wine and crashing stars
- - - - - - - -
harry potter
- - - - - - - -
sirius/remus
- - - - - - - -
Sirius takes a sip of wine, because any other use of his mouth seems impossible. He can feel the rough texture of the chair through his silk white shirt, and can't stop the memories—Remus' fingernails digging into his back, crescent-shaped marks the product of his passion—from flooding his mind. His eyelids squeeze tightly together, as if it will make the skeletons of his past just turn to dust; but all he gets is an ache in his eyes and violent stars, contrasting sharply with the blackness he sees.
"Sirius?"
Remus' voice breaks through his mind, and all the swirling stars crash behind his eyelids, falling to their inexistent death. He can't help but feel as though he's walking to his own end—impossible, it's already happened—as his eyelids snap open.
Remus is standing in the doorway of the parlor, leaning casually against the doorframe; one hand in his pocket, and the other holding a full glass of wine. His brow is furrowed and his eyes tinted with disconcertedness. If Sirius was anyone else, he'd have wondered what could possibly be bothering Remus—now, the groom—on the day of his engagement party.
But Sirius is Sirius, and Remus is Remus, and there are far too many vivid memories behind locked doors and trashed glimpses of future between them to be confused.
Remus isn't going to say anything, that's painfully clear; but then again, neither is Sirius. Their eyes never meet one another, but rather follow points of interest in separate corners of the small and cramped room.
Sirius isn't sure how long they stay there, both unwilling and nervous to speak. He finds himself eager to feel nothingness—that must hurt less than feeling betrayed and unloved. But he also knows that it isn't right for him to feel betrayal; not when he left without a final goodbye, a last word, one more touch of his fingers upon Remus' temple.
Unable to stand the silence anymore, Sirius stands and walks past Remus. Their shoulders brush, and they both shiver. Remus' head tilts in Sirius' direction, faint knowledge and desperate confusion painting his expressions. And Sirius wishes he could say something, and Remus could hear him, but that's just another dream taking up residence in the eager shadows of his mind.
As Sirius' toe touches the tiled floor outside of the parlor, he's transported and meets the bright white walls of an unknown room and Albus Dumbledore perched upon a midnight black bench. Sirius' shoulders sag and his eyes fill with unwanted tears as he takes a seat next to Dumbledore, who pats him reassuringly on the back.
"Closure is the most difficult part of moving on," Dumbledore says softly. "But it's also the most needed; the most welcome; the most important."
And Sirius knows to trust him, because Dumbledore has been through this all before.