A/N: Okay, okay, so the next few were supposed to be femslash. Shh. Look, puppies!
Prompt: 28. Trouble
Pairing: Remus Lupin/Sirius Black (HOW HAVE I NOT WRITTEN YOU TWO YET?)
That boy is trouble.
This is how the whispers go. He is small and thin and something about him reminds you of tall grass and early mornings. He has scars and insecurity across his young face and he hides his body behind the scarlet curtains as he gets ready for bed.
You still watch. The candle beside his bed lights that curtain up, a bright and perfect circle, and you watch his silhouette peel off those dark and heavy robes and, for an instant, you can imagine the scars that run along his body like a roadmap of pain, like a way to trace back the horrors of his life.
And you want to. You want to trace it back to the beginning and find out why why why. You want to run your fingers along the scars you can only imagine and ask him about each one and listen and tell him it's okay.
That boy is trouble.
But you can't, can you?
Because he is the boy who puts up barriers, who pulls tight the curtains and feigns indifference or sleep, and you are the boy who is maybe a bit too immature and a bit too alive, and trying to force him to be happy isn't working so well.
So you sit and you watch and you notice. You see when he is tired and weary, with a fatigue in his eyes that little boys shouldn't yet know. You notice when he is gone for the night, sometimes for days, and how it is always a mumbled excuse or a bare-faced lie that passes his lips before he leaves. You see how he comes back with fresh scars and new cuts and bruises and scrapes, and you see how he sometimes looks like he wants to die.
That boy is trouble.
No. No, that boy is in trouble, and you feel like you're the only one who can see that.
They look at his scars and his cold exterior, his reserved ways and his oh so quiet words and they think he's got a secret.
But you look at his face. You see sort-of-tanned skin under those silver stripes, and you see intelligent eyes that could hold more mischief than they already do if only he'd let you in. And you see that smile, those pointed teeth that glint in the light and remind you that everyone deserves happiness.
And maybe he does have a secret, but don't we all?
That boy is trouble, they say.
No, no, that boy is my friend, you respond (even though he doesn't want you to) and grab him by the wrist and stalk away.
This boy is trouble.
That's how your mind tells you to stay away when you're a few years older and a few kisses past utterly lost.
He presses his body close to yours and winds his fingers through your hair and you sigh and moan and groan and think trouble over and over.
This boy is trouble.
No, this boy is perfect and amazing and everything to you and he most certainly is not trouble.
And you tell him that as you walk your hand along the roadmaps of his chest, those scars shining just as you thought they might. You tell him that he's not trouble and that you're sorry people ever thought he was because he's too sweet, too gentle to be trouble. You're sorry for the scars and the hostility and the people who flinch away from his touch and the people who stare and the rumours, because he's everything, he's anything, but trouble.
But am I worth the trouble?
He says it with a smile but you can hear the worry and the desperate need to know that slips past his words and tries to worm its way into your heart.
And you've run out of words to say you love him, so you just kiss him quiet and hope he understands.
This boy is trouble.
No, no, this boy is mine.