in on the fingertips and the toes without worrying about contact with others. It had been unbearable to touch anyone, to be touched after James and Lily’s death and he had made himself insensitive, learned to control the sensations of somebody’s hand on his skin, or somebody’s cock in his mouth. But now there is want and Sirius and Remus doesn’t know if he can handle that. Or if Sirius can. And if he wants something, he will have to move and get past Sirius’ boundaries as well as his own.
And that is the most paralysing thought of all.
: :
He starts thinking about touching Sirius, of hugging him in the middle of the kitchen, of finding him in the bathroom and drying him with his tongue, of pressing him against the living room wall and sucking the soul out from his mouth. It was always Sirius who came to him, skittish and uncertain but full of Gryffindor bravery (and, Remus assumes, a certain amount of dares), enough to prod poor Moony out of his reveries. He got used to waiting for Sirius to come to him, knew how to manoeuvre himself so that Sirius would. And Sirius was so hungry and so desperate that Remus didn’t have to think about what it felt like to have his friend’s fingers on his hips, or his tongue in his elbow, didn’t have the time to become paralysed by the thought.
But now Sirius won’t come to him, and it bothers Remus to realise how much he has been waiting for that.
: :
Remus cuts his finger chopping carrots and lets out a muffled bugger. Sirius laughs, walks over from the living room and starts to say only if you, but he catches himself in time, mouth still able to utter such familiar words, and eyes open and helpless against such memories. He looks at Remus’ hand, the little drop of blood forming on his thumb, and swallows.
“Shall I get you something, a bandage or…?”
Remus smiles, and doesn’t tell him to use his wand.
“No, it’s fine, I’ve got some here.”
“Okay.”
Remus gets the plaster from the cupboard, and puts it on his finger while Sirius watches. They both look at his finger, and then Sirius lifts his head and smiles.
“Never would have pegged you for a Mickey Mouse kind of guy.”
Remus frowns.
“They were on sale.”
“I see.”
There is a quirk in the corner of Sirius’ mouth as he turns to go back to the living room, but somehow (Somehow? With no intent at all, Remus thinks, savagely) Remus gets it the way and they bump against each other. And although they move back, they both move back immediately, Sirius starts to shake and Remus feels nerve endings long dead coming back to life. He can see Sirius struggling with the urge to run, his pupils wide and his lip between his teeth, and then there’s a blow that drains all air from Remus’ lungs because Sirius is shaking because of him. Not from fear or discomfort. The dread in Sirius’ eyes is familiar and Remus knows what he should do about it, automatically knows that the way to handle Sirius at this moment is to kiss his cheek and pull him close with careful hands, until he can bear the touch, until they both can. He doesn’t though, and Sirius moves away and Remus has his heart attack alone in the kitchen,
: :
The next time he hears Sirius whimpering in the night, he sits up in bed. He listens, decides to shut down his brain, and gets up. He is careful to make enough noise on the way that Sirius knows he is coming, and bumps against the door before opening it.
“Sirius.”
There’s half a cough, half a groan, and then:
“Moony? What are you doing here?”
No words to explain it, and he isn’t sure if words are what Sirius needs. And he’s pretty sure he can’t handle words as well as.
He closes the door behind him, and walks to the bed.
“Moony.”
There is wariness now, and perhaps knowledge of what Remus is about to do. But Sirius doesn’t push him away when he sits on the bed. He becomes still, and Remus hears the harsh breathing of a man who has been run to the ground. He lifts his hand, and strokes Sirius’ cheek.
It isn’t easy, not for one moment is it easy, as Remus maps Sirius’ body with his fingers and listens to the skin when it shivers. He can see that his hands make Sirius nervous, that it’s difficult to lie still but even more difficult to move. Sirius’ breathing is unsteady and his voice breaks when he tells Remus of how he hasn’t and why he can’t, and it’s too much. For a moment Remus fears, but the words are too familiar for him not to know that they can be conquered.
His mouth traces an ancient path across Sirius’ ribs, sharp under his lips but the trembling subsides and then there are bony hands bringing out the edges in his skin, and with a flicker of one thumb on his wrist, Remus feels his flesh come alive. He licks Sirius’ lips and whispers half words into his mouth, of how he hasn’t, and why he couldn’t, and how it’s too much and never enough, this, again, this.
But the hand that rests on his back, twitching in sleep, is not dead and Remus finds that neither is he.
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Date: 2005-09-13 07:01 am (UTC)