Apparently, I'm going with a theme where each part gets longer and longer, until I am writing chapters the length of an actual Harry Potter book, but with slightly more explicit werewolf snogging. Enjoy!
It is very late. It is so very late, it has gone past late and back around to early. Very early. Remus has been ready to go to bed for the better part of an hour, but it's taken him this long to clear the Common Room of all non-Gryffindors, conscious and unconscious alike. He feels somewhere between a bouncer and a high-strung mother who's come home to find her children in the middle of an unauthorized party. It is not a flattering comparison, he realizes, but he doesn't care. The call of his bed is so loud and strong, he could Apparate directly there, wards be damned.
And he's annoyed, as well. Not that he has a right to be, he supposes, but the combination of uninvited nausea at the thought of how Sirius managed to get lipstick in his ear and the exhaustion of watching out for a room full of drunken teenagers has left Remus feeling like his head may explode and splatter all over the carpeting. He hopes it stains. And what's even more irritating is how lovely a time Sirius seems to be having, as though he were not the most exasperating human being on the planet. He is unapologetic for his stupid smile that makes Remus dizzy and his stupid, stupid eyes that Remus sees everywhere, whether he wants to or not. It's just rude.
From across the room he hears: "Blast it all, my cape is falling!" And indeed, the red velvet drapery Sirius has tied around his shoulders is working its way down his back, rather determinedly.
"Har har, you've an arse-apron," slurs James, who appears to be melding with an armchair.
Remus shakes his head and grimaces as the possibility of immediate and eternal sleep slips quietly out of the room. "What happened to your First Years, Prongs?"
"There was a coup. I don't want to talk about it."
Remus cannot help but think this to be a good thing. His eyes automatically scan the room for Peter. In his experience, when there are intoxicated Marauders afoot, it is best to keep an accurate headcount. Marauders left unaccounted for lead to Bad Things and, on occasion, arson. The fact that there was a time, perhaps an hour ago, when James, Peter, and several First Years were missing is not something Remus wants to think about just now.
Without much trouble, he spots Peter's feet sticking out from behind a couch nearby. He is recognizable by his socks. If Hogwarts had a muggle annual, Peter would surely be voted Most Amusingly Mismatched Socks. Tonight, one is purple, and the other red and glowing. As Remus rounds the edge of the sofa, Peter stirs confusedly and runs a hand through his hair, smearing something orange and gloopy all over his head. He stares up at Remus, oblivious. Remus glances pointedly at Peter's left hand.
"Where did you get that goo?"
Peter opens his mouth a few times, mutters something about a bet and dubloons, and slumps back into unconsciousness.
"Oh bugger and blasphemy," Remus mutters, debating whether the Code of Ethics for Drunken Marauding requires he determine the nature of the orange goo and it's intentions towards Peter's scalp.
The goo bubbles, threateningly.
Remus sighs and tries to vanquish it. After several attempts, he is successful only in turning it a slightly less aggressive shade of orange. Finally, he settles for transfiguring it into a wooly orange hat. Peter hates wool. Serves him right.
He lays Peter on his side and eyes the glowing sock warily, trying to remember if it has always glowed. Remus decides it is not nearly as important as making sure that loud thump-thump-thumping noise now emanating from the other side of the room is not the sound of some First Year's untimely death via use as a battering ram. He steps from behind the couch to find James, now detached from his upholstered companion, slumped on the carpet, banging his head against the coffee table rather pathetically.
"What is it, mate?" Sirius offers, only just noticing James loud, thumpy distress.
James sits up and stares at Sirius like My god man, can you not see this, the Vast and Looming difficulty that can only be resolved through self-inflicted head injury? and Sirius stares back like Hello, what were we talking about?
Before James can answer, they are interrupted by vomit. James's, to be specific.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Remus says, without malice. He is much too tired to be malicious, and, frankly, feels that he would prefer to save his malice, irritation, and general murderous hatred for the makers of Ogden's Finest, a "Mr. Ogden," presumably. Perhaps he will write a nasty letter.
"Brahahahaha!" Sirius shouts abruptly.
"WHAT?"
"...My arms are funny. It's your fault," he says, wiggling them in front of himself like so much angry seaweed. "You make them funny. Stop it."
"Your head is funny," Remus spits back, without looking.
"Moony, Moony, Moo-Ooo-Ooo-Knee," Sirius babbles, settling himself in James's abandoned chair, situating his "arse-apron" across his lap, making a traditional apron of it.
"Yes, Sirius?" Remus replies, attempting to convince James to pass out away from the sick-soaked carpet.
"I suspect that your full attentions are not, in fact, with me at present. Nor have they been for the last few days. And I think that you know this, and that you are being actively avoidant, if not obstinate."
Sirius has the annoying ability to summon a disturbing amount of intellect while drunk. Some might argue he saves all his pontificating for just such occasions. Some, Remus secretly believes, are right.
"You are correct, Mr. Padfoot. And unless you'd care to vomit more spectacularly than Mr. Prongs has just managed, my attentions are going to continue to be not-with-you. But I'm sure you can find attention elsewhere, if you're so inclined," Remus says stiffly. He's not doing this right now. He will not be ensnared in some intoxicated melodrama in the middle of the Common Room regarding Remus's personal stake in whom Sirius does or does not get his -- ego stroked by. He will not do it.
Sirius nudges James gingerly with his foot, as though he were something disgusting that ought to be properly disposed of to avoid toxic run-off. "Bugger Potter, he's a right git anyway. He told me I wasn't as pretty as Evans."
Remus vanishes the vomit significantly more effectively than the orange goo, and brushes his hands together in self-satisfaction. "And where was Evans at the time?" Indulging Sirius is a knee-jerk reaction, like swatting at a fly or howling at the moon, but it also feels like good strategy—one unlikely to provoke conflict or the having out of underlying infuriation.
"On his lap, the tart," Sirius mutters, possibly louder than he intended.
James rallies from the dead long enough to swat at Sirius's ankles and grumble, before relaxing back into unconsciousness.
"Sirius, how much have you had to drink this fine evening?"
He wants to add because I hope it leaves you violently ill in the morning so that your stomach is as angry with you as I am, but this would not be what one considers "keeping the peace," so he refrains.
Sirius raises an eyebrow alarmingly, and Remus can practically hear him debating what to say.
"I ask only so I may properly prepare myself for the inevitable fallout. The wailing, the gnashing of teeth, the soiling of perfectly good linens, and whatnot," Remus adds.
Sirius snorts in a most unflattering manner and says, "There shall be no fallout - soiling or otherwise. I am a gentleman, Moony, and gentlemen do not wail or gnash or..." He trails off, his eyes glazed over and distant.
In this instant, Remus decides that if Sirius vomits, no code, Marauder or otherwise, could possibly compel him to tidy it. The next second it doesn't matter, because Sirius is up and making for the portrait.
Suddenly, Remus understands all the head-thumping. He checks one last time to make sure James is settled, before trailing after Sirius, leaving James curled up around a table leg. He looks almost peaceful. He drools. On the way, Remus checks on Peter and notices his sock has ceased glowing, and can only assume this to be a good thing.
"Sirius," he calls quietly, rounding the corner in time to see the portrait swing shut with a muffled ker-thunk! He is extremely annoyed with himself for this. It is Merlin knows how late and he is chasing Sirius. Sirius, who he has spent the last two days avoiding. Sirius, with lipstick on the side of his shirt and all the subtlety of a ravenous troll. And Remus is chasing him. He cannot rationalize this, so he does not try, he simply charges onward, as one must in such situations.
As he climbs through the portrait, Remus gets an acute sense of apprehension. It is a strange and dangerous thing, a Drunk Sirius Black. While never as emotional as James or excitable as Peter, he has a habit of losing his already tenuous grasp on reality and the basic tenants of polite society. Sometimes at the same time.
Remus trips on an overturned plant in the darkened corridor. He stoops to set it to rights, then realizes the plant is both chortling and not actually supposed to be there, and decides against it. The plant is disconcerting, since it implies that, at some point this evening, someone drunk enough to make a plant become self-aware was outside the Common Room. It does not bode well, but there is no time to think about it just now.
It takes him less than a minute to catch up to Sirius, who is, unsurprisingly, headed for the Astronomy Tower, a favorite haunt of lovers and drunks. Remus often wonders why Dumbledore doesn't seal it off better, or set Filch to stand guard at night. It's probably because it is patrolled mostly by Prefects who sympathize with student body's need for privacy and a mood-setting view. James and Sirius theorize that it's because Dumbledore understands how invaluable the tower is to the Hogwarts social environment, and is both "down" and "groovy" with that. Remus generally chooses these moments to re-evaluate his view of the Marauders' collective intelligence.
"Sirius," he hisses at the shadow ahead of him. Sirius makes no sign of acknowledgment, but Remus knows he heard. Sometimes he can just tell. They're on the steps of the tower before Remus manages to grab him, but then he catches only the red velvet flapping behind Sirius's legs. It slides to the floor and Remus gets his feet tangled in it. Sirius takes the stairs two at a time.
The air is bitterly cold when Remus emerges from the tower, but he feels his hands start to sweat and wipes them surreptitiously on his trousers. It's worry sweat, that's what it is, and oh hell, Sirius is looking all pensive and broody. No one broods like Sirius Black. It must be an aristocrat thing.
"Sirius, go inside. It's late, you need to go to sleep."
Sirius takes a step towards Remus and, Remus thinks with unconscious relief, away from the edge of the tower.
"It's too late to go to sleep. Or maybe it's too early, I'm not sure yet," he says cryptically, softly.
"What? Bed, Padfoot, come on, please, it's freezing," Remus says.
"Please? Christ, Moony, is that all you can ever say? Do you know any other words?" Sirius says loudly.
"Padfoot, don't. Let's just, we'll just go to bed now and in the morning—"
Sirius snorts. It's loud and unflattering. "It is morning, and I'm not going anywhere. I don't want to. Shove off, 'm fine." And he settles himself against the stone wall of the tower, leaning precariously, his eyes on Remus, defiantly.
It starts in his abdomen, a strange, hot sensation, then it seeps into his arms and legs and finally his face. It is frustration, thick and unmovable, and it is taking over his body and he can't contain it anymore, especially with Sirius sitting there with lipstick on his collar. That, Remus thinks coolly, as coolly as Remus Lupin has ever done anything in his life, is exactly enough.
"Sirius Black, there are a great many things about which I care at this particular moment, like not getting defenestrated by Filch when he catches us, and whether I will ever regain use of my fingers after the inevitable frostbite, and whether or not I am going to be violently ill in the morning from whatever startlingly toxic concoction you and James managed to funnel through that ice-statue's—you know—" Remus blushes, then gets angry at himself for blushing and pushes on.
"But you know what I do not care about? I do not care what you want at this particular junction. I do not care at all. The degree to which I do not care is, in fact an intellectual feat for the ages. I have never cared so very little about anything in recent memory, actually, and that's keeping in mind I had double potions Thursday!"
Remus pauses a moment, takes a deep breath, and shivers. No one shouts at Sirius Black. McGonagall does, but she is made of marble and could explode Sirius's entire body with her eyes, so she hardly counts. Dumbledore could probably shout at Sirius, if he wanted to, being god-like and all, but one of the unfortunate side-effects of minor deity status is that it apparently robs one of the desire to exercise one's shouting privileges. James and Sirius shout at one another, but no one shouts at James either, with the notable exception of Lily Evans, who does so loudly and frequently and sometimes in multiple languages, but Remus attributes this to the fact that on some deep, disturbing level they are undeniably made for one another. But Remus Lupin certainly does not shout at Sirius Black. Remus Lupin does not shout at anyone. He just gets very calm and practical until whoever he is angry with gets frustrated and leaves.
Yet, here he is, shouting at Sirius Black. It's unheard of. It's oddly satisfying.
"So what if I don't care what you care about? You're not in charge. You always do that, always act like you're so grown-up, like you're the adult and we're a bunch of silly children, but you're just a sullen, precocious little kid. Can't you just act like the rest of us, like you're not twelve-hundred years old, some of the time? Would it be so terrible?"
"I would, but you don't act seventeen, Sirius. And we can't all behave like caffeinated eleven-year-olds!"
"Oh, right, because if the All Wise and Mature Moony Lupin isn't there being half as fun as a wet cardigan, things might happen. Fun might be had! The horror, the scandal!"
"Oh shut up, Sirius, just shut up," Remus says harshly.
"No, no, I'm drunk, remember? I'm so drunk that you have to tell me what to do and tuck me in to bed like the eleven-year-old I am. I can't control what I'm saying!"
"You're twisting my words, you aren't—"
"Words? What words? You haven't spoken to me all night!"
"Oh, forgive me, Sirius, but it appears you found someone to keep you company."
"Wha—I am too pissed to see straight, quit being so damned cryptic!"
Remus throws his hands up in the air. He never understood the necessity for this gesture before now.
"Your collar! That's going to leave a stain if you don't clean it off soon. Unless it's like a badge of honor. Or something. I don't know."
Sirius looks down at his shirt and his eyebrows furrow. There is a pause, during which his face goes through several expressions, ranging from open-mouthed to scrunched-browed.
"You're an idiot, Remus. I mean, really, just a prize idiot tonight. And you're supposed to be the smart one!"
"I'ma—You're a! What are you on about?"
"You stupid prat. I didn't even, she just, in my lap! And she kept whispering things, vile things—well, not vile exactly, but vile coming from her—and she got her mouth all over me, but I didn't care because—because I was too busy worrying about you and whether you were ever going to emerge from your Moony Cave of Avoidance and explain what the hell is going on because I can't figure it out, because I'm an idiot, too!"
Sirius pauses a moment and his lips make little fishy talking motions like someone has cast Silencio on him while they weren't looking. Remus's muscles, his joints and his ligaments seize with anticipation and impatience, but he senses he shouldn't interrupt. It feels like they are standing on a precipice where the land behind them holds dissatisfaction and confusion, and the deep, black valley below them is full of unknown feelings and even more confusion.
"Y'see. You see, the thing is," he continues without meeting Remus's eye, "I was really angry at you for, for not getting angry with me, before. When I asked you about the, you know, date thing. And it's stupid, I know, I know! Don't say it, I know you want to say it. But I wanted you to be angry. Except you don't get angry, because you're Moony, and I like that you don't get angry. Except for when I hate it. I just—it's this: I'm sorry I'm an idiot, but you made me an idiot with your rationality and your unreasonable reasonableness and your quiet voice and your silly, crooked lips and your, your," he makes a vague wavy gesture, "your hair that's always blurry and. And you. You just. You make me an idiot." He pauses. "... I am unequivocally doomed, aren't I?"
He says this with his eyes cast down and his fingers wound in his hair a little psychotically. All of Remus's bones turn to jello for a moment and he wobbles to the left. It comes to him, in this moment, like a flash of lightning or a spell to the chest, how insane he has been. Or, perhaps, how insane his own complete, unshakable sanity has been. He never realized it until now, but perhaps things, like the things that exist between them, are not meant to be handled sanely, and that in fact, doing so is, in and of itself, a form of insanity. It makes Remus's head hurt. But it also makes Remus certain that definition or not, ambiguity be damned, Sirius and the way Sirius looks at him are infinitely more important than words. It's not that what they are is unspeakable, it's that it's so incredible that no one has invented a word for it yet.
He takes two deliberate steps towards Sirius, who is obnoxious and drunk and inconsiderate and a complete mystery to Remus most all of the time. He lunges forward.
For a moment, Remus isn't sure whether he is going to kiss him or punch him in the mouth, but Sirius's eyes grow wide as if he's seen a ghost, and Remus imagines this is because his own face is horribly contorted in a manner that only frightening affection mingled with murderous annoyance can produce.
He kisses Sirius, violently. It seems a fair compromise.
"You just—you're so, so stupid!" Sirius shouts when their lips separate momentarily.
"Me? I? You are the one with, with girl all over your neck!"
They kiss again, hard mouths and sharp teeth. Sirius's fingers dig into Remus's skull; they pull his hair a little.
"Well, if you'd been with me, she wouldn't have had an opportunity to—"
"If I'd been? You're the one with the slattern and the—the date. And I didn't know, you know, what I was supposed to do but, but..."
Remus's conscious mind shrugs and gives up. His brain feels like it's made of water, all useless and runny, which it probably is — made of water, not runny — and were Remus capable of thinking, he would probably realize this, but he isn't, so he does not. Still, there is an incongruity between brain and body, between the hormonal explosion in his head and the tight, coiled energy in his stomach that throbs viciously with the silence of the past two days, and the kicked-in-the-gut sensation of seeing Sirius earlier, all tipsy and lipsticky. Remus's body shoves Sirius, back-first, against the freezing stone wall and pins him by the hips.
"Hey! This wall's made of rocks, if you didn't know. It's rather hard," Sirius whines.
"Shut up, shut up, or I'll push you again," Remus says, with a slight edge to his voice.
There is another long near-silence of kissing and the noises thereof, and after they have both rubbed off half the skin on their faces with stubbly ferocity, Sirius leans back and huffs thoughtfully. His breath is a delicate white cloud, floating and dissolving over their heads. Remus realizes he hasn't been able to feel his fingers for a while now, but he doesn't care.
"What did you want to do the other night? I mean, what did you want, deep down, under the eighty-three layers of Moony level-headedness?" Sirius says.
There is a reassuring glint of amusement in his eye, but Remus still feels that they are having one of those conversations that is superficial and unimportant unless you bugger it up, and then it's neither of those things. Remus frowns slightly, his hand still cupping the back of Sirius's neck. Their breath mingles.
"I wanted to hit her, very hard. And I wanted to hit you even harder. So -- so don't go finding anymore dates, alright? Next time I might not show such admirable self-restraint."
"Oh, but Moony, the dates, they find me. One of the lesser known hazards of being irresistible."
"Fine, then perhaps I'll go off and find myself someone to pass the time with while you're busy being irresistible."
"No. No, that's perfectly alright. I can just be irresistible with you. Exclusively. All the time."
"I think that sounds—I think that's as it should be," Remus says cautiously, and he hopes that he's said the right thing, because this is important and not the time to be letting semantics and linguistic subtleties muck everything up.
But Sirius smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle and Remus lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Sirius smells like whiskey, but his eyes are as clear as the winter sky.
"Good. I just, I needed to know, you know? Cause you're—really spectacular, sometimes. I mean, not as spectacular as I, of course, but you're not bad... Also, you are nearly as doomed as I am."
Remus smiles. "Shut up."
"Doomed! Doooooomed!" Sirius howls, like he's delivering an overzealous sermon.
Remus leans in and bites Sirius's lip, and it works because Sirius lets out a little "ahh," and goes quiet. After a moment, a loud, smacking sound emanates from the wet, sloppy intersection of their mouths. Remus ponders how repulsive this is, and feels, for the first time in days, months, his whole life perhaps, content.
