"No, you fucking didn't!"
"I'm not proud of it, but, yeah, I punched him…"
"Bloody Hell, Moony, that's so fucking awesome! Even though I can't picture it. Like… I mean, you punching someone? Shit, how I wish I was there…"
Remus does not.
As a matter of fact, Remus Lupin doesn't know how to throw a punch. Punching certainly isn't something he excels in. "Punch" isn't even a word he likes that much. For a werewolf, he is rather soft.
To be completely honest, Remus has never punched anyone. Because what he so unexpectedly found himself doing, earlier that day, in the clock tower courtyard, was more of a weird slap on the shoulder than a proper punch. Totally unimpressive.
If only James had not forced him to finish his breakfast - "But, I'm late for Potions!" "No way. Breakfast is essential, Moony, it gives you energy! We do not want you to collapse in front of Slughorn, do we? Now, finish your eggs, would you?" – he wouldn't have rushed through the corridors, with his leather bag annoyingly whipping his right hip, and he probably wouldn't have stumbled, which he hated, because he found it so embarrassing, the worst, and he wouldn't have clutched that Ravenclaw's shoulder, in a desperate attempt to regain his balance. He obviously couldn't stop, not even to say how sorry and abashed he was. Cleary, he was in hurry, but most importantly, apologizing meant he would acknowledge his humiliation, and he would rather pretend it did not happen. But as he was dashing away, his cheeks turning a nice shade of red, he heard that poor guy talk, a very confused note in his voice "Was… was that, like, a punch?"
Not a punch. An accident, actually. A slippery cobblestone, haste, and an innate lack of balance. A lethal recipe. As the one James followed to make his infamous "spicy bombs, with a guaranteed flavour explosion!" He said he found the recipe somewhere in the house, he couldn't remember where exactly, but the handwriting was "trustworthy", as he described it . Although Sirius rightly pointed out how sad that pun was, not without a pleased amusement, they all dared to taste those little rolls James was so insistently promoting. He made them with love. Perhaps it was the summer heat, perhaps was their everlasting craving or perhaps it was their naivety. After all, they still believed James Potter could cook something edible, even after they all had witnessed him setting Peter's kitchen on fire. Just a week before. Fools. Predictably, the four of them got sick. And eventually, something did burst. But it would be inappropriate to elaborate more…
Sirius shakes his head, grinning at the stars. He's sure they're smiling back. Remus has his legs crossed and a curve in his mouth he's trying his best to hide.
It's a warm night. Remus takes his jacket off and carefully places it next to him. He folds it, so it doesn't get wrinkled. He always starts from the right sleeve. Then, the left one and, finally, he folds it in half, automatically patting the burgundy surface.
Sirius follows Remus' movements, as his raised eyebrow screams a blatant "I told you so". Sirius didn't bring a jacket because he always is more optimistic. Half full glass. He was sure it was going to be a temperate, preferably starred, night. No need for a "silly jacket, Moony".
Sirius is, in fact, only wearing a white t-shirt, a pair of boxers Remus is sure he's been wearing for a week and some white knee socks Remus is also sure he's been wearing for a week. Remus realizes he's paying too much attention on Sirius' underwear.
They are sitting on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. Just the two of them. It doesn't happen often.
Remus believes he is going to bore Sirius. Sirius believes he is going to bore Remus. So they don't talk, each thinking about something interesting to say. Sirius didn't expect silence to be so comfortable. Remus didn't expect silence to be so uncomfortable.
A gentle breeze blows, caressing Remus' scratched cheeks and tousling Sirius' long hair. He claimed it was the core of his strength. "Like Samson?""Er, no, sorry, but I don't know any Sam, neither his son…". There were exactly three minutes and twenty-four seconds of silence, in which Remus questioned the worth of human existence, pondered on the meaning of death and asked himself how he could tell when he would run out of invisible ink. Only then, Remus felt ready to explain.
Sirius loves the night. Daylight traces sharp outlines, too clear. It is its ambiguity to charm him, the obscurity overflowing with possibilities. It is when the sun goes down that the world gets fascinating, when shadows reduce the boundary between good and evil, and sin gest mistaken for love.
He adores how it paints everything in shades of blue, grey, and black. The same feeling of melancholic nostalgia that Sirius likes so much about the night is the reason why Remus hates it. A constant reminder, an unpleasant warning. An unfortunate countdown to his inevitable destiny, to the horrific metamorphosis he is forced to constantly and repeatedly live, pushed into a never-ending cycle of grief. He died every time and every time he resurrected, still giving up on a little piece of his soul. It was exhausting.
"You know…" Remus begins, "…I should be studying…"
Sirius blinks repeatedly and, although that is a more than an acceptable reason to leave Remus there, on that roof, he still hopes his speech will take an unforeseen turn and redeem himself. Much to Sirius' disappointment, that doesn't happen.
"… I should be revising my notes about the Giant Wars… I don't remember anything, and I mean anything, about the battle of the Yellow Creek… you know, the one between Ulfric the Tower and… what's her name?" He snaps his fingers. "Shorinna from the Marsh."
Sirius sighs. Sirius is not afraid he's not going to pass the test, because he's sure he won't. Ulfric the Tower and, well, pretty much everything Remus has just said, do not worry him, for he cannot be worried about something he ignores. Few are the things Sirius is certain about, like the fact that water boils at 100°C and that the so-called Giant Wars were wars, fought by giants. Very literal. If anything, incontrovertible.
"I'm gonna tell you what we should do. We should go the Quidditch pitch and dance under the pale moonlight as we sing and drink, preferably wine, enjoying life and… yeah, I guess that's it."
Something resembling a smirk appears on Remus' face. "That is so Dionysian of you."
Sirius slowly turns, his eyes closed. He doesn't need to say anything because his curled lips give Remus an already eloquent message. Remus laughs. Sirius doesn't find it that funny.
"Apollonian and Dionysian."
"And would you mind being so kind to, please, explain it, my dear, pretentious, little twit?"
Sirius rubs his forehead, smiling, and Remus fidgets a little with his hands.
Remus hates being a know-it-all. But he hates pretending he doesn't know by heart half of the "de brevitate vitae" in the original Latin even more. He just can't help it. So his friends decided to keep a jar, in which they put a Sickle whenever Remus says something unbelievably pretentious. By far, they have made seven Galleons and nine Sickles - ten Sickles, now -. Remus, too, contributed.
Remus takes a deep breath.
What he really likes about Sirius is his genuine curiosity. Ignorance isn't a limit, but a challenge to overcome. Remus has always thought of him as a philosopher, assuming the term in its original etymology… Remus often felt like a more or less wise master and it seemed like Sirius was his favourite pupil. Well, actually he was his favourite everything but that was beside the point.
Sometimes, Remus felt very Socratic. Both because he agreed with most of his philosophy and also because Remus found himself very unattractive, as much as Socrates, who was often compared to a Silenus. Not a very flattering analogy... Remus is tall and skinny, pale and emaciated. Lanky, perhaps. Always bearing on his face clues of an unspeakable truth. And a pair of wistful emeralds, deep-set into craters of violet sadness, are his eyes. "Maybe, you are the dark side of the moon. "
And to keep the similarity, Remus would like to think Sirius as his Alcibiades, who was Socrates' favourite pupil. Brave, charismatic, intelligent and...well. As once Antisthenes said about the Greek general "If Achilles did not look like this, he was not really handsome." Merlin's beard. He was a pretentious little twit…
"Well, er, the idea of Apollonian and Dionysian is linked to Nietzsche's work. So, er, it basically is a dichotomy. They are the embodiment of two opposite forces. To make it simple, the Apollonian is the long for order and rationality, while the Dionysian is a fleeting and manifold concept, is the joy of chaos, a life impulse."
Sirius listens carefully, feigning he doesn't care, staring at his fingertips but assimilating every single word. Sirius likes Remus' voice. It's soothing. And he likes how he's too shy to look him in the eyes and he likes how he takes small pauses between sentences.
"I mean, honestly, it's true you're pretty Apollonian…" Sirius tilts his head. Remus snorts.
"Yeah… Well, it's like I'm light and you are darkness." Remus makes a gesture with his tapered hands.
"I suppose it is…" Sirius shrugs.
Remus has very nice hands. Sirius often finds himself studying them. His knuckles are red and cyanotic veins trace straight lines in the marble of his skin. His fingers are slender and Sirius wonders what it must feel like to intertwine them with his own. Sirius also has very nice hands. They are big and he often draws on them with his quill. He wears lots of rings and Remus wonders if it would be uncomfortable to hold his hand.
Sirius pulls out a cigarette. From where, Remus doesn't want to know. He glances at him, while he carefully places it between his lips. Remus is curious to know if they are as soft as they seem, while Sirius plays with the filter with his tongue. Then, he lights it, while Remus sighs. He holds it between his left thumb and index, the same way he would hold his pen.
Sirius is left-handed, and his writing is a virtuosity of curves and lines. Chaotic and charming, he always smudge his papers. Whereas Remus has a calligraphy. "You can't say someone has a nice calligraphy, is redundant, Pads." "How?" "The term calligraphy already includes the denotation of nice. It derives from ancient greek, literally from 'kalòs', which means 'beautiful', and 'graphìa' which means 'writing'." "Oh, cool. But I'm still putting a Sickle in the jar."
Remus shifts his position because his legs are getting numb. He gets a little bit too close to Sirius. Accidentally, of course, nothing intentional. Sirius doesn't seem to mind.
They laugh about something silly and they talk about something stupid.
It's wonderful. Whatever it is they have, they cherish it. They savour every moment, every little detail, like Sirius' little mole under his ear or Remus bony knees.
Their feet brush and Sirius keeps poking Remus' shoulder.
Remus wishes time would stop. Sirius wishes time would stop. But it doesn't. Tempus fugit.
It's when their hands finally touch that Remus turns. He meets Sirius' eyes. There is something behind them Remus can't quite interpret. Maybe desire, maybe tenderness. Maybe gloom.
"Promise me," he says, with a seriousness that doesn't really belong to his voice.
"What?" Remus is visibly startled.
"Just promise." Sirius is visibly adamant.
Remus bits his bottom lip. Something is up. Something strange. Sirius keeps staring at Moony's profile, since he doesn't dare to look him in the eyes. And so Remus plays with the hem of his black t-shirt. Eventually, he gives up.
"Okay, fine. I promise." A fleeting glance. "You're weird, Sirius."
"Yeah, I know."
Silence. Remus is gazing at the stars and Sirius has his legs crossed. Silence. Remus rubs his thumb over his lips, feeling the cracked skin. Silence. Sirius plays with his rings.
Suddenly, he takes one from his index. He gives it to Remus. "Here"
Remus has his eyebrows furrowed. It's made of wood and a half-moon is carved in it.
"Morgan's stocking, Sirius! I didn't know you were so cheesy…"
Sirius shrugs.
Only years later he understood what Sirius meant. And the promise he made, well, he didn't keep it. It wasn't for lack of trying. He did. But as much as he wished he wanted to keep that promise, he simply couldn't. Because what Sirius asked him was something he could never do. Remus would never leave him behind.
Sirius Black was dead. Remus Lupin was alive. But was he? Sure, he could still walk, and eat, and breathe, and yet his actions were driven by a passivity that certainly couldn't be considered as vital. An awful knot in his chest, squeezing something that could not possibly be his heart, as he had lost it right after he had lost Sirius.
Remus went to the Astronomy Tower, sighed and climbed to its roof. Where he had been happy for the last time. Truly happy. Because, since then, he often wasn't unhappy, finding ephemeral joys and rare moments of fleeting harmony, but he wasn't happy either. Remus completely repudiated that youthful bliss, that naive joy and that precious passion he had come to hate because they were so… so… so Dionysian.
It was plain daylight and there was a chilly air, which made Remus anchor to his jacket, as it was a life-vest. He sighed and pulled a ring out of his pocket. It was made of wood and a half-moon was carved in it. He gingerly placed it on the roof.
He glanced at it just a couple of seconds before he looked away.
Remus took a deep breath. And he talked to it.
"I've always loved you more than, well, pretty much everything else…" a tardive but necessary confession. "But I guess you knew that…And I was wrong." A breeze blew, slapping his scratched cheeks. "You were light. Well, at least you were my light. Ugh." Remus rubbed his right eye. "It's so corny I know you'd have liked it."
There was silence. Remus didn't expect silence to be so uncomfortable.