Title: Old Ties
Paring: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama/Agnst
Warning(s): None
Spoilers: PoA and GoF.
Summary: Sirius wants to know if he is forgiven and Remus struggles to connect the past, present and furture
Notes: Short. 523 words. As always, un-beta'd. All mistakes my own.
"Did you mean it?"
The words are asked into nothingness, silence, distorted and quieted by robes with patches on the elbows and holes in the cuffs. Too bright sunlight floods the boxed window, highlights dust in the air, makes patterns on the table. Remus turns his head from the light, shielding the glare with a teacup against his cheek, and looks to the question.
Sirius watches him with one eye, eyebrow arched, questioning, socket sunken and shadowed. His head is nestled in the crook of his arms, folded on the table, jam next to his elbow; crumbled so far into himself and onto the furniture he resembles less than a lump of dust and shadow. Azkaban has invaded.
"Did I mean what, Sirius?" he asks in a voice he knows Sirius hates because it is too calm, too patronizing, too soft for anything living in a time of war. Sirius hates it because with it Remus places himself in the sane role, the responsible role, the caretaker of a madman, and that is exactly why Remus uses it. Because Sirius is mad. Because Remus is responsible. Because it is unbecoming to torture this man in any other way.
"When you said it. Moony."
Sirius has been in his home for a week. They have talked less than they did when he lived with tropical birds. Communication seems easier when it is printed. When Sirius' voice does not crack. When Remus does not need to hold something to keep his hands from shaking. A quill or teacup.
"Did you mean it. In the shack."
There, his voice creaks, old and worn. Remus steadies the cup onto the table and looks again to the window. The dust in the air barely moves.
"Forgive me, Remus."
"Not at all, Padfoot, old friend."
Remus does not reply. Did he mean it? Yes, because what else is there to say when standing in a room with a convicted murderer. Three teenagers present. Twenty years of history pending. Old ties, old relationships, old memories, old building—what else is there to say when everything is your life can only be referred to in past tense. What does it matter if it was not exactly truthful, if trust is not so easily regained, if pain is not so easily quelled. It was something to say, to answer in front of Harry and his friends, to begin to rectify things with Peter, to finally feel as though something important and gratifying was happening here and now.
Padfoot. The name had been intentional. A sign of affection. An old tie reborn.
What does it matter that he cannot forget the past, nor, then, truly forgive it?
He looks once more as Sirius, who now is staring at him with both eyes, head lifted from his arms. A look of concern marks his gaunt features. He wonders at Remus' silence.
Here. Now. He's with me.
"Of course, Padfoot." Eleven years of friendship. Inside jokes. Nicknames. Pranks gone awry. Twelve years of suspected betrayal. Loneliness. Hatred. Scars. "Everything is forgiven."
Everything has changed. A gust of air through the window stirs the dust.
