Author's Note: This is the English version of my German fic "Mein zärtlichstes Kissen". For the sake of reading pleasure, I tried to avoid a literal translation in favor of a rough one.
My original inspiration came from a poem by German writer Max Dauthendey, but there simply is no proper English translation available. So, to not leave you without poetry, I switched to Charles Baudelaire ;-) I think his work captures the mood of the original poem very beautifully.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe belongs to Mrs Rowling. I own nothing, and I don't make any money with this.
This Black Ocean
xxx
"Indolesco."
Pleasant coolness soothes the racking pain in Remus' leg. With a sigh of relief he sinks back and lets his eyes drift shut while Poppy Pomfrey smoothly casts spell after spell until a last "Ferula" wraps his leg in a tight bandage.
"Here," she says curtly, pushing a small vial with a clear liquid into his hand. "Ten drops every six hours. And don't put too much weight on that leg!"
"Yes," Remus murmurs absently as he slides the vial into his pocket and struggles to get up. "No. Thank you."
He's not sure if she heard him, since she's already turned her attention to the next patient, but he has other concerns than platitudes or a broken leg. When they were brought in, he lost track of Sirius...
Searching, he limps through the impromptu sick bay. A surge of intense dizziness seizes him almost immediately, and his breathing rattles painfully in his chest, but he boldly refuses to pause.
And finally, after what feels like a small eternity, he finds him, seated in an old armchair near the window, watched over by James. He's white as a sheet, and there are splashes of blood on his face, but at least the dark swelling around his eye has disappeared.
It is James who notices Remus first. He nudges Sirius' shoulder gently, pointing in Remus' direction, then he smiles at them and withdraws discreetly.
Sirius heaves himself up, less elegant than usual, but Remus is not in a position to complain. He manages exactly four shaky steps before he literally falls into his lover's arms. Sirius struggles to keep them both upright, but his grip is firm as he pulls Remus into his arms, holding him tight.
"Merlin," he whispers, voice rough. "Moony, are you alright?"
Remus feels violently sick just like after a full moon night, and he's trembling all over, but he nods. His beloved is here with him, in his arms, he's warm and alive, and right now that's all Remus cares about. He reaches up instinctively to bury his fingers in Sirius' hair, in that soft, dark ocean he loves so much. If he can only drink in enough of the warmth and wonderful smell of that hair, then everything's gonna turn out well.
But something is not right. The long, silky strands are not only much shorter than they should be, but they also don't feel exactly silky anymore. Instead, their texture is rough and clotted, strangely sticky even in some places, and a bitter, pungent smell clings to them. Confused, Remus raises his head.
Sirius' beautiful, black curls are burned and torn to shreds, victim of a fire spell, no doubt. What is left barely reaches down to his chin, and every touch has dozens of thin threads of ash float to the ground. Remus stares at his lover, speechless.
Sirius' mouth curves into a bleak smile. "Dolohov," he says. "Bastard. Lucky me that his aim's rubbish."
The thought of a Death Eater getting close enough to his lover to scorch his hair sends icy shivers down Remus' spine. He shudders, but then, all of a sudden, the cold turns into anger, so fierce and hot it causes a painful throbbing sensation behind his forehead. He is mad at Sirius, who undoubtedly has been much too rash and thoughtless in his actions again. He's mad at Dolohov, at Voldemort and all Death Eaters for forcing this war upon them. But most of all, he is mad at the damn war itself.
During those last few months, Remus had seen more death, destruction and suffering than he ever cared to see. The worst thing, however, was that he couldn't stop it. He could not help.
But this unimportant little fleabite, this mere nothing in view of the atrocities they face day after day, this is finally something he can put right. It's a petty rebellion, yes, one that will change nothing, but this one time Remus can make sure that the damned Death Eaters will not have the final say.
He firmly interlaces his finger with the sad remains of Sirius' hair, then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
"Moony?" Sirius asks, concerned, and draws him a little closer. "You okay?"
"Shut up," Remus murmurs. It's not a very difficult spell, but the room is still spinning around him, so he needs to concentrate.
The magic he weaves is a warm, tingling sensation that flows through his hands and fingers, a gentle stream connecting him to his lover. It takes mere moments, and when the last trickle has passed, Remus opens his eyes.
Sirius' head is tilted back, his eyes are closed, and his dark hair flows soft and feather-light onto his shoulders. All traces of the fire spell are gone, replaced by a gentle golden glow, reflections of the gas lamps above them. Remus watches in fascination as some wayward ringlets form tiny spirals against Sirius' fair skin, like ink marks on parchment, and then his beautiful lover smiles at him and asks: "Better?"
"Much better," Remus says. There's a tremor in his voice, he notices, and then he lets go and does what he's been longing for so painfully: He presses his face into the curve of Sirius' neck, caressing the long, soft tresses and letting the familiar scent calm his thoughts and his heartbeat both until he's sure that he has well and truly lost himself in it.
Somewhere in the distance, first Mad-Eye, then Poppy are speaking, but Remus couldn't possibly care less. Another voice, closer and much more welcome, demands his attention.
"C'mon, little wolf," it purrs into his ear. "Let's go home."
Tomorrow, Remus will blame himself for not staying and trying to help in some way. But the little spell has taken its toll on him, and the Indolesco is beginning to wear off. He wants to take a double dose of Draught of Living Death, cover himself with the warm body of his lover and sleep undisturbed for about the next ten years. After all, he sulks to himself as he is yanked into the swirling darkness of a sloppy Apparition, they've gotten off halfway cheaply today.
Which means that, at least for now, there's gonna be a tomorrow for them.
xxx
In this black ocean where the primal ocean roars,
Drunken, in love with drunkenness, I plunge and drown;
Over my dubious spirit the rolling tide outpours
Its peace - oh, fruitful indolence, upon thy shores,
Cradled in languor, let me drift and lay me down!
Charles Baudelaire, The Head of Hair, 1857
Translation by George Dillon & Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1936
*Fin*