Summary: and the truth is he would run away if Sirius asked him to
Warnings: language
Other Notes: for barefootboys spring 08 prompt 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of its characters, including and especially Sirius and Remus.
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Slowly, Remus slides his thin legs through the wide bars of the balcony. He dangles the soles of his feet over the city. There's a mist hanging heavy in the air and when he breathes in he feels like he's breathing water. Last night it rained so hard he couldn't sleep. He stared up at the ceiling, the play of shadows over the walls; listened to Sirius's steady breathing; paid attention, for once, to small things like the beat of his too-human heart. That rain is gone now but it has left behind the sharp sting smell of an early spring storm; the threat of another still hangs over them.
Sirius is standing next to him and leaning so far over the balcony edge that Remus worries he'll fall. Sirius has been complaining all morning that he feels like he hasn't slept in weeks. It's true he looks terrible. His skin's all bruised and slashed from magic spells and he's cut his hair short again like it was when they first met. When Remus runs his hands over it, it brushes in tickling waves over his palm. Now Sirius pulls out a cigarette, and another for Remus; Remus lights his with his palm and Sirius his with an ancient Muggle lighter that he stole, in the way that rich kids steal, to show that he could.
"I don't feel good about this," Sirius murmurs, blows out smoke over the city. He's still holding the lighter in his free hand, twisting it back and forth through his fingers.
"The mission?"
"The war."
Confessions like this, they can only be said with eyes focused out. Remus reaches out his free hand and touches Sirius's leg gently, because it's all he can do, and it is awkward and it does not help, and it can't.
"I'm afraid we're going to lose," Sirius says.
And then:
"Fuck, don't tell James that."
Remus knows he is trying to smile but not getting much of anywhere, trying to be calm as he taps the ash of his cigarette off of the balcony edge. He hasn't shaved in days and the dark stubble of his beard is growing rough over his cheeks. The mist is moving, heavier and heavier, around them. It's bringing them omens but Remus doesn't know, can't know, of what. His hand is still resting just above Sirius's bare foot, and the truth is, he would run away if Sirius asked him to.
The realization makes him feel so sick that he can feel the physical twist in his stomach. He feels a bit shaky. Sirius doesn't notice, just stands there quietly now. Maybe waiting for Remus to answer.
If they left, where would they go?
To Italy, maybe, a Mediterranean spring, a breeze of perfect temperature that wafts over the skin. Storms that one can run through, storms that refresh, not these oppressive thunders that clatter over them and leave this overcast sky, these gray color-draining shadows. Maybe in Italy they could swim naked in waters that are more green than blue. They could become beautiful, like those statues in the books Remus used to borrow every Sunday from the library, and in imitating them they could give life to those pale broken ancient limbs.
And maybe when Sirius kisses him it would finally be okay for Remus to say I love you. Maybe he would finally be able to.
The truth is that Sirius isn't going to ask him.
"Sometimes, I don't even know what we're doing here," Sirius says, and he looks down now and catches Remus's eye, an accident on Remus's part, and when Remus doesn't say anything, or do anything but look away, down at the passing cars below them, the eight story drop, Sirius takes a last sharp drag off his cigarette and grinds it out under his foot.
"Sometimes you make me sick," he says, and goes inside.