A/N: Set when Sirius is "lying low" at Remus', written in a rush and likely rather poor, but needed to be done. Angsty and probably needed to be way longer. Tell me what you think. Enjoy ;/
As he sits and watches the chickens busy themselves in the pen, scratching through the odd bits of vegetable peelings and dust, the coffee is a sweet-sour slur on his tongue, and it makes his stomach hurt when he takes too big a drink. Remus is getting too old for black coffee and afternoon cigarettes, but he has both anyway, the smoke rising from between his fingers as if he were a mage of old, dark grey and curling against the solemn setting sun. One of his chickens hatched a brood not two days past, the tiny chicks bright yellow and peeping, scattered about their mother's legs, deftly navigating around each other like ants on a hill. Soon he'll have to cut down the flock – there's getting to be almost fifteen chickens now, all plump, happy, but somewhat squashed in the pen he built last spring. It's possible, he supposes, to extend it outwards, but it's an idle thought; time is not an ally, hasn't been for a long while now. There is another Order meeting tonight, he remembers tiredly, and he wishes with sudden fervour that he was nineteen again, bright and brilliant and raring to go, trembling insistently on the brink of war.
Raising his hand to take another drag, Remus becomes aware of an approaching presence, wolf-ears snapping back, Moony ghosting each invisible action. Sirius ought to be in bed resting. He ought to be eating the eggs and toast Remus made them for lunch. He ought to be tucked up tightly, the innumerable sheets hiding his shadowed ribs from view, camouflaging the network of self-inflicted scars that criss-cross his chest like underground tunnels; and Remus recalls a time where he and Sirius would ride the muggle trains for hours, drunk off hidden touches and beer, making up stupid stories and pretending they were Peter and Paul from up the road.
He exhales heavily, cigarette smoke gusting forth against the chicken wire, and drains his now-cold coffee. Remus gets to his feet and does not groan at the way his rusted joints protest; nor does he look at Sirius as he passes, keeping a safe distance between their weathered bodies.
It's too risky, he decided at the beginning of all of this: it's too risky to think of Sirius as anything other than another broken body in need of repair, another casualty of war, another Order soldier. They cannot repeat the past; it was lost a long time ago.
"What happens when you see a dementor?"
Harry is so earnest yet so afraid, trying valiantly to prove otherwise in the way he maintains eye contact, the way he sits up straight and attentive. There is an echo of James in every nuance of his expression, but his voice is all Lily. Lovely Lily. Lily who used to lace her arms around Remus' middle from behind as he made tea at her and James' flat, who used to breathe in the old, soft smell of his well-worn clothes and smile against his shoulder blades.
"I hear Lily and James," Remus replies eventually. "I hear your parents."
And though Harry nods slowly, casting his gaze away, a little embarrassed, Remus knows he can't fully understand. Because Harry has never heard their voices, and does not know how they sound when James is telling Lily he loves her through laughs hard enough to make him gasp for breath, or how she complains when Sirius plays his records too loud, or how James would joke with Peter, low and confidential, sharing a teasing expression.
They (Lily and James, L.E. and J.P.) tangle with the sound of his own boyhood screams and the sting of Fenrir's bite, but Remus cannot tell Harry that version of the truth. He wonders if this is how Albus feels and hates himself for the comparison.
The Order gather at Grimmauld Place, the walls stained Black, scratching dark whispers in the corners of hidden rooms. It is both familiar and alien, especially now that the last remaining heir is currently lying prone (or not, Remus bets) back at his tiny cottage; it feels like a secret and Remus has had a lifetime of those to deal with. They gather in the drawing room. Plans are discussed. This is where he has to be, he tells himself firmly, anchoring himself by gripping the underside of the heavy wooden table, his white-knuckled hands concealed from the sharp eyes of so many aurors. Sirius could be in his bedroom, tossed up against the sheets, or clattering, bored, about the living room, no doubt poking through the scraps Remus has awkwardly gathered over the years. That is an invasion of privacy, Remus thinks, because Sirius, clever Sirius, must be able to piece together the sad snippets of Remus' life since Then. He'd look through the titles of the worn paperbacks on the shelf, or find his record collection, and track each stage of grief, denial, want, regret. Would he notice that only one record had been played in recent times, the rest tattooed with Sirius' fingerprints, or that the book spines, though well creased, had not been cracked for some time? Would he be able to take this memorabilia and paint Remus sitting in his favourite armchair, gazing quietly at the far wall with only a cigarette for company, only to then cut him out and place him at the dining table, same position, but with a cooling cup of coffee?
Remus, embarrassed, shifts in his seat, and draws a questioning glance from Tonks. They are discussing Harry again, Alastor's voice haggard and insistent. She leans over, keeping her eyes fixed on the head of the table, "You alright?" Remus nods but, when she doesn't reply, clears his throat and shifts again. "Fine, thank you." His voice is hoarse from silence and it sounds like it used to when Sirius would sneak closer to him in bed, wrapping stupidly long legs around Remus' middle and pressing kisses to his neck. Tonks looks at him suddenly as if she can read his thoughts, and he smiles, a startled kneejerk reaction, and she smiles back, Sirius' eyes crinkling at the corners like tissue paper.
He's had a migraine for a few days – a precursor to the full moon – so he's standing barefoot in his shitty kitchen brewing some tea when Sirius wanders in. Wander is perhaps too kind, as Azkaban has not been. He favours his right leg and walks delicately as if treading on glass, paws cut and bruised and swollen from the journey. Remus had bathed Sirius' feet that first night, somewhat religious in nature, his touch gentle on the splintered skin, Sirius' gaze dark and heavy as velvet. He pauses for a moment before moving to lean against the counter next to Remus, still that safe space, still no-man's land. It's predawn, so they are silent, the chilled air cut only by the whistling of the tea kettle, morning mist rolling in across the moor, the sky eerie and bled dry. The tea is a medicinal brew made reluctantly by Severus, and though it tastes an awful lot like wet leaves, Remus likes it anyway. He hesitates before adding a second mug.
"You've grown a moustache." Sirius is faintly amused by the fact, but his tone is gentle and awkward. There is no shadow of a younger man present when Remus makes the mistake of glancing up. The contact sends a snap of heat through his aching bones; looking away is like pulling teeth.
"I'm an old man," Remus replies, "it's sort of what we do, I think."
"Not that old," Sirius tosses forward, a smile appearing, and Remus has to remember that he's angry at him, that laughing will do more harm than good. He pours the tea instead, the soft fragrance filling the kitchen, murky brackish water swarming like molten amber. Giving Sirius a cup seems too intimate, though Remus has changed soiled sheets and bandaged weeping wounds and pressed his mouth to every inch of that once-supple body; Sirius takes the hint and tries a valiant gulp of the tea and gags immediately.
It's irritating somehow that Sirius continues to drink after an awkward moment. The urge to explain floods the void and Remus fidgets for a minute.
"It was Severus' idea," he says briskly, staring very hard at the chicken coop outside. "Helps with the – process."
"Nice of him." Sirius' voice is so stilted that Remus has to hide his smile against the china rim.
"Quite," he replies once composed, putting his empty cup in the sink and glancing at Sirius again, eyes warm though he wishes they weren't, a bubble of amusement growing inside. They stare at each other for a tense moment but when Sirius opens his mouth Remus can't stop grimacing. A flash of confusion crosses Sirius' features: "What?"
Remus hates himself. "Don't," he advises, and Sirius repeats himself, and Remus swallows against a swell of nausea. "Just don't."
"How do you know what I was going to say?" Remus can recognize the flicker of anger that appears; has traced the furrow between those brows in private moments, has smoothed the tense knot of those now-thin shoulders.
There's no answer, not really, nothing that can mask Remus' anxiety. Because answering would mean admitting that he's not ready for apologies – not ready for James or Lily or Peter or any of that - and certainly not ready for when Sirius puts his own cup down and touches a hand to Remus' elbow. He is taut, torn, the kitchen is too small.
"Let me guess," Sirius says softly, "'don't'."
The lump in his throat will choke him; his heart will contract and his blood will stop; the pounding in his head has nothing to do with the moon and everything to do with the ragged man beside him, expression low and careful, eyes wary and shy, the new wrinkles marring his still-handsome features as familiar to Remus as if he'd known them all his life.
Remus' nod cuts the cord. Sirius' hand lingers then retracts, settling by his sides and suddenly he is more vulnerable than Remus has ever seen before, and he hates himself for not being strong enough for this.
The next Order meeting runs similarly to the last: Remus dozes his way through, full of Sirius, and rouses only when addressed. Tonks must notice, because afterwards when he's hovering in the hallway, slipping on his cloak and attempting to escape without a fuss, she finds him and places a hand on his shoulder. Remus turns into the touch, a little surprised, but it's not like Sirius. He and Tonks know each other in an impersonal sort of way, a relationship built on rapid-fire directions during battles and pleasant conversation as they wait for the kettle to heat up. He can remember her at eight, eleven, fourteen, and it unnerves him how young she is, her face round and unblemished, open and anxious and alarmingly beautiful, beautiful in the way the Blacks always are, with an aristocratic, somewhat poised air, ready to turn and face an invisible camera or sit for a portrait. There is a shade of Sirius when she smiles that makes his heart hurt.
"Wotcher?" She's calming, a bandage to the recent inner turmoil Sirius' presence ignites, but all he can see is a sixteen-year-old, the illusion supported by the bright pink of her hair and the exaggerated way she's done her eye make-up.
"I better get back," Remus says apologetically, tying his scarf. "He'll be waiting." Why is it he cannot say Sirius' name aloud, as if breaking a silent spell only he understands?
Tonks nods, a smile flickering across her mouth. "I know, I know, I just wanted to..." A pause, one beat, two, and he sees her muster the courage. "Well, how are you holding up?"
It's a good question, but he turns away, pretending to adjust the fastenings on his cloak. "As well as expected, I suppose," he replies mildly.
"Good," she says, but sounds uncertain, and it strikes him suddenly that Tonks always seems to pick up on when he's sliding away, when that curtain is falling back into place. "If you ever want to talk, you know, um, about... you can come to me. If you'd like."
Remus looks at her but there's nothing between them, no snap of heat or bolt of electricity, and he's reminded all over again that there's only been one person for him, and that will never change, not matter how many times he's tried to rid himself of Sirius' imprint.
"Thank you." The words are honest; on impulse, he reaches up and takes her hand, squeezes once; does not miss the pleased flush across the bridge of Sirius' nose.
Remus wakes to the screaming of chickens.
Rushing into the hallway, he's met by a wild-eyed Sirius, his figure an apparition in the dying inky darkness of early morning. As one, they throw themselves through the house and onto the moor, the grass sticky with dew and the cold air a bite to their aging lungs. The coop looms up to meet them, gracious, greatful, and Remus is madly struggling with the lock on the gate when there is a brush of black fur against his legs, and Padfoot is slipping silently into the pen. There is a commotion, an absolute mad flurry of wings, and with his heart in his throat Remus follows, near-blind but for the silhouetted shapes of the hen house, their roosting tree, the slender darting figure of a large black dog. There is a terrifying shriek, and it sounds ungodly, it sounds like 1979, it sounds like chasing Rosier through the streets and watching Alastor's curse strike and burst against Rosier's back, illuminating his figure in a strike akin to lightning, or fire, and the terrible scream torn from not a Death Eater, but a boy, a boy of seventeen or eighteen. Shadows rush up to meet him, nausea horrible and growing in his stomach, but he keeps moving, clutching the edge of the pen, drawn by the sound of the dying fox.
In the collapsible gloom Padfoot is on top of the writhing creature and at first Remus thinks his jaws are around its neck but he's only pinning it in place, teaching it a lesson. The run has winded him; Remus can do little more than lean against the fence and focus on breathing raggedly. In movements that are liquid and uncertain, his eyes unadjusted to night, Padfoot elicits another woeful cry from the animal before moving away and melting into place beside Remus, hot and heavy against his legs. The fox scrambles upright immediately, a flash of white fur, and disappears, a frantic applause from unharmed chickens sounding its exit.
Adrenaline surging, pumping, Remus drops bonelessly into a crouch and holds on to the mass of damp fur, breathing in dog and sweat and something dirty clean, like sand. A wet nose traces the shell of his ear, Padfoot huffing against his neck.
Something claws up inside. I'm sorry. Barely audible; eyes hot and wet, I can't breathe. "I'm sorry."
There are arms around him, oh that familiar body, the clutch of tight skin and protruding bones, Sirius kneeling in leaves and drying vegetable scraps, holding him tight, holding him together. Remus cries, finally, finally, raw sobs that rip him apart, crying because they've lost so much (time, energy, age), and he can't stop choking I'm sorry, I'm sorry. There are lips tattooing his cheeks, his nose, Sirius' eyelashes fluttering against his face. And Sirius, strong Sirius, takes it, absorbs it, gorges himself on Remus' regrets.
He wants to say it, but the words halt along the seam of his mouth, unable to pass teeth and tongue, rolling clumsily like marbles or ocean water. But Sirius knows. They have waited this long. They count minutes like money misers, doggedly throwing down another week, month, five years. A little longer cannot hurt them, not anymore.
"You look cheerful." Remus turns at Tonks' voice; he doesn't have to force the smile.
"Do I?" he says, amused, going back to the stack of papers on the kitchen table.
(Last night he had ventured to put a record on – the Beatles, Lily's favourite, though they didn't linger on the fact – and with a questioning glance to Sirius had done so. They had sat side by side on the sofa for a long time, feet just brushing, sleepy and loose, and in the middle of Cry Baby Cry Sirius had snuck an arm across Remus' neck, fingers smoothing the soft skin against his jugular. They could have done more, but couldn't. No-man's land was breached, but barely).
She comes to his side and fidgets with a floor plan, and he knows instantly things are not alright with her. There is a tense, awkward line to her slender figure, her ankle bent outwards like a nervous colt about to spring, a curl of turquoise hair sticking to the side of her mouth. Remus goes to pull the hair away with thinly-disguised cheer, because he is good, he is happy for the first time in months, but when Tonks looks up to meet his gaze, he understands it all too clearly.
Remus doesn't know how to handle situations like this. It is quite different when the shy sadness shadowed in a girl's expression is directed at oneself; Remus cannot equate this depth of disappointment with James or Sirius' school-time fan clubs. It is something, he has suspected in dangerous moods, Sirius has seen reflected in Remus' eyes far too many times.
"Nymp- Tonks, I –"
"No, it's okay." She looks at him fiercely, jaw tightening, and pulls the strand of hair away herself. "Really, Remus, it's okay." When he does not reply, Tonks looks back at the papers, eyes far away. They wait for a moment, but now is not the time.
Pointing to the floor plan with one bitten fingernail, her expression shifts into that auror professionalism they are both more comfortable with. "Moody reckons it'll be best to strike from the north-west. More likely to surprise them, that way... If you think you can handle it, old man." She is back to normal in an instant, shooting him a cheeky grin, and he marvels at how similar she and Sirius can be – but it also unnerves him on a deep level, one that will become clearer as time goes by, and Sirius is gone, and he finds comfort in her ready company.
Cry Baby Cry is playing when he gets home, the winking windows of his cottage like passing ships in an endless ocean. Remus makes his way across the dark grass, the soft tune reaching forth to lead him gently forwards, coaxing him into the warmth of the kitchen, where the strong smell of burned toast is ripe and acrid. The t-shirt hangs from Sirius' frame, and at the right angle Remus can trace the inward malnourished curve of his waist to the unnerving beauty of protruding ribs. His hips are narrow, not in the same way they were at twenty, his legs spindly and shaky at times, ankles sharp as cut glass. His hair is longer than Remus ever would have liked all that time ago, but it suits him in a way he cannot fully explain; it is like a badge, framing his shadowed features, curling against his hollow collarbones which are thin and as light as a bird's. Tonight he's tied it back in a lumpy low bun; Remus remembers the countless times he'd teased Sirius about that, how many times he'd pulled it loose and ran his fingers through it, pulled it hard in heated moments.
Something urges him closer. When Sirius drops a bit of toast, hissing under his breath, Remus lightly touches his right hip. Spinning around fast, Sirius' eyes widen with relief when he sees Remus, a nervous grin springing forth, a shaky exhalation, eyes that lower when Remus comes closer, close enough that the heat between them is suffocating and unbearable, close enough that when Remus' clumsy mouth meets Sirius' cheek, something long suffused surfaces. Sirius holds Remus' wrist like a lifeline, foreheads together, breathing shallowly as one. Remus, he starts, and Remus' whole body shudders, snaps, cracks with want, and he can do nothing but move into the man before him, so much so that they are aligned, bodies blending, shaking hard and unable to stop. He can't do anything more than breathe in the smell of toast and Sirius' clean skin, still a little smoky from an evening cigarette, mingling with the cold air outside, and feel Sirius' heady pulse against his cheekbone.
Sirius begins to speak, stops and clears his throat, voice low and rushed and wrecked. "I would have waited," he murmurs in Remus' ear.
Remus pulls away, traces his mouth along Sirius' stubbled cheek to reach his lips, and there they pause, suddenly uncertain – is this it? Is this okay? – before Sirius tilts his head and they're kissing, they're fucking kissing finally finally and it's like being seventeen, eighteen, twenty, it's like they never stopped, like there was no war, no Azkaban, no thirteen years of aching absence twisting between Remus' ribs with razor-sharp precision, a dull ache, a bloodless wound; those ageless days and sleepless nights are nothing but a blip, a burst of static before this clarity. They are together perfectly, unable to do little more than hold fast to one another, curling and tightening and struck with desire and terror, because what now, what now, because they're old, and these bodies weigh them down. They break softly. They are drowning. Sirius smiles and Remus falls in love again. Is reborn.