"You are a dangerous collection
of all my favorite things.
An old soul, a heart of gold, and hands that make my body sing."
- via Nikita Gill
▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬
Ms. Grimes' Wonder Emporium, August 1979
Remus fiddled away with the catalog books, his pen leaking ink onto a blank page. The clock had struck seven quite some time ago, and the sun had dipped below the skyline hours before; Remus had already taken inventory three times just as his employer had asked, however tedious the task had been. Ms. Grimes, the elderly but not senile owner of the shop, had lit her candles and closed the curtains, but this by no means meant that they were closed for the night. She'd been put to bed in her room upstairs – there'd been a small apartment she'd lived in just above the shop – but managed to escape the confines of her room in order to watch the television downstairs.
Business had been slow that day in the smoldering heat of August, as if it had been any slower in the lovely breezes of April, and Remus spent the majority of his time decluttering his work space as Ms. Grimes always seemed to dirty it up during his off-time. How? Remus had no earthly idea.
Ms. Grimes was older than sliced bread and blind as a bat. She, of course, had spectacles, but she lost them every other hour of the day and would set Remus on a wild goose chase to find them. Not that he minded, really. It gave him something to do – a chance to explore. The shop was quite large with much more room on the inside than one would think from a quick glance from the sidewalk. So far, he'd found a secret room full of old, forgotten texts and a cupboard just under the stairs not even big enough for a child. He wondered why Ms. Grimes would have such a small space without the ability to fit in it.
Not only was she old and blind, but she was also nearly deaf. She did have hearing aids, and she typically had them in. However, that didn't mean she really listened to anything anyone said. Remus would be lucky if she paid attention to his catalog enough at the end of the day. He supposed she did this on purpose.
She had told him once in confidence, "There's never been a better time for hearing loss than now, my boy. Who the hell wants to listen to the children whine about their television programs, or old politicians cry about a war they never had to fight?"
While she was old, blind, and deaf, she also had bone crushing arthritis. It came with age, so she said. When first employed at her shop, Remus would see her busying herself amongst her antiques – dusting and what not. She'd mingle with possible buyers, visit the neighbors across the street at the bakery, and even join Remus at the counter. Nevertheless, time brought about its usual fruits, and Ms. Grimes was confined to her back room with the company of a television and radio or her bedroom upstairs. She never watched the news, never listened to the international broadcast; her stations remained on old musical hits and the sitcom channels.
"I'm getting older now," she'd coughed. "So, I should start worrying about today, but most certainly not tomorrow."
Remus had taken a liking to the old woman. Yes, it was true that she spoke in odd, disjointed yet wise quotations, and her answers were, more often than not, rather vague and ambiguous. She'd claimed that she preferred her words be left up to interpretation, that way if they led someone astray, they couldn't exactly blame her. Smart cookie, Ms. Grimes was.
Ever since her return from the chiropractor, Remus had decided to extend his duties as caretaker. Not because he felt obligated to, but in an odd way he did, simply because she had no one. Her husband had died over a decade ago, and they never had any children. Coming from France, she had no close relatives who'd venture to England just to tend to her needs; if anyone was truly alone in that burrow, it had been Ms. Grimes. It had been her, the shop, and Remus. That didn't stop her from being the colorful human she'd always been – colorful being a rather generous descriptor.
Yet, she was good company. If Remus left Sirius' flat by five o'clock every morning, he'd make it to her flat in time to cook breakfast. After many trials, and far too many errors, he'd come to know that she took her eggs sunny side up with a slice of toast smeared with way too much fucking marmalade and a banana. Her coffee was dark roast with too little cream and not a cube of sugar – piping hot, as she liked it. And Remus was sure to by the morning paper at the Bakery as he bought himself a scone. If, for some reason, he could not make it in the morning – his training schedule might have been repulsive or perhaps a transformation was on the rise – he made sure her fridge had been stocked during his time away.
After cleaning, he did help her into the shower. It had been... awkward, to say the least. For the first few months, it had been a rather tedious dance of closed eyes and draped towels. Eventually, Ms. Grimes admitted she'd nothing left to lose, and bathing was becoming too difficult to manage, and accepted Remus' aid with a bit more stride.
They'd open the shop together, readying the business for customers and such; perhaps a friend of hers from the bakery would come to visit and buy a trinket she'd stumbled upon during her travels, and their day would begin with little more adventure.
He did, of course, spend his lunch breaks with her, enjoying whatever had been on the television or the radio, maybe listening to her old stories about the war or her globetrotting. Those were the most interesting by far. She'd been to nearly every country under the sun and them some; there'd always been something brought back with her that she never should've picked up in the first place. An old rock from the Pyramids of Giza, an old coin from a Roman fountain, and even a lock and key from the bridge in Paris. The old woman had more photo albums than any other person alive, and it had been a little strange looking at still photos after being so used to wizarding world. But it had also been refreshing.
"Remus," Ms. Grimes called.
Sighing, Remus tucked away the catalog and shuffled into the drawing room beyond the counter. Humming in the background was the television, an episode of Are You Being Served? airing for the umpteenth season. Ms. Grimes had been settled in her adored, green wing chair, afghan and fat tabby cat draped over her legs to keep out the chill – Remus was blistering even with the A/C unit going – and a half-smoked cigarette in its ashtray to her right. He'd made her a cup of tea an hour ago, and it sat untouched just where he'd left it. The tan curtains had been drawn over the windows overlooking the neighborhood behind her shop.
"You haven't drunk your tea," he commented, more to himself than her, really. "Which means you haven't taken -"
"I haven't taken my pills," she mocked him with that thick accent from Nice she flaunted, waving a flippant, wrinkled hand. "Shove off, would you?"
"Matilda," he warned, taking a seat in the obsolete rocking chair beside her. "You know the drill; medicine then dessert. The routine hasn't changed."
Ms. Grimes scoffed, frown etched into her sunken, spotted face, "Merde! My entire life has been an infinite routine, Remus. I've been doing the same shit for thirty years. Can't we shake it up a little?"
"I'd rather not walk in on you having a stroke, Ms. Grimes, but I'm glad to see your youth lives on," Remus snickered, sorting through her medicine as she was supposed to do.
Ms. Grimes refused to believe she was getting older. While she acknowledged the limitations of old age – hearing and sight loss, her arthritis, and immobility – her spirit remained intact. Too often, Remus would listen as she rambled about her golden years; Matilda had quite the reputation as an explorer. That liveliness, that disposition and mental vigilance, seemed to be the only thing that kept her going. That, and her shop. Not to mention that dry, witty humor that brought a wry smile to Remus' face.
"You know, I don't mind dying. The thing that pisses me off is that I won't get to be an old woman. I was looking forward to that," she said, glancing over at Remus with those murky, brown eyes.
Remus poured her medications into her trembling hands, not surprised by their lack of warmth, "You'll always be twenty-nine to me."
"Chienne."
"I'm sure that was a lovely sentiment toward me, Matilda," Remus beamed, knowing full well what chienne means, and it wasn't pleasant.
Ms. Grimes forced a smile, clearly not enjoying Remus' joke, and swallowed her pills dry. Remus shuddered, not quite sure how anyone could possibly complete a horrific task as such. It took an entire ocean to down his medicines, if he had any, and another lake after that just to chase down the taste of powder layering the back of his tongue. God, he hated taking medicine. The old woman sipped her tea, no longer paying attention the television screen, rather an odd place on the wall.
"I do miss my husband," she murmured. "You act just like him."
Remus felt his heart pull, the strings tugged on by a mysterious hand in his stomach. It wasn't that he abhorred conversations as such with Ms. Grimes, he only hated hearing the saddened edge to her voice. The edge of a woman who's seen time take all she held dear. It made him grateful for his youth, grateful for all the time he had left, but somehow broken, if only a bit, on the inside.
"I know you do," he whispered, laying a gentle hand on hers. He knew not to squeeze; the old woman bruised like a week-old banana, but the sentiments were there.
"You know, your friend looks just like him," she spared a glance at Remus, eyes softer than before. "The short one who needs to cut his hair."
Remus laughed, "That's Sirius, my -"
The words fell flat on his lips, the truth on the tip of his tongue. He wasn't ashamed of Sirius, not in the slightest. The embarrassment of liking boys in a world where that hadn't been the thing to do had been slipping in recent months. Remus was learning to be proud of his heart and its longings; so was his partner. However, that never saved moments like this – moments of uncertainty. Perhaps a part of him was afraid. Afraid of rejection. Not many people in his life, adults at least, had been accepting of who he was. He didn't want to add this sweet woman, however snarky she could've been, to the list.
"Oh," her eyes widened, a smirk stretching across the canvas of wrinkles and age spots to reveal crooked, yellow teeth. "I see. So, he's votre amant – your lover?" Remus, while cautious, nodded. "Well, in that case, Judy owes me fifteen pounds."
Remus, speechless, sputtered wildly as he attempted to wrap his head around such a concept. The heat in his chest spread to his scarred face, blood running from the tip of his nose to his ears; shame wasn't as present as bashfulness, a welcome change.
"Oh, don't play coy, dear," Ms. Grimes snickered. "I knew you two were in love the moment I set eyes upon you."
"But how?"
It was now Ms. Grimes turn to fall silent, eyes lowering with melancholy and memories. Remus felt guilty. He hadn't known what he'd done, but guilt was present nonetheless. It was best, in moments like these, to let Ms. Grimes sulk; sometimes one needed to mull emotions over in their head before speaking. This was such a time.
"My husband looked at me the way he looks at you," she sighed, taking a long, probably fatal, drag from her cigarette. "I am lucky enough to have the strongest emotion I've ever had was being in love. Not many people get that, you know. So, cherish it." She paused for a moment. "Because it threatens to leave too soon."
Remus suddenly found himself curious, and couldn't help but ask, "How did you stay in love for seventy-eight years?"
"Let me tell you something, kiddo," she snorted, "there's more to it than just being in love. Being in love is the easy part. The truth that no one wants to hear, let alone challenge, is that the more intimately you love someone, the closer and more devoted you become, the clearer the looking glass becomes. Their flaws are more visible, the baggage they carry along isn't skewed by the wisps of love and affection. That's just the way life is, and it's why so many marriages don't last these days.
"People tend to think they love someone up until they see the way they act when they're out of money or under pressure, or sick or hungry, for Christ sake. Love – genuine, unconditional love that's rooted deep within you – is an entirely different beast, my boy. Love is choosing to stay with someone and be one with them in spite of their ragged, filthy heart, like it or not. Love is patient, and love is compassionate, love is deliberate. Do you hear me? Love is bloody well hard, darling, don't mistake me. Seventy-something years didn't pass by without threats and arguments. There was too much pain and plenty of sacrifices, but, for the right person, it's seeing the darkness inside another person and denying the impulse to tuck your tail and run."
Remus let the words sink in, mulled them over in his head. There'd once been a time when he thought all he and Sirius' needed was their foolish love. The young, errant notion that life's problems could be solved with stolen kisses and embraces in the dark. There'd once been a time when Remus assumed that all he needed in the world was his love for Sirius and for that love to be returned.
But the world was changing, the tides were now rolling in. It was time to start truly growing up and facing the harsh music that there would be more to this life than their boyish love. The question he had to ask himself, then, was if he was ready to peer through the looking glass. Not just take a glimpse, not ignore the baggage and terrifying trauma Sirius carried alongside him, but stare it in the face. Look at it and accept it as part of the man he loved. Was he ready for what he might see?
If that were the real question, then there was no doubt in his mind that he was ready to love Sirius for the rest of his life. They were young, yes, barely eighteen, and there were more important things to be worried about than their relationships and love. Many people had the opinion that no boy of only eighteen years could ever be certain – so soon – about what his heart wants, what it needs. Some said they were fools, and others thought they were morons. Some thought it was a passing phase, soon to shrivel up and die as time took its fruits.
Nevertheless, Sirius was now a crucial part of Remus' life. He was, if he was honest, a necessity. If there had been anything in the world he wanted, it would be a lifetime supply of books and chocolate, James, Peter, and Lily by his side, and his love for Sirius to burn as brightly for the rest of his life as it did in that moment.
"I want that for us," he mumbled. "It just seems like the world keeps getting in the way."
"Misfortune loves innocence just as much as we love our significant others, Remus," Ms. Grimes patted his hand. "It's just up to us to defy the odds. I mean, honestly, boy, I met the Henry in 1899 and you think I can count on both hands and feet how many times I wanted to box his ears?"
Remus couldn't muffle the laugh; this was the Ms. Grimes he loved. This must've been the woman Henry loved – the feisty, witty old woman with rings on every finger and too much green in her outfit. The same woman who would rob a museum if need be just to get her hands on an artifact, or the one who'd embellish her already miraculous tales of escape. He could see, now, why she refused to grow old. Growing old meant accepting defeat in her eyes.
"Seems like forever ago," she murmured, ignoring the jingle of the shop's doorbell as she reminisced. Typical occurrence.
Remus rose from his seat, promising her that he'd return promptly, and entered the store front with a polite smile. He smoothed his freshly cut hair back away from his forehead, hoping to look someone presentable to the store guest. If he were going to sell anything, he'd need to look somewhat useful.
"How can I help you today?"
The phrase had just passed his lips when he felt two bodies pressed firmly against his, the familiar smell of expensive shampoo and an odd mixture of engine grease assaulting his nose.
"Moony," James launched himself into a fit of hysterics. "How come I've never seen your workplace before? This place looks archaic! I can see why you like the place; it's old and decrepit just like your soul." Remus protested to no avail. "Is there anything cool in here? What's that over there? Regulus come look at this!"
Remus had only just laid eyes on Regulus over Sirius' shoulders – small and meek yet just as excited to be there with a smile on his face – when James had whisked him off to some unknown part of the store.
"Don't touch anything," Remus hollered, stretching up to his tip toes to catch a glimpse of two mops of curly, dark hair. "Out of all places James needs to be, this is not one."
An amenable laugh sounded from the corner, and Peter shuffled awkwardly in his place; Remus faltered. In a way, a way he could not place his finger on, Peter had looked different. Perhaps he'd gotten a haircut, or maybe he'd lost even more weight? There was a glint in his eyes, a hint of darkness not present before, that sent shivers down Remus' spine. There was a familiar darkness forming crescents under his eye, and his lip had a healing cut. He did not like the feeling, and concern washed over his senses. Peter's absences had raised suspicion, but they'd never raised such alarm in anyone else. He would have to ask him about it sometime.
"Surprise," Sirius sang, a rather belated chorus.
"Yes, quite the surprise," Remus smirked and planted a chaste kiss on Sirius' nose. "You brought Regulus along?"
"Actually, James suggested we did," Sirius spared a glance toward the direction the two disappeared in. "Not that I protested. Anything to get him out of the house. Poor child needs vitamin D."
"Leave him alone," Remus ruffled Sirius' hair, ignoring protests and pleas. "What's brought you here at such an ungodly hour."
"Believe me," Sirius unraveled himself from Remus' clutch, "if it wasn't so important, I would've stayed in my own cool flat with a cold glass of water."
"What the fuck?!" Regulus' screech could be heard a mile away, followed by James' impish laughter. It hadn't changed in all the years Remus had known him; the same snorts, the same boyish sound. Some things would always stay the same.
"Oh, Merlin," Peter groaned. "Since when did Regulus become a part -"
"Since when did that bother you," Sirius snapped. "Last time I checked; you hadn't bothered to show up to any of our get-together's. If you had, you'd know that Regulus has been around since January, unlike some folk."
Peter's face darkened, a look Remus had never seen before taking over his stout features, "Last time I checked, we didn't allow kids, more importantly future Death Eater's, into our circle."
Sirius advanced, lip curled in distaste, "Take that back."
"No," Peter hissed. "I said what I said; he's a Slytherin, for Christ sake."
"And what about it?"
Remus felt the need to step in between the two men, hoping that whatever news Sirius had brought would defuse the situation. He chose to appeal to Sirius, knowing just what to say to calm his nerves; if living together had taught him anything, it was how to distract Sirius from the negativity settled in his chest.
"I believe there's someone who wanted to meet you, Pads," Remus sighed. "I would choose a different time, but she won't stop pestering me about you."
In an instant, Sirius had acquired an air of nobility and refinement, assuming the role of charismatic young man he'd been bred to be. A slim, tan hand carded through his hair, waves from the humidity catching on his rings.
"And who would that be?"
With a roll of his eyes, Remus grasped Sirius' hand and led him into the parlor where Ms. Grimes had been watching her television. She looked, albeit, surprised to find "the one who needs a haircut" in front of her, and shooed the hissing cat to some unknown corner of the house.
"My hair isn't even done, you bastard," she cried, skeletal hands defusing the wild, gray curls that had knotted during the day. "A lady should never have company looking like this."
Sirius had already taken control of the situation, sauntering over to Ms. Grimes with that swish in his hips. If only he could be a gentleman all the time, then perhaps Remus' patience would regenerate.
"Don't worry, Madame," he kneeled, kissing her bony knuckles. Remus could vomit. "My name is Sirius Black."
Ms. Grimes must not have shared the same sentiments as Remus, looking quite flattered at such mannerisms. Then again, her knuckles most likely hadn't been kissed since her husband's passing; no matter how much Remus adored the woman, he couldn't grovel such as Sirius. Maybe it was his faithfulness, or maybe it was a repulsion for older people – the world might not ever know.
"Now, why can't you treat me like this, Remus," Ms. Grimes shouted, throwing a rolled-up newspaper at the back of Remus' head.
"What the f-" he began, but Sirius cut him off with a swift glare.
"Now, now, Remus," he seethed. "Don't use such language around such a dignified young woman."
"That's my language, mon chéri," she swooned, letting a smile creep across her lipstick stained mouth.
"Oh, je vois que vous parlez la langue des amants, Madame," Sirius crooned, seating himself where Remus once sat. "Heureux pour vous, Mlle, je le fais aussi."
Remus would now have no earthly idea what the two were discussing seeing as though Sirius, not so subtly, forcefully tuned him out of the conversation. With a huff, Remus went to close up shop. Peter had disappeared somewhere in the labrytnth they considered the dark section – old Wiccan items with more unpleasant origins – and Regulus had managed to escape James' clutch long enough to return to the front counter.
"Hello, Reggie," Remus smiled, locking the cash register and stowing it beneath the counter.
"Hi, Rem," Regulus said, watching him closely. "How have you been?"
"Oh, the same old," Remus sighed, bones cracking like an old man as he stretched. "Babysitting for you considering you never take your brother out anymore."
Regulus smirked, "I had N.E.W.T.'s. Don't worry. I'll be around this summer. Mother and Father have hired a Healer to tend to them, so I don't have to be home as much anymore."
"Well, you're always welcomed to stay with us," Remus reminded him, earning a confused glance from Regulus as he signed the catalog.
"Wait," he said, "you live with Sirius now?" Remus faltered, catching himself too late.
Sirius had offered his residence to Remus several times; it seemed like the practical thing to do. For instance, Manchester was much closer to the Emporium than downtown London, and apparating to and fro did get tiresome. By living with Remus, he could easily take a cab to work instead. Also, he spent almost all of his time there as things were. In fact, he had his own closet space, his own shower supplies, his own groceries, and, not to mention, his own desk space.
All ends pointed to them just moving in together, and he was tempted to say yes. Actually, Remus might bring up the point to Sirius that night.
"No," Remus sighed. "But I'm considering it, really."
"It's about time," Regulus smiled. "Sirius won't ever shut up about it, honestly. It's like visiting a parrot who's only learned three words: I love Remus. Remus. Love. Me."
They shared a laugh, heartful and pleasant. Once upon a time, Remus had, to put it into kinder words, disliked Regulus. The only reason he did so was because of his treatment toward Sirius, his passive attitude in regards to the abuse he suffered at Grimmauld Place, and the nastiness displayed at Hogwarts. The animosity was returned on Sirius' behalf. Regulus' shortlived friendship with Snape didn't help matters at all, additionally. But it would've appeared that Regulus had grown up – matured, in a sense. Remus liked this kid, even with his predisposition.
"One day, you'll understand where he's coming from," Remus warned, a playful hint in his words.
Upon turning his back, he nearly missed the glance Regulus threw in an odd direction, eyes following the silhouette of James as he snooped in places he should not have been in. He nearly missed the upturn of Regulus' lips as he stifled his laughter. And if he'd turned just a moment sooner, then he wouldn't have caught the way his cheeks reddened only by a fraction.
Remus' mother once told him how ironic life had been. How strange it had been that we miss the most subtle signs of affection, how we let the soft declarations of who others are slip right between our fingertips as the world spins by.
Remus' heart withered.
It withered because he'd seen that look before – seen it in himself and in James and in Lily and in Dorcas and in Marlene and Frank and Alice and plenty of other people he congregated with. He'd seen it in the mirror his fourth year, seen it in Sirius' face when he thought Remus wasn't paying attention. That look was the sign of blooming affections, blooming heartfelt, blooming inhibitions.
It withered because there are few times in our lives we can look at people as such without bitterness or spite tainting the completion.
It withered because that feeling – whatever it had been – would never be returned. James had been the straightest man Remus had come into contact with. Even Benjy – the Whore of Gryffindor – had displayed some hint of... not straight. But James? He'd only ever had eyes for Lily. Well, maybe not in the beginning. In the beginning it had been pranks and schemes and that pretty Prefect from Ravenclaw he had no possible chance with. If straight had an image – an emblem – it would be James. He was the epitome of masculinity and heterosexuality.
Remus wanted to warn Regulus, wanted to steer him away from that conquest because it would never happen, not even once in a blue moon. Unrequited love was cruel and cold, and no young boy should ever have to feel that. Not to mention that this meant, in some capacity, Regulus could have been gay, and being gay in a world like that was not an easy feat.
Nevertheless, he held his tongue. It wasn't his place, nor would it go well to possibly divulge a secret Regulus wasn't ready to let go of. He waited for Sirius, tapping his fingers on the counter idly as Regulus discussed his plans for his last year at Hogwarts; James and Peter were goofing off someplace else in the store, and the two lovebirds seemed to be enjoying each other's company.
Finally, after nearly thirty minutes of waiting, Sirius emerged from the parlor with Ms. Grimes by his side.
"I think I'll take this one for myself," she declared. "Find you someone else Remus; he's mine."
"Apologies, my dear, but my heart belongs to the one and only brute you see standing before you," Sirius sighed, sending an apologetic look downward. "It was not written in the stars for you and I."
"Fuck the stars," Ms. Grimes howled, inching her way up the stairs. Remus followed, helping her bit by bit. "You think the stars give a shit about us? Half of them died hundreds of years ago, boy."
Regulus, surprised that such a small, feeble vessel could produce such energy, blanched, "Wow."
"And tell the curly headed one to stop touching the stones! It's bad luck."
Remus turned around, "James, did I not say: Don't touch anything."
James and Peter, both fiddling with gemstones near the entrance, let their hands fall from the dish. They looked so similar to the boys they'd been years ago; bashful, embarrassed eyes cast downward as someone reprimanded them. He knew that as soon as he turned his back they'd go right back to digging through cursed stones, but Remus really wondered if such things carried such negative energy. Then again, how could wizards be real?
"They're cursed, you blithering idiot," she nagged. "Do you want your first child to be sacrificed to the Blood Moon?"
"I don't want -" Peter began, but James stomped on his foot.
"Oh," James smiled weakly. "No, ma'am."
"Then don't be stupid and touch those stones."
Remus put Ms. Grimes to bed, ensuring her that he'd ask them to visit more often. She also made him promise to hide the stones next time they came around; there had been more negative energy there that night than before, she presumed, and wanted no harm to befall his loved ones.
They left soon after that, Remus locking the doors tightly and casting a ward just in case. It seemed paranoid, yes, but one could never be too careful.
"Alright," he groaned. "What did you want me to see?"
He turned around and his mouth went dry. Sirius, with his skin-tight jeans and white t-shirt, had mounted a motorbike. Not just any motorbike, but a Triumph Street Scrambler. To anyone, it just looked like a badass bike with impeccable shining and leather. However, to Remus, it was a turn on, to say the least. Sirius' hands flexed as he gripped the handles, his grin widening as he took in Remus' expression of utter shock; he knew exactly what he was doing.
"D'ya like it," Regulus burst. "I mean, wait till you ride the thing! Sirius took me on first, and it goes from zero to sixty in four seconds, mate. Zero to fucking sixty!"
Remus hated to admit it, but he hadn't been listening to a thing Regulus said. His eyes were trained on Sirius, on that look of pure confidence and charisma plastered on his face. Gods, he loved this man.
"Come on, I'll take you for a ride," he jerked his head, motioning for Remus to join him on the bike.
Remus didn't hesitate, saddling the back of the bike with his legs but not waiting to wrap his arms around Sirius' torso.
James emerged from the background, draping his arms around Regulus' and Peter's shoulders, "We'll meet you at my house for dinner, yeah?"
"Right," Sirius replied.
The engine roared to life beneath Remus, and he jumped. The sensation of riding a bike wasn't foreign to him. He rode his bike all the time in Walter's Ash; it'd been his favorite thing to do. To feel the rush of wind against his cheeks, the rumble of gravel beneath him. Would it be the same? No. He was different now, less naïve and chaste. But with Sirius in front of him, the smell of him wafting in his nose, anything was possible.
"Don't take too long," Regulus chided, an impish smile making itself quite at home on his small face.
"Oh, bugger off, I'm not going to fuck him on the bike!"
Remus slapped his chest, "Says who?"
"Merlin," Sirius cried, kicking off the ground and speeding down the street.
It had been a different feeling all together, really. In fact, it was better than he could have ever imagined. The humid, yucky feeling of August was washed away by crisp wind whipping his cheeks, Sirius' laughter rumbling in his chest. The smell of café's and bakeries was left behind as they whizzed down the street, weaving in and out of whatever traffic was left at the hour. In all purposes, he felt like he was flying. Weightless and floating, so far from earth and too close to cloud nine. He closed his eyes, letting out a scream of ecstasy.
"Enjoying yourself," Sirius laughed.
Nevertheless, Remus didn't respond. He tilted his head back, soaking in the breeze and sound of the engine. Letting his hands grip Sirius' white t-shirt too tight, he smiled.
"I'd like to move in with you," he said finally.
It took a moment for Sirius to respond, the jerk of the motorbike convincing Remus he'd been doing some sort of maneuver to get on the freeway. He didn't mind; they'd be driving for hours before they got to James and Lily's flat. The logic in that didn't exactly make any sense to him, but he couldn't have cared.
"Oi," Sirius called. "Love, look down."
Remus frowned, "What? What do you mean -"
Fear rattled his bones; the ground – the real, solid serene bliss of asphalt seemed miles below the tires. Perhaps the feeling of floating had been more literal in this sense. Remus' heart reared in his chest, his hold on Sirius turning borderline violent as he cried for mercy. Sirius didn't seem to mind, though, and laughed away as Remus begged for life.
"Calm down, Moony," he shouted over the wind. "It's charmed."
"Why," Remus shrieked. "Why in the ever-loving fuck would you do this?!"
"Don't know, really," he shrugged. "I just thought of it while I was riding, ya know? So, then, I did it. Simple, actually, when you break it down to it's fundamentals."
However, Remus was too busy panicking to listen much anymore.
"I hate you!"
"I love you as well, darling."
Remus felt his insides chill, but not in fear of falling to his death. Suddenly, being so high in the air didn't seem like the most impending bit of information to rack his brain. It was that finally, after years of waiting – years of tension, despair, lust, and passion – he'd finally heard it, and his hopes had been confirmed.
He could now say, in all truth and honesty, he had loved and been loved in return. That was more than some could say.
Now, he planned just how he would manage to box Sirius' ears upon landing. Matilda hadn't taught him yet.
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Hello, my dears. Sirius' flying motorbike has been introduced along with Ms. Grimes, in honor of my dear Aunt Jane who acted just as wild and witty. Actually, the inspiration for this chapter came to me this morning. I fuck you guys not – there's a dormitory right next to mine with a motorcycle with a license plate that says "SIRIUS" on it, and I was like "HOLY FOOCKING SHIT!" And I wrote this at work and during a study period. Speaking of, I should probably be working on school work, but I think I'm going to do it in the morning. Anyway, none of you care about that.
An announcement must be made:
I plan on finishing this by the beginning of March, and during that month I will be editing and correcting this entire book in preparation for the sequel, which is officially known as Obliviate. It's a contrast from this book, yes, because Mischief Managed – the Marauder's Map – is all about the keeping track and recording everything. The theme of this book is rememberance and memories, if you couldn't tell already. In the sequel, for reasons you shall soon come to know, Remus wants the opposite, and his motives for this will change throughout the second book, but, all in all, he'll want to erase some things. ALL I KNOW IS, my mind keeps making up little scenes and shit for the second book, and it already breaks my heart.
Anyway, much love to all of you. I will now be watching the British show Airlines because it's actually hilarious.
Always,
Nic.