The Nature of the Beast
by Magdalen-Rose
Remus/Sirius, rated M for sex and angst.
Note: These characters do not, obviously, belong to me, but rather to J.K. Rowling. And each other.
It wasn't, Remus reflected as he dragged himself off the couch, that he was bitter. He'd dealt with all the bitterness twelve years ago – it came right after the shock and before the deadening depression.
He tugged at the loose and fraying edge of his sweater.
It was more that he was tired.
Yes, that was it.
He was tired of waiting. For the loneliness to abate. For James and Lily to come round, perch on the table in his dining room, and talk over each other. For Sirius to stride in the door and toss the hair off his forehead and kiss Remus half to death. For that warm certainty in the center of his stomach that had started burning when he met them. For the sense of stretching into himself, opening into himself, that they'd brought out in him. For the dark heat that filled him when Sirius looked at him, the choking desire when Sirius kissed him, the impossible-to-replicate way that Sirius stroked the hair off his face, afterward. The sense of being surrounded and protected and emboldened by a gang, and being chosen – by Sirius Black, of all people, by this impetuous, impossible, brilliant, beautiful boy. So many evenings had been spent staring at himself as he stood in the center of this tiny universe, amazed to discover that they liked him.
He'd always stood half outside himself; that was how he learned things. Always monitored the situation and made notes. Sirius had been mystified by this, had flung one arm around Remus' neck during their fifth year at Hogwarts and said, "come on Moony, turn off that brain and live a little, won't you?"
And then three years later, Sirius' body arched above him, eyebrows drawn together, that strange three-a.m. honesty, whispering, "you keep me grounded, you're my lightning rod, Remus, you're … you're my center …"
He closed his eyes.
Yes, he was tired of waiting. As though they'd all gone off somewhere and he'd been left holding their bags and waiting for them to return and somehow twelve years had gone by as if by accident, and he was still there.
He'd have to move eventually. Not move off the couch to answer the door – his downstairs neighbour probably needed another egg, she was a brilliant cook but terrible at remembering things – but move away from that place of suspension. From the moment when he'd been standing by his and Sirius' window and lazily watching the owls, and one had swooped elegantly up to his window, and …
He wished he'd enjoyed the sight of that owl more; it really was beautiful, and the sun brought out rainbows in its gorgeous soft feathers. If he'd known the news it brought, he would have watched it forever, would have locked that beauty away in his memory along with every memory of Sirius in his bed, of James' quick grin and Lily's vivacious laugh, of Sirius … Sirius … oh Sirius …
He'd tipped the owl and bowed to it, watched it fly off again, and opened the letter.
Regret to inform you … James and Lily Potter … an attack in their home … one-year-old son Harry survived, but …family … Lord Voldemort …
And then those words at the bottom, already blurring together as he'd taken the letter and fallen against the counter in his kitchen – Sirius Black … Ministry of Magic issued a warrant … Azkaban …
What he'd hated most in the few days after the letter was how he didn't care. It made him sick sometimes, how much he didn't care, how much he wanted him anyway, the ridiculous fantasies he had of chasing after him, of escape, of suicide. It made him almost as much a traitor as Sirius had been. Maybe more.
Later, he'd been able to convince himself that it wasn't that he didn't care, but rather that he hadn't been able to believe it. In his grief over James and Lily, he'd wanted to turn to the only other person who really understood, and that was Sirius. Wanted to bury his face in Sirius' chest and suck the salt off his skin. Wanted to dig his fingertips into Sirius' hips – slim, smooth, his – and wash away all that aching grief. He hadn't realised what a potent aphrodhisiac grief was, how he was consumed for days afterward by heart-pounding thoughts of darkness and blood and sweat, how he needed to strip off the dull sweaters he barely managed to pull on in the morning and tear Sirius down into bed with him, to pull at his skin and bite at it, at the leather strip around his neck, the vulnerable flesh below it, to drive his hips against Sirius' until there was nothing but heat and darkness and stars.
He'd needed to make something. To remember that he was alive. To fight the belief that this was the end of everything.
But instead he'd been faced by this stark monastic emptiness, the insufficient company of his own body and his own thoughts and his own dwindling supply of alcohol. James and Lily were dead, and Sirius was in prison, and his life had suddenly become stark and cold and empty, and he was helpless.
So it was a bit of a shock when he finally trudged over to the door and opened it, to find Sirius standing on the mat.
His hair was soaked, and he wore a black coat over dark trousers, and carried a small suitcase.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, Remus in his filthy old sweater with a cup of tea in his hand, and Sirius dripping on the mat.
After a second, Remus stood to the side and Sirius silently entered the flat. Remus didn't turn from the door, didn't take his hand off it, didn't look up from the spot in the hall where he'd fixed his eyes, right on the third step of the staircase up to the next floor.
"The place looks good, Moony, you've kept it up well."
Sirius didn't put down his suitcase, or turn – he stood in the living room, facing the kitchen, his back to Remus.
"And you're looking very well yourself," he continued. "I hear you've accepted a post at Hogwarts."
There was silence from the brown-haired man at the door; not a cold silence but a frozen one.
"And I hear that young Harry –"
"Sirius."
Sirius and Remus both turned at the same time.
"I didn't do it, Remus," Sirius whispered. "I didn't do it."
He looked older, Remus thought, taking his first real look at the black-haired man with white skin who stood in his – what used to be their – living room and continued to drip on the carpet.
"Do you believe me?"
"Does it matter?"
Remus was suddenly ashamed of everything. Ashamed of the ratty old sweater around his thin shoulders, ashamed of the stubble on his cheeks, ashamed of the piles of papers that sat haphazardly near empty teacups on every horizontal surface around the flat. Ashamed of having done nothing with the last twelve years but read a lot and wait for Sirius.
There was a gravity in Sirius' face that had never been there before. Remus had lain in his – their – his – bed so many times and imagined Sirius' face on the pillow next to his, and it had subtly changed in his imagination over the years, back from the young man into the high-spirited sixteen-year-old and then back and over and forward and into something like what he saw now, only without the hunted look in the black eyes and the sallowness to the skin.
But the man was still beautiful, there could be no denying that. Remus almost wished he could, wished that prison could have sapped that strange, wild prettiness out of Sirius' face, so that he could think straight now.
He sighed, and put the teacup down on an end table, clearing a stack of old Daily Prophets that he hadn't gotten rid of yet to make room for it.
"I'll get you a towel. How'd you get so wet, anyway, took a wrong turn at the Serpentine?"
"It's raining where I came from," Sirius replied.
"But your clothes –" Remus paused. "Oh."
"You won't tell, will you?" Sirius asked, and there was half a moment when his voice became sixteen, and Remus' heart squeezed together.
He shook his head.
"Moony, I didn't do it."
"It doesn't matter now."
Somewhere in his mind his near-dead intellect roused itself to murmur, it does matter – you'll be with Harry Potter every day next year and if this man is actually trying to kill him, you shouldn't be aiding and abetting his escape from justice – but his long-practiced skill at deadening any thought or feeling managed to get rid of it pretty quickly.
Sirius bit his lip – oh God, the sudden visceral memories of Sirius biting his lip – and turned with an exhausted sigh towards the kitchen.
"Have you got anything to eat?"
"Not really."
"To drink?"
"Tea. And scotch. Not much else."
"Remus –"
"It doesn't matter, Sirius."
"You'd only say that if you thought I did it. If I didn't, it does matter, because then I'm innocent and it's all been wrong, and something is still out there trying to get Harry. But if I did do it, your saying it doesn't matter only says that you're willing to take me on any terms, with no explanation and no apologies, after I went to the Dark Lord and killed your two best friends, and you're standing there wide-eyed and mute and telling me it doesn't matter, and – and –"
Remus was drinking in that voice, the liquid rush of words against his body – it's Sirius talking to you.
"And all it means is that you've lost everything I ever loved about you."
"Sirius –"
"Your fight, Remus. You always belonged to a part of the battle that none of us
could understand – it was inside you. And there I was, spoilt and self-centered and sixteen, and I suppose something in me recognised how much I needed that. How much I needed that sobriety and that strength, and – and I …"
Sirius was coming back into the living room, from the doorway, coming closer to Remus, close enough for Remus to feel his breath, close enough to hear his whisper, close enough to touch – one hand stroking Remus' hair at his temple, brushing it back over his ear.
"I clung to that for twelve years, and I don't want to know I was clinging to air."
It was Remus who began the kiss, leaning forward and brushing his lips over Sirius', melting into the small whimper of release at the contact. Sirius' tongue slid between Remus' lips and Remus opened his mouth against Sirius', clung to his hips under the thin black coat, scrabbled at the loops of his trousers.
"Do you believe me?" Sirius asked gently, as they pulled reluctantly apart, and Remus began breathing again. Remus could still smell the rain and the dust and the sweat that was Sirius, could still taste that achingly familiar flavour of his skin. He slowly licked the inside of his own mouth, to capture it.
"Why should I?"
"And yet you'll – you'll – kiss me anyway –" Sirius turned away, his hands raised, one of them rising uncertainly to his forehead and pushing his hair back.
"Sirius –"
"It doesn't matter to you," Sirius spat.
Tell him he's lying.
"I love you," Remus said, pathetically. "I've – I've loved you no matter what."
Sirius was silent for a while. Remus looked at him, perched on the back of the sofa, turned away from him. He looked at Sirius' shoulders, wide but not overpowering, at his curved back, at the black curls over his neck and the black coat pulled over his body. That body that was real, and solid, and could bring him the taste of Sirius that he'd been dying for all these years.
"You have no idea what it's like in there," Sirius said at last. "No idea. I imagine it was hell out here for you, but in there –"
He paused.
"I had nothing to do for twelve years but rail at the injustice that brought me there, and repent of all my sins. For the first two or three years I clung to the thought of you as my salvation, as this perfect man who'd rescued me from my own silliness and idiocy. I thought of you in aching, desperate detail, went over everything we'd ever said to one another, everything we'd ever …" Sirius' voice turned from an eloquent oration to a darker growl, and Remus' breath caught, "everything we'd ever done with each other – Remus –"
And they were kissing again, Sirius pulling the awful sweater over Remus' head and tossing it to the side, Remus' body fitting perfectly between Sirius' legs, hands on Sirius' thighs. Sirius closed his eyes and kissed his way down the other man's neck, slid off the back of the couch and gripped the back of Remus' head, and they were breathing in the closeness and heat of each other's bodies like they were starving.
Sirius fell away with a groan, and Remus could have cried with frustration.
"Let me finish – Moony, please –"
It was the catch in his voice as he murmured "please," and Remus – Sirius could see his body outlined now under the thin shirt that had been below the sweater, could see the slender waist and the smooth chest – the chest that had furtively slid against his in the dark in Gryffindor Tower, in their bed in their flat in their London – Remus pulled Sirius' head back and bit at his neck, his other hand gripping Sirius' waist, pulling his shirt out from his trousers.
"Please – I need to – let me finish, Moony – oh –"
With a sob, Sirius pushed Remus away, and lifted a hand gently to the bite mark on his neck. Remus watched him, watched the black and white in his face, the slight wince of pain and surprise and wary pleasure.
"Remus. I need to tell you."
Remus was shaking.
"The more I thought of what had happened with us, the more I began to hate myself. That is the torture of prison – there is nothing to do but think, and soon your own thoughts begin to turn against you, as they have no reality to grapple with."
Remus could see that Sirius was fighting to get the words out; his hands gripped the back of the couch and his knuckles were white. He tried not to think of Sirius' fingers, of sucking them one by one as Sirius wriggled and moaned below him.
"Moony, did you ever … did you ever do something … with me … that I made you do?"
"What?"
"I need to know."
"Have you gone absolutely mad?"
Sirius' expression didn't change – half-stricken, half-anxious, and with an edge of desperation. Remus' gaze lingered on his full mouth, and the bite mark on his neck, the only marks of colour on his body.
"I need to know."
"Sirius, I would have died for you. I was desperate to have you, I would have done anything, willingly."
"I know. That's what I was afraid of." He nodded slowly, and picked his suitcase up. "I'll find someplace – I need to – I can go somewhere else, and –"
"Sirius, what on earth –"
"Moony, if you weren't afraid of losing me, what would you have done differently?" There was a moment of silence, and then Sirius said, "I had years to think this over, and I couldn't get away from the idea that – that keeping me happy was all that ever mattered, and that it was never about you, or for you, and that I – that I had a part in making that happen."
"Sirius – darling –"
Sirius' voice was quiet.
"Remus, every time we went to bed together, who was it that started it?"
They stood in the living room by the door, and stared at each other.
If I let him go, he is gone – and his memories and mine corrupted. If I beg him to stay, it will only make him believe harder what he believes now.
After a long moment in which neither of them moved, Remus finally spoke, and his voice was cold.
"Here's what I will do. I will send an owl to the Ministry of Magic and inform them that their pet fugitive has appeared at my door. Then I will take you to bed. Afterwards, whether a large dog disappears from my back door or Sirius Black is returned to Azkaban in handcuffs, I will wake up alone tomorrow. Are we agreed?"
Sirius nodded, slowly. Remus walked into the kitchen, picking up a few stray teacups on the way and depositing them into the sink, and opened a cage hanging by the window. Sirius listened from the living room, his fingers drumming odd rhythms on the back of the couch.
After a minute, Remus reappeared in the doorway, and Sirius shed his coat and walked towards him.
Their mouths met and Remus sucked at Sirius' bottom lip, biting it gently and pressing his hips forward at Sirius' gasping response.
"Bed?" Sirius asked.
"Mmm … here," Remus moaned in reply. "Sirius … here."
"Yes," Sirius hissed against Remus' mouth as their fingers twisted together between them, as Sirius reached over and pulled open Remus' shirt, letting his fingers – delicate, clever fingers, Remus thought – trail over the scars that covered the man's chest.
"Quickly …" Sirius gasped, pushing Remus' shirt off his shoulders and then letting Remus help him with his own. Remus' right leg was pressed between Sirius', and his hip was circling to stroke Sirius under his trousers, and Sirius was gasping and kissing him and pulling them closer, his hands spread out across Remus' hips.
"Mmm …"
"More –"
"Please – Sirius –"
And those beautiful fingers were at Remus' belt, pulling his trousers down and Sirius was kneeling and taking Remus in his mouth – oh God his mouth – and Remus was tangling his fingers in Sirius' hair, still damp, and – oh –
He came silently, his throat arched, cradling Sirius' head in his hands.
Oh.
Sirius.
Remus slid down to the floor with a little mewing cry, and then he was panting and limp in Sirius' arms, his own hands on Sirius' bare waist where his back curved as he sat against the door.
And then he was straddling Sirius, his hand tugging at Sirius' silver belt with the Animagus symbol carved on it – James had one like this – and he was rocking with the break and retreat of Sirius' body below him – Sirius – under him – Sirius – one hand gripping Sirius' wrist and twisting it behind his back as Sirius arched and moaned – you're mine, how dare you do this to me, you bastard, don't leave me, don't leave me …
"Remus –"
And the warm desire rising in him again, the desperate clawing need to consume this impossibly beautiful mercurial ephemeral man that was choking under his touch, that was pushing his hips upwards towards Remus' body, that was –
"Oh God Remus oh …"
Sirius tensed and came against Remus' grip, falling back with a little helpless cry and lying still against the doorway, his eyes closed, before wrapping his hands up around Remus' bare back and pulling him down to bury his face against his damp shoulder.
"Mine," Remus whispered, and they stayed entwined on the floor for a long moment, until their breathing slowed and synchronised, and Remus opened his mouth and ran his tongue over the bite mark he'd left on Sirius' neck.
EPILOGUE
Remus had another cup of tea, but the sweater was still on the floor. He stared out the kitchen window over the street, over the night, the lights and the faraway windows and the sound of laughter from all the Muggles going on their dates.
I could have guarded him, kept him here, sheltered him. I didn't have to be alone again.
He sipped slowly. He'd put some lemon juice in it.
But there are sometimes, more important things.
Perhaps tomorrow he'd clean the place up a bit. Start work on some lesson plans. September would be here before he knew it.
There is the body, and I have been without that for so long. But there is also the mind, the loves and betrayals that take place inside your own head, and I have rescued him from that. I have done something dreadful – I have run him out of his sanctuary. But I have given him a sanctuary to carry with him as he runs.
And perhaps, after all, I needed to. Perhaps he'd done too much that was horrible to me, and he needed me to make it even. Perhaps there is a necessity to the wolf.
He drained the last dregs of his tea, and laid the cup on the counter, not moving from the window. A stray dog nosed around the porch across the street, and then looked up.
He has his past back now, and the present is ever-shifting. Perhaps, one day, there will be a future.
The dog moved down the street, and Remus closed the window.