Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine, they belong to J.K.
Rowling and may she have every joy of them. The lines of poetry are by
T.S. Eliot (lots of initials today.) I own nothing, except the order of
the words used.
Author's Note – the poetry should have come out italicized, but it doesn't seem to be working. Or maybe it's just MY computer being stupid again. I wrote this around midnight a couple of weeks ago, after I noticed that T.S. Eliot seems to mention the Dog Star quite often. It was my first attempt at slash, and the key word is attempt, so it's only there if you read into it a little. But that's okay. Cambri, if you're reading this, I am sorry.
Handful
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
Sirius had been out of sorts all week. He didn't seem angry, or depressed, or weary, and resisted all efforts by Remus to find out what was wrong. He didn't show any real evidence of something being actually wrong – he just – lurked, really. He was, like a heavy stormcloud on a hot day. Sometimes Remus would look up to see a very odd look on Sirius's face. And not a pleasant one. The tension had been building for days now.
Tonight was the worst yet. Sirius was restless. Early in the evening, he had paced the perimeter of the rug. Now he was still, carelessly sprawled on the loveseat in the living room of their flat, glaring into the middle distance. Remus tried to keep his mind on his book of T.S. Eliot.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled, and hushed the shrunken seas ...
It was little use. He couldn't focus on it.
... Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
Sirius had hardly spoken to Remus in the past few days. Any physical contact they had was loveless, lingering, slow and absolutely deliberate. Some of it had to be Remus, he accepted that; but he couldn't imagine what he might have done wrong. Surely it was some small, slight thing, something that only added to some greater hurt. If Remus had caused this bad humor, he surely would have known it by now. Sirius was never one to hide his feelings, never one to avoid confrontations. Once he would have said that Remus was submissive enough for them both, thus Sirius was required to be arrogant for both their sakes. But Sirius – normally so gregarious – had not spoken so many words together for at least four days. Remus studied him, blurry through his wire-rimmed reading glasses. At times Sirius made more sense when the details were obscured. Confused, a little hurt, Remus went back to his poetry.
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
A few lines later, he looked up again, paranoidly sure that Sirius had been watching him again, hoping, perhaps, to meet his eyes again. But Sirius was still looking at something which Remus couldn't see.
He heard his own voice, soft and hesitant as a shy adolescent. "Sirius?"
Sirius looked up with the casual swiftness of a dog scenting a rival. He fixed his eyes on Remus, who looked steadily back, and removed his glasses, abandoning his book, so their gazes could meet truly.
Sirius rose, straight as a harpstring and almost as tense, and went for his coat. "Where are you going?" asked Remus, folding his glasses and setting them on the table.
"To check on James and Lily," said Sirius. He sounded hostile. Remus felt a sick heaviness above his diaphragm. He accepted, in an intellectual way, that everyone fought, it was inevitable to have arguments with someone you lived with, but it was hard when he didn't know what the coming dispute was about.
"Something's wrong, Sirius," Remus said quietly, halting Sirius at the door. "Please, tell me what's wrong."
Sirius about-faced and moved toward Remus, in a smooth, almost menacing manner. "I'm worried about them," he said calmly. "Is that so wrong?"
"Of course not," said Remus. He felt himself relax a little; Sirius was obviously spoiling for a fight. Maybe once he got one, things would be back to the usual. "I'm worried about them too. But I'm worried about you, Sirius; you're acting odd lately. Is there something in particular bothering you?"
"Yes, something's bothering me," Sirius sneered. He tugged at Remus's arm, fingers hard and bruising; Remus carefully laid his book open on the arm of the chair as he rose. "You really make me wonder about you sometimes."
"I'm sorry," said Remus, wondering what it was that Sirius wondered.
Sirius cursed. "Sorry. You're sorry? Do you even realize what you're apologizing for?"
"No," said Remus with perfect honesty.
Sirius moved again, placing a hand under Remus's chin, turning his face up so that their eyes met. Two inches taller than Remus, he studied the werewolf's upturned face for a moment. Remus didn't have the classically beautiful features that Sirius possessed; his face was average, tending to a gentle, ironic expression, and his eyes were blue-grey. The soft light of the reading lamp caressed him, backlighting him with a soft golden glow, coaxing shades of caramel from his nondescript brown hair.
"What is it?" Remus asked again.
Sirius ran the pad of his thump over Remus's sensitive lips and tenderly pushed back a few strands of his hair. "I could almost believe you didn't know," he said harshly, the tone of his voice at odds with his gentle touch. "Then again, who else could it be?"
"Sirius, I don't know –
"– what I'm talking about, I know," Sirius interrupted angrily. "Damn you, Remus Lupin! It can't be anyone but you."
Remus took a deep breath, his eyes puzzled and hurt. "Tell me what's going on," he appealed. "I don't know what you mean." Sirius's hand tightened painfully on Remus's jaw. Remus winced, but didn't pull away. Sirius barely noticed. "Really, Sirius. Tell me what's wrong," he insisted.
"How – God, how could you think –" said Sirius, sounding distressed. "Remus, I know, it isn't me and it can't be Peter."
"Sirius," Remus said soothingly. "Lily and James are fine. It's only been a week since the charm, and I know you haven't been tortured for information, you've been with me all week. They must be fine."
Sirius took his hand off Remus as though he'd grown hot. "How can you look so damned innocent?" Sirius asked rhetorically. He turned and walked out the front door. Remus called after him, starting to follow, but Sirius ignored him. Remus stopped in the center of the room, confused and hurt, and wondering what was that all about.
He'll feel better when he comes back, Remus told himself. Once he's seen that James is all right, he'll be fine. Not entirely convinced, Remus took his book and went into the bedroom. He'll be fine when he gets home ...
Remus didn't see Sirius again for twelve years.
... I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Terminus Quod Orsa
Author's Note – the poetry should have come out italicized, but it doesn't seem to be working. Or maybe it's just MY computer being stupid again. I wrote this around midnight a couple of weeks ago, after I noticed that T.S. Eliot seems to mention the Dog Star quite often. It was my first attempt at slash, and the key word is attempt, so it's only there if you read into it a little. But that's okay. Cambri, if you're reading this, I am sorry.
Handful
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
Sirius had been out of sorts all week. He didn't seem angry, or depressed, or weary, and resisted all efforts by Remus to find out what was wrong. He didn't show any real evidence of something being actually wrong – he just – lurked, really. He was, like a heavy stormcloud on a hot day. Sometimes Remus would look up to see a very odd look on Sirius's face. And not a pleasant one. The tension had been building for days now.
Tonight was the worst yet. Sirius was restless. Early in the evening, he had paced the perimeter of the rug. Now he was still, carelessly sprawled on the loveseat in the living room of their flat, glaring into the middle distance. Remus tried to keep his mind on his book of T.S. Eliot.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled, and hushed the shrunken seas ...
It was little use. He couldn't focus on it.
... Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
Sirius had hardly spoken to Remus in the past few days. Any physical contact they had was loveless, lingering, slow and absolutely deliberate. Some of it had to be Remus, he accepted that; but he couldn't imagine what he might have done wrong. Surely it was some small, slight thing, something that only added to some greater hurt. If Remus had caused this bad humor, he surely would have known it by now. Sirius was never one to hide his feelings, never one to avoid confrontations. Once he would have said that Remus was submissive enough for them both, thus Sirius was required to be arrogant for both their sakes. But Sirius – normally so gregarious – had not spoken so many words together for at least four days. Remus studied him, blurry through his wire-rimmed reading glasses. At times Sirius made more sense when the details were obscured. Confused, a little hurt, Remus went back to his poetry.
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
A few lines later, he looked up again, paranoidly sure that Sirius had been watching him again, hoping, perhaps, to meet his eyes again. But Sirius was still looking at something which Remus couldn't see.
He heard his own voice, soft and hesitant as a shy adolescent. "Sirius?"
Sirius looked up with the casual swiftness of a dog scenting a rival. He fixed his eyes on Remus, who looked steadily back, and removed his glasses, abandoning his book, so their gazes could meet truly.
Sirius rose, straight as a harpstring and almost as tense, and went for his coat. "Where are you going?" asked Remus, folding his glasses and setting them on the table.
"To check on James and Lily," said Sirius. He sounded hostile. Remus felt a sick heaviness above his diaphragm. He accepted, in an intellectual way, that everyone fought, it was inevitable to have arguments with someone you lived with, but it was hard when he didn't know what the coming dispute was about.
"Something's wrong, Sirius," Remus said quietly, halting Sirius at the door. "Please, tell me what's wrong."
Sirius about-faced and moved toward Remus, in a smooth, almost menacing manner. "I'm worried about them," he said calmly. "Is that so wrong?"
"Of course not," said Remus. He felt himself relax a little; Sirius was obviously spoiling for a fight. Maybe once he got one, things would be back to the usual. "I'm worried about them too. But I'm worried about you, Sirius; you're acting odd lately. Is there something in particular bothering you?"
"Yes, something's bothering me," Sirius sneered. He tugged at Remus's arm, fingers hard and bruising; Remus carefully laid his book open on the arm of the chair as he rose. "You really make me wonder about you sometimes."
"I'm sorry," said Remus, wondering what it was that Sirius wondered.
Sirius cursed. "Sorry. You're sorry? Do you even realize what you're apologizing for?"
"No," said Remus with perfect honesty.
Sirius moved again, placing a hand under Remus's chin, turning his face up so that their eyes met. Two inches taller than Remus, he studied the werewolf's upturned face for a moment. Remus didn't have the classically beautiful features that Sirius possessed; his face was average, tending to a gentle, ironic expression, and his eyes were blue-grey. The soft light of the reading lamp caressed him, backlighting him with a soft golden glow, coaxing shades of caramel from his nondescript brown hair.
"What is it?" Remus asked again.
Sirius ran the pad of his thump over Remus's sensitive lips and tenderly pushed back a few strands of his hair. "I could almost believe you didn't know," he said harshly, the tone of his voice at odds with his gentle touch. "Then again, who else could it be?"
"Sirius, I don't know –
"– what I'm talking about, I know," Sirius interrupted angrily. "Damn you, Remus Lupin! It can't be anyone but you."
Remus took a deep breath, his eyes puzzled and hurt. "Tell me what's going on," he appealed. "I don't know what you mean." Sirius's hand tightened painfully on Remus's jaw. Remus winced, but didn't pull away. Sirius barely noticed. "Really, Sirius. Tell me what's wrong," he insisted.
"How – God, how could you think –" said Sirius, sounding distressed. "Remus, I know, it isn't me and it can't be Peter."
"Sirius," Remus said soothingly. "Lily and James are fine. It's only been a week since the charm, and I know you haven't been tortured for information, you've been with me all week. They must be fine."
Sirius took his hand off Remus as though he'd grown hot. "How can you look so damned innocent?" Sirius asked rhetorically. He turned and walked out the front door. Remus called after him, starting to follow, but Sirius ignored him. Remus stopped in the center of the room, confused and hurt, and wondering what was that all about.
He'll feel better when he comes back, Remus told himself. Once he's seen that James is all right, he'll be fine. Not entirely convinced, Remus took his book and went into the bedroom. He'll be fine when he gets home ...
Remus didn't see Sirius again for twelve years.
... I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Terminus Quod Orsa