Title: That Eternal Relic
Author: emiime
Characters: Remus/Sirius
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None.
Kinks chosen: Relics
Word Count: 1022
Summary: It's not the motorcycle that turns him on. It never was.
Author's notes: Title from Victor Hugo: "Try as you will, you cannot annihilate that eternal relic of the human heart, love." Love and thanks to snegurochka_lee for reminding me that Remus has a totally canon motorcycle fetish.



Remus will never ride the motorcycle again. Of this he is certain.

But the night after everything happens, he creeps along the streets to the garage where it is hidden away, letting himself inside with the key he always keeps with him. He can almost swear he smells Sirius there under the dropcloth, and maybe he can, or maybe the very idea of the motorcycle is just so god damned reminiscent of Sirius that it makes Remus sense things that aren't really there.

A thought strikes him and he bites his lip and immediately decides against it. He tells himself that he'll be more respectful and more detached, but Sirius loved to fuck in this garage, loved to suck Remus's cock while Remus sat astride the bike or have Remus do the same to him, and Remus can't help himself. He unzips with one hand while he runs the other over chrome and leather. His prick grows in his hand and he digs his fingernails into the seat of the bike, remembering.

This is where Sirius sat. His arse fit perfectly just here, and I'd sit behind him with my arms around his waist. I can still feel him, how he'd shift and laugh and we'd lean against each other as we owned the night.

It's not the motorcycle that turns him on. It never was. The motorcycle turned Sirius on, and that was enough for Remus.

He caresses the seat and he's starting to get hard, and he tells himself to be more respectful of the dead, of James and Lily and Peter, and less respectful of their killer, but his prick won't listen and neither will his heart. Neither will his memory.

I'd reach down and give him a squeeze and he'd turn his head for the briefest of seconds, just long enough to let me know that, yes, he'd felt it, and not to worry, we'd be fucking our bloody brains out soon enough.

Remus lets out a shuddering breath and pushes his trousers and pants down to his knees, rubbing his cock over the leather of the motorcycle's seat. His precome leaves a trail that glistens even in the light that barely manages to filter in through the cracks around the door of the garage.

Yes, yes, this is what he needs. This is better than all the old robes and old pillows in his flat that smell of Sirius. This is better than anything. This is the closest he will ever get to Sirius again.

The only thing I love more than my bike is you, Sirius would tell me sometimes when he thought I was asleep. I never told him I heard him.

Now that Remus is alone with the bike, it's as if Sirius never betrayed anyone, as if he never got sent away to rot in Azkaban. Remus shudders and pushes thoughts of the prison out of his head, concentrating instead on the feel of the cool leather under his cock, teasing his bollocks with his other hand.

Yes, fuck, yes, he needs this release, needs to remember and to forget all at once. He stops what he's doing and toes off his shoes as quickly as he can, shedding himself of his trousers and pants, and then he's sitting astride the bike as he used to do and he can almost, almost feel Sirius there with him, young and free and loyal.

He bites his lip and throws his head back and it's almost as if the wind is rushing against him again as it used to do when they would fly through the night together and Remus would kiss the back of Sirius's leather jacket and breathe in its scent and murmur I love you I love you I love you though he knew Sirius couldn’t feel him through the leather or hear him over the roar of the engine.

It wasn't long ago at all, but it feels like it's been years.

He can't make himself stop, though the one logical part of his brain that is still alive begs him to. He knows that this can only make it worse and not better, knows that nothing will bring Sirius back, knows that Sirius is a bastard and a traitor and

And he loved me.

he's not coming back.

Loves me.

But when he's with the bike, when he's touching himself and remembering, touching the seat and remembering, touching the handlebars and remembering, there is a moment when none of that matters, none of it even exists, because Remus gets so close to the Sirius he remembers, the Sirius he loved

Loves.

and that moment is the moment that he finally lets go and gives in and allows himself to realise that he can’t hold back any longer. He leans back on the seat and he's flying, he's flying, and he comes, spattering onto leather and chrome, right where Sirius would be if—if.

He slows his strokes, panting, and hangs his head. He denies himself the tears that spring to his eyes.

He won't do this again. He cannot keep this wound open. He will heal himself inside just as he heals skin and muscle after every full moon.

Once he catches his breath, he stands and pulls on his pants and his trousers again, facing the wall and not the bike. He ties his shoes slowly, deliberately, as he decides what he will do.

He won't keep the bike here any longer. Perhaps the Order can use it. Perhaps a relic of Sirius Black's can do some good to counteract even the tiniest part of the damage that Sirius himself inflicted upon all of their lives.

Yes. He'll contact Dumbledore in the morning, or maybe Arthur Weasley—no, Arthur will take the damned thing apart, and while Remus thinks maybe it would be a good thing to disassemble this memory, it's in fine working condition and someone will be able to use it.

Hagrid always liked motorcycles, he remembers.