A/N: Title by Alfred Lord Tennyson.
'Twas Tennyson who stole my heart
And filled it with enlightened verse;
Of Camelot, and Lady's curse,
Of life and lovers rent apart.
I demand that you go to a library, grab an anthology of his poetry, flip it open to any page, and appreciate.
Remus dragged one shaky limb towards the open leg of his trousers, and paused, feeling ill.
Don't look at the skin, don't look at the marks, don't think, don't think about the fingers-
He shut his eyes and waited for the bout of dizziness to fade. He froze his mind into blankness as he sat there uncomfortably, bare skin prickling at the contact with the cold iron bed frame. His mind was blank. Blank. Except suddenly, from the uncooperative depths of his brain, an image of a most unwelcome nature flashed into the forefront of his mind: Sirius. Sirius, the first time.
Sirius, offering to help Remus remove his clothing before the full moon. Unafraid for his own sake, but almost timid nonetheless. There hadn't been enough time to save the trousers. They had been torn apart that night, and converted into bandanas for a subsequent ninja prank. Ripped to flimsy scraps they were, strewn about the floor to be found the morning after, torn from seam to seam, all threads and shreds, slashed apart –
– by claws, tearing down through thin material, like five nails had dragged down bare skin.
Remus clutched his head, moaning quietly, unable to keep his mind from returning to the imprints on his calf. Severus Snape, or maybe, worse, maybe James, had come that close, and in human form.
And all because of Sirius.
It was at this point, at this point in the whirling maelstrom of Remus' thoughts, that the moaning stopped, and the struggle to breathe began. Sirius. Removing his shirt. Holding him. Pushing him into the water (was that yesterday?) and laughing at him, and ripping his shirt off again, and glaring at the mark on his chest, and shuddering with anger as he looked back to the shore. To Snape.
With his eyes squeezed so tightly that bulbs of light began to flash behind the lids, Remus clutched at his chest. The trousers fell to the floor in a crumpled mess, Madam Pomphrey wouldn't like that, she wouldn't come in, but he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. His fingers moved to grip his buttons, his stiff collar, the square pocket, and he inhaled sharply as he slid sideways, falling back onto the mattress, curling inwards, bare legs pressed to his shirt.
Sirius set this up. A joke, Dumbledore had said, almost casually. It was a joke to Sirius. A joke, Snivellus dealt with.
Dirty secret.
No more dirty secret. Dumbledore had assured Remus repeatedly that Snape would not tell any of his fellow students. Remus couldn't truly doubt the headmaster's word. But that didn't really prove much consolation in the end.
Did it matter if Snape's mouth was taped shut by Dumbledore? How was that going to stop word spreading? His dirty secret was out now, without a doubt. Ever since his three friends had discovered the truth, Sirius had been so casual, so blasé about the secrecy aspect, throwing nicknames around, making jokes in class…
A joke. It was all a joke.
And Remus had trusted him implicitly. He had trusted them all, despite years of uncertainty and dread, fear that they would hate him once they knew his dirty secret. They were, quite simply, the best part of his life. They had spent three years illicitly training to become Animagi for him. Even Peter, who struggled to transfigure a tortoise into a turtle, let alone a teapot. Remus would never finish being grateful for their efforts.
And James, what James had done, such typical stupid heroics that Lily could never, of course, be privy too – but Remus couldn't think of James, not even with the infinite gratitude that he deserved, because that thought led back to the catalyst, the elegant fringe, the dark eyes, the betrayal.
Remus' eyes fluttered open, even as he continued to lie there, gasping. He was shocked at the strength of the venomous rage that shook his body, coiling hotly through muscle and tissue and in his aching head.
The betrayal. Did those blood promises back in First Year mean nothing? Did Peter almost faint for nothing? It was almost funny, that memory, Peter standing there, gasping, hand smeared with blood, and reaching forward, serious despite Sirius' goading laughter, and completing the blood promise circle.
As his eyes slowly focussed, feeling strained, Remus dully realised that the light had changed. The room was darker than before. He shuddered, and found that he was cold.
It was so hard to slip out of his tight grasp of himself, so hard to slide his legs from his chest, and drag himself slowly upwards until he was sitting on the side of the bed once more. He reached down for his trousers, duly noting the new creases, and shoved his legs into the pants before he could begin to think again. His fingers trembling slightly, he buttoned the fly and hoisted himself to his feet, stepping into his shoes, enveloped in a stupor.
He was done, dressed, and he wanted to cry, but he found that it was too late; his face felt wet and coarse with tears. He didn't want to leave the Hospital Wing. How could Dumbledore ask him to stay in the Fifth Year Dormitory? Why wouldn't Dumbledore let him leave the school, expel himself for a crime that should, by right, have earned him an expulsion? He couldn't leave. He couldn't.
He had to.
While he stood behind the curtain surrounding his bed, vacillating, blood pumping painfully as dread tugged at his body, Madam Pomphrey came to check on him. Her face, while extraordinarily sympathetic, was stern. He could feel the motherly surge of her pity and worry at his white face and shaking hands even as she pushed him towards the exit. He stumbled, and righted himself on the door handle, pushing through.
And came face to face with a white and shaking Sirius Black.
Remus opened his mouth, that same throbbing anger flowing back through his veins in an instant, but nothing came out. He clung to the doorknob behind him like a lifeline. His legs felt like they were about to give out, and he hated himself for his weakness. For once, he wanted to shout. Physically, he was closer to vomiting.
His eyes were drawn to his betrayer's face against his will, and stuck there, feeding relentlessly on the desperation, the panic, the guilt, the fear, the–
Remus tore his gaze away. He felt dizzy again, and wanted to sink to the floor, and directly through the stone. He couldn't look at Sirius.
It was all a joke.
His head rocked listlessly on his shoulders as Sirius grabbed at his arms, shaking fingers crawling across his forearms, his hands, his stomach and chest, and Remus wondered if he was being prompted into some form of forgiving embrace, and shrugged the hands away.
"Remus," Sirius croaked, his hoarse voice breaking through the agonizing silence. "Remus, I…"
His voice trailed away. From his peripheral vision, Remus saw Sirius turn away, and swipe his arm across his face, and then stand there, shaking, turned from him, facing the wall.
"A joke…"
Remus started, not realising that he had said the words before they were clothed in the thick tapestries. He hung his head lower as he saw Sirius jerk back towards him, visibly stunned, his shoulders becoming still in an instant. Remus watched the red-rimmed, swollen eyes widen, saw the blotchy skin turn a shade greyer, and was unaffected.
"Remus, I, no. No, not a joke, why would you, but I am so-"
Sirius stopped as Remus began to shake his head, back and forth. In a single motion, Sirius had come forward, standing directly before Remus, quivering now in what could have been anger. Like some comical repeat performance of Remus' twisted thoughts back in the Hospital Wing, Sirius was unbuttoning his shirt, fingers slick with tears, prodding his chest in their haste, their urgency.
And then, with one tremulous finger pointed forward, to the centre of Remus' chest, Sirius said, "There," and stood back on his heels. His face was set in a grey mask of determination and suppressed antagonism.
Remus followed the trail of the finger to his chest, and felt his stomach roil.
Dirty secret.
Emblazoned across the tattered parchment of Remus' chest, the two words that had been burnt into his skin the day before, standing in the lake.
Dirty secret.
"Secret's out," he muttered to himself, eyes transfixed on the words tattooed into his chest. He began to tremble, feeling exposed, feeling unutterably exposed and vulnerable and he wanted to hide away immediately, far away from Sirius' pointing finger. He grabbed the edges of his shirt and flung his arms about himself, covering what he could, thrusting his head down to his chest. He closed his eyes.
"Out?" Sirius said, his voice straining against some unknown emotion. "What- why are you – are you hiding? From me?"
Remus didn't answer, twisting sideways, back and forth on his heels, wishing he could somehow be dead, right now.
"I-" Sirius whispered, and his voice broke on his next words. "I am so sorry. Look, never – never think it was a – joke, Merlin, I, just, oh, Remus."
Suddenly, warm arms were closing around his body, and Remus flinched in shock, unable to step backwards, the doorknob pressed into the small of his back. He didn't know who was trembling, or whose tears were dampening the front of his shirt, or whose hair was falling into his eyes. His arms were caught tightly in between Sirius' chest and his own, and his shoulders ached with the pressure of Sirius' grasp.
A thread of composure was slowly unravelling in him, starkly free from the tight enclosure of Sirius' arms, loosening with every sob that shook through Sirius' chest, and every gasp that tore Remus' throat. Biting his lip until a taste of iron filled his mouth, Remus pressed his face into the space between Sirius' neck and shoulder, and used the blinding pressure to breathe between muffled moans. He felt Sirius' nails hook more desperately into his shoulder blades, and they leaned against each other, even as bitterness pounded through Remus, and the knowledge of betrayal gleamed through his eyelids like the pitiless face of the full moon.
He became aware that Sirius was muttering, murmuring thickly between wrenching sobs, repeating a word over and over and over again, a word which could have anything from "Remus" to "sorry".
Without the solidity of the door behind him, Remus felt that he would have fallen straight down, sliding through layers of agony to the floor, beneath the weight, the immense pressure, the weight of the betrayal, the reality, and Sirius' body. He felt suffocated, pressed this close to Sirius, his scent engulfing his senses, his damp cheek scratching against a hint of stubble, his lips mashed into salty, trembling skin. They were surely drowning in their tears, and breathing only the other's misery, and guilt, driftwood, crashing through a tumultuous ocean of pain and grief.
"I'm sorry," Sirius whispered, coherent at last, and his grasp loosened slightly about Remus' shoulders.
Remus stiffened, afraid he would be dashed apart, that the thread would unravel entirely in the absence of the enveloping arms. He held his breath and blinked hard until he could make out the shades of Sirius' face, centimetres in front of his own. He stared directly into Sirius' grey eyes, eyes marred by tears, frame of lashes fairly dripping with them.
One sharp gasp was all that could be drawn before other lips suddenly crashed to his own, pulling violently, warm and wet and breaking only for breath, and stopping only when Remus' mouth fell slack.
Sirius immediately leapt back, eyes comically wide, trembling hands held before him in some gesture of apology, or embarrassment, or disbelief. Remus, who had somehow broken from his numbed shell, whose body now thrummed with an intensification of pain, and betrayal, and feeling, stared back. Crimson flooded into Sirius' pale cheeks, and he looked, of all things, hurt, or disappointed, or probably mortified, and he backed away further.
"I – I thought you wanted – I don't, please, I'm – I'm sorry. I'm sorry. For everything. I'll leave now. Hate me forever. Please. I will."
A/N: God, I loved writing this chapter. I must be sadistic. But I loved the tormented fragments of thought, and the contrast between the body's lethargy and the mental torrent.
And tragic romance is the best kind, right? Angst is the way to go? I shouldn't wait for the veil, Sirius should just bow out next chapter, am I right?
Tell me why I'm wrong. Reassure me that this chapter was legible, or even vaguely coherent. :)
Until my next delivery of PUPPYANGST, I leave you with the lingering thought that, hey, at least there's some romantic progression… ;)
xx Froody