Summary: It's been a month since they've seen each other, all four Marauders—daring, brave, genius—and prone to dreaming up ridiculous plans and then jumping into them without thinking any of the details through. Sirius/Remus.
Other Notes: written for barefootboys prompt #1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters, including and especially Sirius, Remus, James, and Peter, or any of its settings.
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Remus has lost track of himself.
For the last half an hour, he has been staring at the slowly expanding stain of sweat on Sirius's back. He barely notices the late June landscape unfolding to either side of him (new green grass, light blue sky, the occasional tree spreading fleeting shadows over them). Nor does he notice the scorching sun burning the back of his neck, or the uneven asphalt beneath the wheels of his bicycle, or even the distracting huff of Peter's breathing behind him.
What he does notice is Sirius's shirt sticking to his back, his head bent over the handlebars, his legs moving, strong and steady, in hypnotizing circles.
It has been a month since classes ended, a month since they parted in four different directions, a month since they have seen each other, done things together—the four of them, the Marauders—daring, brave, genius—
Several feet ahead of Remus, something crashes, and there is the painful and vaguely metallic sound of spinning wheels and muffled moans. For the space of maybe five seconds, Remus is confused but only slightly panicked—he watches Sirius screech to a halt in front of him, unsure if the noises he hears are of pain or fatigue, still lost in his hot summer dream.
Then Peter (still shaky on the concept of a bike) runs into him and they are both knocked unceremoniously to the ground. Sirius is now the only one standing but at least Remus's head is out of the clouds, and he can finally assess the situation in the calm and reasoned manner on which he prides himself.
(When Sirius isn't distracting him, anyway.)
It's been a month since they've seen each other, all four Marauders—daring, brave, genius—and prone to dreaming up ridiculous plans and then jumping into them without thinking any of the details through.
There have been worse. James has set into motion elaborate plans involving socks, hedgehogs, and a Quaffle charmed to emit a medley of drinking songs whenever thrown. Sirius has had to start sentences with "But Professor McGonagall, I swear, I don't know how all of those nifflers ended up in the Slytherin dorm—"
Yet this plan has its own unique consequences—the inevitable aches, pains, and wishes for death that accompany any long bike ride through the English countryside in the middle of the first heat wave of the summer.
From the tangle of wheels, gears, handlebars, and teenage boy on the path, Remus and Peter manage to extricate themselves. The bikes are less lucky. Remus glances back at them and can't help thinking that they have ceased to resemble bicycles, and have come to remind him more of a knot of scrap metal. Though he supposes it could be worse. He may not have a bike anymore, but at least he is not Prongs.
James is sprawled out over the grass by the side of the path, limbs splayed at haphazard angles, another casualty of summer. He is moaning helplessly.
"What's he saying?" Remus asks, approaching cautiously.
Sirius shrugs and says, "The usual. 'Woe is me.' 'If I die, tell Evans I love her.' 'The sun burns with the heat of a thousand suns'—well, clearly, he's delusional, because that doesn't make any sense." Sirius shakes his head slowly and stands up from where he was kneeling by his fallen comrade's side. "It doesn't look good, mates."
Peter crosses his arms against his chest—a subconscious imitation of Sirius's stance—and leans over to get a better look at the pained, miserable expression on James's face. "This whole thing would be a lot easier," he observes, "if we could use magic."
"Everything would be a lot easier if we could use magic, Pete," Sirius answers. Then he leans forward over James's limp body, and his face takes on that expression of consideration Remus knows all too well from five years of friendship, shared dorm rooms, pranks, and secrets.
Then he looks up again, meets first Peter's eye, then Remus's, and holds his gaze steady as he says, "One Marauder down. Tragedies like this cannot be helped. But I'm sure he would want us to go on. Messrs. Wormtail, Moony—are you still with me?"
The way he says it makes Remus's knees shake.
He barely gives them the chance to answer before he turns resolutely around, picks up his bicycle, and starts to walk it down the path and away from them. He doesn't even turn to see if anyone is following him. Remus would have turned around at the first step.
For a few moments—barely a handful of seconds, but it stretches—no one does follow him. Peter hesitates, looking at James, and Remus hesitates, looking at Sirius, and then James lets out an untranslatable moan. And it is decided. Peter drops down to James's side and Remus gives them both a fleeting glance and follows Sirius.
By the time he catches up they have rounded a corner, out of sight of the others, and Sirius is wheeling his bike to the side of the path. "Just you, huh?" he says, propping the bike against a tree. "I figured Wormtail wouldn't get it. James is never going to get up if we're all hovering around him. If we leave him alone, eventually he'll get bored and come looking for us." Sirius sighs and falls down on the grass. He leans back on his hands and stretches out his legs. Remus can see the shine of sweat on his face and neck. "Until then, we can wait here," Sirius adds. "Come on Moony, sit."
And he does.
Silence follows.
"I can't blame him," Remus says. He has mimicked Sirius's posture, but with his head tilted up to stare at the blue sky and scattered clouds. "I think I was minutes from falling over myself."
"But you," Sirius answers, "would have done so with more grace."
And even though Remus knows this isn't true, he smiles as though it is. Sirius Black is not in the habit of complimenting people.
Right now, he is watching Remus, waiting for a reaction, but all Remus does is turn to look right back at him and say, "This is nice."
And it is.
Sirius doesn't say anything for several minutes, and during this time, Remus finds himself thinking about it. It happened last spring, two weeks before their first O.W.L. They were in the dormitory, James and Peter waiting for them in the common room. Remus was holding a sock. It was over quickly, the kiss, yet somehow it has become the turning point of Remus's life, marking the end of the time when he could concentrate and the beginning of the time when he cannot. Because everything is Sirius. Sirius, finishing his exam early and leaning back casual-dangerous in his chair. Sirius, ransacking the dorm on their last day to find the tie he lost in September. Sirius, present even in the scrawled worry of his handwriting, telling Remus that his mother's house is a prison and he is breaking out.
Sirius, in his thoughts and dreams and finally, three days ago, on the platform waiting for Remus to step off the train, scanning the faces of each passenger until he found him and his own face lit up.
Now Remus can feel blades of grass poking up through the spaces between his fingers. There are at least three stones in his right shoe. One in his left. His pale skin is turning red, beginning to burn. And Sirius is sitting next to him, the edge of his right hand just barely touching the edge of Remus's left.
"Did I ever tell you," Sirius asks then, quietly, voice low and the breeze they have been waiting for rushing cool over them—"Did I ever tell you I was sorry?"
"Sorry for what?"
Sirius could be referring to any number of slights, mistakes, the things he does every day without thinking or meaning. But Remus is nervous anyway. Because he's still thinking about it.
"For—you know—" Sirius is staring ahead, at the corner that hides them from James and Peter. "Kissing you, or whatever."
"Oh," Remus says, then pauses, then adds, "Why would you apologize for that?"
"Because—because—"
Sirius Black is at a loss for words. Remus has never seen him like this. The spluttering is almost comic.
"Because—you left! In a rush! And haven't brought it up in over a month! And you're—you know—quieter—than usual! Stop laughing!"
Remus tries to swallow the laughter that continues to bubble up in his throat. He tries to say "I'm sorry—I'm trying." He tries to look serious.
He fails at all three.
Finally he manages, "Sirius—Padfoot—" and reaches out to pull at Sirius's shoulder, now turned stubbornly away from him. "Come on. I'm the one who's sorry. Look. I am."
Sirius's shoulders are slumped, his gaze fixed at a spot of grass by his left foot. He doesn't say anything at first. Remus lets his hand drop back down, his own gaze now on Padfoot's shoulder, the edge of his neck, the stray black strands of hair sticking to his skin.
A silence follows—it feels longer than it is—and then Sirius falls back down along the grass, staring up at the sky. "If I'd known it was a joke to you, I would have kept quiet," he says.
Remus doesn't know what to say.
He falls back next to Sirius and stares up at the clouds sifting above them, tries the truth. "I wasn't laughing because it's funny. I was just—nervous. And surprised."
He waits for Sirius to say something.
Sirius doesn't.
"You have to believe me, Padfoot—there hasn't been a moment in the past four weeks when I haven't been thinking about it. About you."
He waits for Sirius to say something.
Sirius doesn't.
He only lies there, pushing his hair lazily out of his eyes, staring up at the same passing clouds—his face a total, infuriating blank like only Sirius can make it.
"Sometimes, Padfoot," Remus says, a little hesitantly but—one of them has to say something—"sometimes you're a complete jerk. You're the one who wanted to talk about it. So—the least you can do is talk. I—I really like you, Sirius. Less so right at this moment, but..."
He waits for Sirius to say something.
Sirius doesn't.
He leans over and kisses Remus awkwardly on the side of the mouth.
Around the corner and beyond their sight, Peter is helping James to his feet, and soon they will untangle and collect the scattered bikes and move down the path—Peter still half under the impression, despite James's confident assurances, that Moony and Padfoot must be halfway home by now.
But Remus isn't thinking about his friends, or long rides home, or the bicycle he'll have to return to Mr. Potter with its handlebars bent. He is thinking about Sirius—a second kiss, a third—green grass and summer sun. He is thinking about his life as it is at this very moment, now.