Title: All Saints
Rating: G for utter tameness.
Notes: Experimental wing-fic; Remus/Sirius;
takes place before the Potters' death.
Unexpected it comes, on a yellow September afternoon; it finds a way into the apartment, into your room – a new magic.
It is the wide white spread and angles, the serrated feather edges, the way they fold and settle on the golden skin of his back. Gently, because it looks so fragile and unreal, you probe the crook of the joint with your fingers; gently you stroke, you feel the heat and the pumping of veins close to the surface. He shivers beneath you, and what sensation must he be feeling - what does it feel like to have this, to have wings? You cannot even begin to imagine, except when you think about war veterans who have lost a limb and their phantom pains - perhaps you have only lost your wings, and for a second you imagine you feel them, stretching out behind and to your sides and into the air.
But it is only imaginary, and as you know this the feeling disappears. You are a wolf, not a bird.
00000
It is beautiful; it is strange. Who are you to judge? But there is no denying the glory, as the sun shines through the window and glances on the white sheets to make shadows of ridges, glances on dark hair and sinks in like velvet, settles in eyes that gleam but softer now, and cooler. The glory captures you; the glow of the curtains and his body illuminated, the feathers so soft and brilliant. He looks at you and sees your eyes on the white shapes; he looks at you, reaches a hand for your face, but you take it in your hand and keep staring, staring. He says your name; you stop, now, look at his face, in his eyes: he smiles. Leaning down you kiss him, and his lips are dry, yours cracked. A hand, now – your hand, touching where familiar and foreign merge, the throbbing heat upon his back, and he shivers (shudders, but no) and still he smiles.
When you leave for work he is looking to the window already, thinking, waiting. What is he thinking? He does not say; you do not know.
00000
What is it, you ask him. What is it, again, when he does not answer. It's something silly, your question, and you wonder if the answer will be as well - if there is one. He barely speaks anymore, just looks at you, expects you to understand. Maybe he no longer has words for these things he feels. What do wings do to a mind? There must be some connection, you think; how could there not be some connection.
What is it. You make the accusation, prod him with this demand of a question. There is something hidden yet, there must be, because wings do not do this all on their own. Again, he looks away, turns to the side, and you can see their bumpy outlines under the blanket he has wrapped around his shoulders. You lose your question with this; your mind loses its grip on that feeling that moment, and if he asked you what you meant by it you could not tell him. But he never asks.
You are almost glad of this except you almost feel like crying. You miss hearing his voice.
00000
He has changed. Obviously he has changed; that has what these past days or weeks or so have been, his change. But there is more than that, you know now. Much more.
00000
Sometimes you feel like you do not know him anymore, and it is an awful thing to feel but you do anyway. How can you help it? He has changed.
Maybe people with wings do not need you any longer. There are fewer words between you, and more silences, longer ones, colder.
You spend time out of the house even when you do not have to; the streets are full of the ordinary. Once this would have pained you and you would have avoided the street-corners, the alleyways, the stores of people coming and going and coming; you would not linger among strange strangers, but go home to his arms for the night. Now it is comforting, the bustle and rush of the unknown, the mix of different people who all average out to normal.
Between wolves and wings, what normality is there? Between the white spread of sheets and browner scarred skin, the tangle of black and tawny hair, the glance of eyes and the absence of glances, what is there? You don't even know anymore. You don't know anything.
He does, though. When you come back later and mumble something about work – of course he knows. You would spare time to feel terrible about what you are doing (not doing) except you are tired and the bed calls. He calls, quietly (how he has changed), with his eyes and he cannot see the wings spreading behind him but you can, and they spread wide. The feathers and joints are still warm under your touch, and he tries to smile, tries not to let you see him wince.
00000
Some day the magic would have to leave, but you did not know when. Not until that night, when you wake up to find him gone, the sheets only barely warm, and a cold breeze coming through your open window. You can still smell him, there in the air, lingering, and you hold your breath and stay there, perched, oh, on the edge of the bed, not getting up to look out the window, to look down. Physics are suddenly important, ridiculous though it is in this magical world of yours. But no, as the sun rises, you do not get up to close the window, cold as it is. Instead you leave the room, and retrieve the paper from the front door.
November 1st, it says. He stares at you from the first page, and you cannot see any wings no matter how hard you try.