I'm a realist / I'm a romantic (arcadian_dream) wrote in jazzandpipes, @ 2008-07-04 11:04:00 |
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Current mood: | good |
Current music: | 'Up the Bracket' - The Libertines |
Entry tags: | hp fics, pairing: remus/sirius, r/s games |
Eye of the Beholder: Potterverse; Remus/Sirius
Title: Eye of the Beholder
Author: arcadian_dream
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, angst
Disclamier: JKR's, I'm just playing.
Summary: The years, and Azkaban, have not been kind to Sirius...
Author's Notes: written for round one of the rs_games(go, Post-Hogwarts, woot!)
Thanks to littleblackbowfor the last-minute WIP beta. You're a star :)
Words: 1521
Comments: welcomed and appreciated.
Sirius tentatively padded along the narrow corridor of Remus’ small flat. The weight of each slow step caused the worn carpet to emit small puffs of sound as he moved towards the bathroom. Sighing, Sirius reached out with two long, thin arms, and lifted the greasy mirror from the wall.
He held the rectangle of glass up to his face, then pawed at his gaunt cheek with one hand, his eyes examining the lines of frustration and fear that had ravaged his once youthful face; his once beautiful face.
Yes, Sirius had known he was beautiful. He had believed all their words – it was, sometimes, hard not to. But now…now was different. Now, Sirius failed to recognise the broken features of the man who stared back at him; an almost corpse; a walking shadow.
A loud crack shook Sirius suddenly from his musings, and he placed the mirror back on its hook.
“Sirius?” Remus enquired from the kitchen.
“Coming, Moony,” Sirius croaked, as he turned away from the ghost of a man trapped in the glass.
***
“You alright, Sirius?” Remus asked as he lifted the fresh pot of tea, the steady amber stream splashing into his chipped cup.
“Yeah, I’m alright,” Sirius replied. Remus raised an eyebrow – he was in no way convinced that Sirius was, in fact, alright, but he had known him long enough, and well enough, to know not to push.
“Tea?” Remus asked instead as he reached into the dusty cupboard for a second cup.
Sirius nodded as he forced a meagre smile onto his cracked lips.
***
“Padfoot?” Remus whispered gently. He pressed a thumb to Sirius’ lined forehead. Sirius failed to stir.
“Sirius?” Remus persisted, though carefully still. Sirius’ nostrils flared suddenly as Remus’ warm scent engulfed his olfactory senses: he grunted in reply to his friend’s prodding.
“I’ve got to duck out again – some menial Order business Dumbledore wants me to take care of – you’ll be alright, Sirius?”
“Yeah,” Sirius replied as he nestled deeper into the shabby sofa, “Course. You do what you have to do, Moony – I’ll be OK.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Moony, I’m sure.”
Remus padded softly away from the prostrate Sirius. Through half-closed eyes, Sirius mused as to the reasons for Remus’ early departure – he was tempted to ask but, truth be told, he felt as though he was in no position to do so: who was he, after all, arriving unannounced on Remus’ doorstep, beleaguered and beaten?
After twelve years.
After everything.
Sirius was, he decided, no one, and let his tired eyelids flutter closed once more.
***
Hours passed. No longer able to shut out the sunlight that had been increasingly encroaching on the dusty lounge room of Remus’ flat, Sirius finally stirred. He swung his somewhat withered legs onto the floor and treaded gently along the grimy timber floorboards into the tiled kitchen area.
Peeking around corners and listening carefully for any sign of life, Sirius was at once saddened and relieved to discover that Remus had not yet returned. He felt he needed Remus, indeed he feared the time he was forced to spend on his own: Merlin knows Sirius had done plenty of that over the past twelve years in Azkaban.
And yet, at the same time, Sirius was unable to suppress a sigh of relief: there was something Sirius had wanted to do since he had arrived at Remus’.
Sirius crept down the narrow hall into Remus’ bedroom. He felt awful for what he was about to do, and yet he was unable to stop himself. Sirius opened the rickety closet doors and sunk to his knees. Rogue dust particles tickled Sirius’ throat and he spluttered in response as he sifted through the drawers before him.
Sirius’ fingers searched in the darkness of Remus’ closet until his hand closed over a familiar surface. He extracted the object from clutter that was, in essence, Remus’ existence, and pressing his palm to the cracked leather wiped the thick coating of dust and breathed deeply.
A photo album.
Their photo album.
Slipping his hand underneath the cover, Sirius let the leather-bound cardboard fall against his thigh. He closed his eyes, and opened them slowly – nervously – once more. Sirius began to flip though the contents of the album: it was as though Remus’ life – his and Remus’ life or, rather, what it was before…everything happened – seemed to be played out before his very eyes.
His weary eyes.
His prickling eyes.
Sirius rubbed the tip of his nose with his free hand, smearing a small strand of mucous across his knuckles as the tears welled in his eyes, magnifying their melancholy beauty.
Sirius choked on the loosening phlegm in his throat as his own face smiled joyfully back at him. His own face: only younger, fuller; handsome. Unable to comprehend the happiness that the moving image reflected back at him now, Sirius cupped his chin in his hand, the warm liquid of his tears moistening tiny folds of flesh that marked his palm.
Sniffing and quietly sobbing, Sirius failed to notice the clanking and jangling of Remus’ keys in the front door lock.
***
“Sirius?”
Sirius’ head snapped around in response to Remus’ careful greeting.
“I-I’m sorry, Remus,” he stammered, hastily stuffing the photo album back into the drawers, “I-I didn’t…I…”
Remus shook his head and smiled gently. “It’s OK, Sirius,” Remus soothed as he fell to his knees beside Sirius.
“It’s OK.”
Sirius looked at Remus, his eyes wide and red and his cheeks splattered with the trails of his tears, “It’s not, Moony I’m…I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to be,” Remus sighed as he slipped an arm across Sirius’ bony shoulders, pulling him close.
Sirius shuddered suddenly: he was still unused to the warmth of another human being; unused to the soft, stray threads of wool that hung from Remus’ cardigan and pressed against his weathered skin, dry and cold.
Closing his eyes tightly, Sirius wrapped his arms around Remus’ waist, desperate to hold onto the feeling, the warmth: Remus.
“What happened?” Remus ventured. His fingers slid up over the back of Sirius’ neck and the base of his skull and tenderly stroked his greying hair.
“I just…” Sirius began, the words thick and oppressive on his tongue, “What happened to us, Moony; to everything…to me? I just…look at me, I don’t even know who I am…what I am. I’m…I’m nothing.”
“Hey,” Remus admonished. He removed his hand from Sirius’ tangled mop of hair. Forcefully, but carefully, placing his hands on either side of Sirius’ face, Remus looked him directly in the eyes.
“You are Sirius Black. You are strong, and kind, and loving. You are the most incredible, inspiring and amazing person – wizard, Muggle, whatever - I have ever had the privilege of knowing.”
Sirius scoffed as Remus’ glowing praise reached his ears. He tried to turn his head away, to break Remus’ gaze, but the lycanthrope’s grip was strong, and would not allow him to do so.
“Look at me,” Remus commanded as Sirius struggled against the palms of his hands: “And you are beautiful.”
Sirius tried to scoff once more, but was only able to manage an incoherent sobbing splutter as the emotion, and the beauty, of Remus’ words – of Remus – overwhelmed him. He flung his arms around Remus’ neck in a desperate embrace. The sheer force of Sirius’ unexpected movement caused the two to topple backwards from their seated positions on the floor of Remus’ bedroom.
“Ouch!” Remus cried as Sirius landed awkwardly on top of him.
“Shit!” Sirius mumbled apologetically, “I’m sorry, Moony, I’m sorry…”
“It’s OK, Sirius – it’s alright, trust me,” Remus replied with a warm smile: a smile reminiscent of those that Sirius had seen looking up at him from the old, worn photographs.
“I…I know,” Sirius whispered and, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t need to force a smile.
Uncomfortably entwined on the hard timber floor, Remus pulled Sirius’ tear-streaked cheek to his own, their warm skin bound by Sirius’ cooling tears.
“You don’t need to know,” Remus breathed. He shifted Sirius’ face once more, so that both he and Sirius were looking each other full in the face. As the intensity of Remus’ gaze locked with his own, Sirius felt the uncertainty and anxiety that had been viciously tearing at his insides fade away. He leaned in hopefully, placing his dry, cracked lips against Remus’. For a moment, Sirius could have sworn he felt the brief flicker of Remus’ tongue tickling his lips and in that moment, he remembered.
Pushing his tongue past his lips, Sirius reciprocated, tracing the contours of Remus’ tongue with his own: eager muscles searching one another out, explorers in uncharted yet oddly familiar territory.
Remus sighed deeply, his breath mingling with Sirius’ as their mouths broke apart.
“You don’t need to know,” Remus repeated, brushing loose locks of Sirius’ hair out of his smouldering ashen eyes: “You only need to believe.”
And as Sirius stared, smiling, at Remus, he caught sight of his own image, reflected in the pools of Remus’ eyes: he was beautiful.
And he believed.