A/N: RemusxSirius, during and directly following OoTP. Oneshot.
November.
Remus hates old things.
The squirming distaste was acquired over time, ironically enough. It isn't something logical, nor something that follows the werewolf's usual careful and intricate patterns of deliberation. He finds that the most peculiar things trigger the hate: The odd tilt of a clock on the far wall, or the way lamplight splashes across a room, not quite reaching the foot of the bed. The way muggle cars rev by, outside, making those odd, growling noises, grinding and clanking. It all makes him nauseous, dizzy.
Antique objects are constant sources of grief. Rust, discolouration. Chipped paint. It's like looking into a mirror- (Which, incidentally, he hasn't done in weeks.) It's something that does more harm than good, he declares firmly to himself. This strange aversion is why he smashed the teacup, accidentally, last Thursday morning, drops of Darjeeling embarrassingly scattered across the carpet. It was why he had put the mahogany coffee table out on the street to be taken away, and why he had sold the yellowing floor lamp, as well as countless tattered-backed volumes of Chaucer and Proust, these now represented by gaping holes on the angled bookshelf.
It's also precisely the reason why he can't fall asleep on this particular night. No, not while hearing the creak of the floorboards as mice skitter across another room; and the steady ache of the sloping cottage walls, the puttering hum of the near-useless heater. These are things that seem out of place, unclean, in their old age, and he isn't just annoyed by the sounds, he hates them.
Because, worst of all, Remus knows that he himself is aging, too. He is old, plain and simple, there's no way around it, and so he lumps himself in the same category as the broken teacup and the lamp and the books; things deemed utterly useless. Old things are conspicuous, and they are slow. They're languid, breathing with deep, raggedy sighs. They stop taking in life and begin to reflect it instead; the fluid passing of year to year personified. Getting old means giving up, complying, and that is the deadliest sin any object, whether inanimate or whether human, can commit.
It was unfair, he thought to himself, getting older, although he was never one to complain about that which he could not change. Unfair, but also inevitable. Remus rolls over in bed, wool scratching against one arm, Sirius nuzzling towards him, muttering affectionate nonsense in his sleep, and he found his lips perking into a small smile, despite himself.
Sirius claimed he didn't care about age, not when it came to "his" Remus, for he had years of his own to count off. Azkaban had not treated him well; there were purple bruises, white scars, and a myriad of vibrant, multi-coloured hex marks scorched along his ribcage, his spine. There were layers of darkness underneath his eyes, and the green irises were faded, tinted yellow, like parchment. They did not glint anymore; not with the same mysterious confidence they used to. Now, they were guarded, shading all the secrets he couldn't bring himself to hide in his youth.
It had been a little over a year and a half since that night in the Shrieking Shack, and he still found himself in awe at how difficult it all was. Loving someone. Being loved. When Sirius had showed up on the doorstep, neither knew what to do or say. He took him in, fed him, cleaned him up, without a word. After, they sat there, staring at one another for the better part of an hour. When the clock struck midnight, Remus had started and muttered that they both should go to sleep, Sirius in Remus' bed, and Remus on the couch.
He knew he wasn't going to get any rest this night, tossing and turning on the navy blue loveseat. Not in a situation like this one. He closed his eyes, counting slowly backwards from one hundred. It didn't work, only made him more jittery. When he opened his eyes again, Sirius' tall figure stood there, beside him, holding a lamp, looking confused.
Remus sat up quickly. "What are you doing here?"
Sirius frowned at him, eyes glazed. "I don't know. I just felt that I should. Be here, that is."
"I don't understand-"
"With you."
His throat closed up, unexpectedly.
Sirius moved closer, kneeling. "I felt… No, that's not right." His voice sounded like a child's. "I.. knew I should be here with you."
The knot in Remus' throat was so tight, he could only nod. Even as Sirius nervously slid underneath the blanket, hands cold on Remus' torso, whispering something affectionate and unintelligible, there was only the gentle bob of his head in response. Their legs were tangled, their backs aching. Sirius shifted, atop Remus, pressing his throat against the werewolf's chest so close that when he spoke, Remus felt it reverberate in his lungs.
"I missed you."
And that was all that Sirius got out, for his dark eyes were suddenly alarmingly wet. He bowed his head low, unnaturally reverent, waiting. Remus quietly stroked his tangled hair, wanting dearly to do more, to say more, but instead only nodding, over and over again, feeling his own eyes growing wet as well.
"I missed you, too."
Something about having him back made it difficult to function, brought him to blank out during a meal, or to forget where he was while in the middle of a conversation. The simple fact of Sirius being there had thrown his universe upside-down.
For the first three years that Sirius had been in Azkaban, Remus had been furious at him. Long, attentive hours were spent making sure his things were gone from the house, that every scent and trace and remembrance of his was as far away as possible. Clothing was burned, dishes and picture frames that held memories were magicked into dust. Things which had their time, and now whose inanimate lives deserved to end. But destruction turned to grief, and for the second three years, Remus could barely trust himself in public, for fear that he might, without warning, break down, like a decades-old train, or like a feral animal. Alone in the confines of his familiar four walls, he found himself doing the same things, over and over again. He made tea, he read poetry, and he attempted suicide six times before realizing that living there, in that house was simply too much for him. He moved further into the countryside, into hiding.
The third three years were blurry, and he only remembered bits and pieces. Full moons were worse than ever, leaving him with gashes across his face, his hands, and he told himself he deserved it.
The last year, he had gotten down to extracting the last, slight indentations of Sirius from his mind. Until, one foggy morning, he opened the paper only to see the face of his ex-lover burning up at him; and it was back, all back. Their relationship, now like the teacup and the lamp and Remus himself, was aged, and he couldn't stand the mere thought of it.
It took a long time, later, to adapt back into a patten, into intimacy and affection with him. To erase the suspicion, the anger. But he knew Sirius was doing the same thing, wiping away the same misgivings, and the thought made it all a bit easier. It was fresh, even for the moment, and that made all the difference in the world to him.
It isn't hate of old things, he realizes, frowning in the darkness, running his fingers through Sirius' hair and preparing for yet another hour awake before dawn. It's something else.
Terror.
- -
June.
He would always remember the way Sirius' face froze, like a vintage muggle photograph, when he told him that it was over. "We can't do this anymore." Love had gotten old. Their love had gotten too old, and he couldn't take it anymore. The edges of the story were bleeding inwards, pressing them closer and closer together, marking kisses and caresses with age spots and blemishes. It wasn't right anymore, nor young, nor hopeful. Sex was hollow; saying I love you was like confessing before a jury of a thousand: Brutal and embarrassing. All things must come to an end, he reasoned, eventually. And surely the era of their romance had long since passed.
More so, he would remember the way Sirius' hadn't fought or snapped or shouted; he didn't even resist. Instead he stuttered, of all things, a dull compliant I supposes s-so and somehow that was a thousand times worse than all the other possibilities put together. For the bumbled, botched words were marked with the knowledge that both of them held heavy in their chests; that times were changing, and they had no choice but to change with them. And so, as Sirius turned to leave, Remus felt older than ever; forcing himself to repress the desire to fling his body at his ex-lover's ankles and drag him back to their sun-stained bed. He suddenly understood why Sirius was so reckless, exactly why so much of his behavior was unnecessary and distasteful. It made him feel young, again. Just like Remus did, watching Sirius turn at the end of the hallway, and fantasizing over a million romantic ways to make a fool of himself. But as his ankle flicked around the corner, Remus frowned, not fully understanding what he had just done, before returning to his bedroom, where he lifted a pewter bookend from a high shelf and threw it roughly into the rubbish bin, oddly angry.
Old things don't simply get older. They go away, in time.
And in two days, Sirius would be dead.
- -
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Sirius' body falling backwards. It was too natural for comfort, too natural for anything except death. Almost as if he, Sirius, had known. Almost as if he had nothing to live for anymore, minus a few heartbeats of laughter before dying; a shattered attempt to relive his youth.
The image burned vividly into his retinas, and he turned away.
- -
July.
"Padfoot."
He whispers the title out loud, to the fireplace, to the crows on the windowsill. He says it again. "Padfoot." The word feels strange and full in his mouth, too many edges, and he realizes that he hasn't said it aloud in years. Just a silly old nickname. His own voice; his very own syllables dripping slowly off his lips sound far too raw to really be his. But he says it louder, desperate. "Padfoot." Remus is on his knees beside the foot of the bed; he had dropped his reading glasses, and, while stooping to retrieve them, the impact of his loss came out of nowhere and punched him in the jaw. Unarmed, he found himself quaking, crouched low to the ground, one hand steadying himself on the bedside table. Now look what you've done.
He had not gone to the funeral; he had been anxious (and still was) as to what he might have done, might have said. Not to mention what others might have said to him, about him. For weeks and weeks after, he did not cry. Did not understand it, hardly at all. What had happened was something horrible, he knew. But the absence of warmth in his bed at night and the image of Sirius wilting into the veil did not seem to coincide. Something was empty, and Sirius was gone, but they certainly couldn't be the same thing. He wouldn't allow it. It felt like Azkaban again, that by some miracle, he would wake up one morning with the brunette beside him, and all would be well and good once more.
People had certainly talked about it enough, asked him if he was all right, using words like "coping" and "loss." He didn't know what to say, not ever, resorting to nodding (something he was quite good at) as his preferred method of avoidance. He had spent long hours awake, trying to make all those words make sense, until, while grasping a pair of glasses tight in his hand, it hit him.
Sirius is dead.
It wasn't true. This was one of those things that happened and you laughed about later, when you were safe and things were right. This couldn't be true, he told himself, still on his knees beside the bed (-Anyone watching would have thought him to be praying- And what a joke that would have been-) even as his vision began to cloud over, and a fierce fire began in his chest, something too passionate, too real. Something he hadn't felt for a long, long time.
Dead.
"I'm sorry."
They were words that were seldom spoken by Remus, only used in times of dire despair. Only utilized in those fleeting, awful moments where he was sure the world would fall apart if he didn't patch up this one small seam.
That's all they two were, in the grand scheme of things. One small seam. A few stitches, carefully sewn and rudely ripped apart. But slowly, slowly, woven back into place, with time and with need. Not force. Force did not come into play until Remus had used it to single-handedly pull them apart again, right before Sirius went and was-
"I was terrified."
It is an outrageously poor excuse, he realizes, feeling ridiculous, as wind pushes in through a hole in the pane and stings at his eyes, which spill over, cold on his nose, his lips. Wind, that's all. Just wind.
Unsure, he keeps repeating the same words. "I was terrified, Padfoot."
For now their love is no longer old and wrinkled, it's vanished, like steam into sweet morning air. There's nothing left to look at, pine over, not anymore.
"And I hope you understand, because I sure as hell don't."
His voice breaks, and Remus tells himself it's time to stop this, before he does something truly stupid. So he, with a great effort, he wipes his cheeks and rises himself up and onto his feet, looking around the quiet room wearily. He swallows past the strangled feeling in his throat as he lies back down on the bed, which still smells of Sirius, (-Probably just imagining it-) even after all these years.
The mattress creaks loudly, and Remus thinks to himself that it's about time to get rid of that old thing, too.
- -
For the love of Remus Lupin, review. Pretty please?