The lentils got a bit uncool, floor-wise (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} arcadian_dream) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} jazzandpipes,@ 2008-08-28 13:19:00 |
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| Current mood: |  confused |
| Current music: | 'Well Well Well' - Le Tigre |
| Entry tags: | genre: angst, pairing: remus/sirius, potterverse, r/s games |
Darkness Hides: Potterverse; Remus/Sirius
OK. So I've decided to post this here after deciding I wouldn't because it was dreadful. But then I thought...fuck it. So here it is, the second of my Round One R/S Games fics.
Title: Darkness Hides
Author: arcadian_dream
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: slash, sex, angst, masturbation
Disclaimer: JKR's, I'm just playing.
Summary: After taking a teaching post at Hogwarts, Remus is haunted by the insistence of memories past...
Words: 1603
Author's Notes: Written for Round One of the R/S Games. Chosen genre was angst; prompt was Brand New's 'Degausser.'
Comments: welcomed and muchly appreciated :)
Remus shifted awkwardly in his seat. The shuffling portraits of past Hogwarts headmasters eyed him sceptically, suspiciously. Remus gripped the arms of his chair nervously as Dumbledore spoke.
“Well, Remus, we are very pleased to have you on board…”
But the great wizard’s words of welcome disappeared in the air before they had penetrated Remus’ consciousness, consumed by the ticking sounds of various magical objects; by the splatter of hard rain against the windows.
By the insistence of memories past…
***
Remus dug his grimy fingernails into the worn, cracked leather of the chair’s arms. He swallowed hard in what was sure to be a losing battle against the jagged lump that had risen in his throat.
“I am…” Dumbledore spoke softly as he rose from behind his desk. He approached the ghostly white and silent Remus slowly.
“…So sorry, Remus,” the headmaster concluded sadly as he placed a consoling arm across Remus’ shoulders: “If there is anything – anything at all – I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask, my dear boy.”
His blue eyes stinging with the unmistakable heat of burgeoning tears, Remus finally tilted his head upwards: he searched Dumbledore’s wise eyes for…for what? He was not quite sure.
For some sign that this was all a mistake, or part of a larger plan.
For something.
Anything.
But Remus found nothing: there was, quite simply, nothing there to be found in Dumbledore’s earnest gaze.
Only the reflected sadness of his own: and so Remus merely nodded in response. He could not speak: he feared that the power to do so, the process and words would have eluded him.
He rose silently from his seat. His neck suddenly seemed far too weak to support his head and he walked dejectedly from Dumbledore’s office, demons of betrayal and doubt clawing at his insides.
***
“Remus?” Dumbledore asked, peering at the distracted lycanthrope over the glittering silver frames of his half-moon spectacles.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Remus muttered apologetically, “I drifted off for a moment.”
“Ah, not to worry Remus,” Dumbledore smiled warmly, “You only missed a brief ramble – although, I do feel that people somewhat underestimate the value of a good ramble.”
Remus’ lips curved into the beginnings of a smile, “Indeed they do, Professor.”
“Now, now Remus, we’ll have none of that: do call me Albus. It is what all of my friends – and, certainly, some of my enemies – call me.”
“Very well, Prof- Albus,” Remus corrected himself mid-sentence.
“As I was saying,” Dumbledore resumed as he began to potter about his office, “Minerva will show you to your chambers, and should you need anything please, do not hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, Albus,” Remus replied as he got to his feet.
“You are most welcome,” Dumbledore nodded politely as McGonagall tentatively entered the room. “Ah, Minerva, show Professor Lupin to his quarters.”
“Of course, Albus,” McGonagall answered as she ushered Remus out of the headmaster’s office.
***
“Alohamora,” McGonagall whispered as she and Remus approached the heavy timber door of what would now be Remus’ home.
“Here we are,” McGonagall smiled as she placed a hand on Remus’ forearm: “Welcome back, Remus.”
***
Remus heaved the door open. Placing his suitcase down on the dusty timber floor he cast his eyes around the room: over furniture and windows, over the wavering shadows of the wall lamps as tongues of flame and shadow licked at the stone walls.
Remus placed a warm hand against the icy grain of the brick. He dragged his fingertips over the wall’s coarse contours as he padded the perimeter of the room. Closing his eyes, Remus lifted his fingers to his face: he inhaled the scent of the stone deeply. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against one another, rolling the miniscule grains of sand and dirt that had stuck to his sweaty skin over the mounted flesh of his fingertips.
So many times Remus had felt that particular grain against his skin…
Against his soft, flushed cheek as Sirius kissed his neck; against his hands as his fingers scrambled to steady his position as Sirius thrust into him; against the small of his back as Sirius pushed him hard up against the echoing walls of the empty corridors and slid his lithe fingers up under the fabric of his school shirt, tenderly grazing his pale, scarred skin…
“No,” Remus admonished himself suddenly. Shaking his head almost violently he wiped the lingering scent of the stone on his thighs. What was wrong with him? To still, after twelve years, be thinking of Sirius Black – the man responsible for the deaths of his three closest friends, the man responsible for orphaning young Harry Potter – in such a manner…it made Remus sick to his stomach. Nauseated and disgusted, Remus’ upper lip curled in contempt of his own thoughts.
But the ghosts of his past would not listen.
They would not be denied.
***
With a loud, piercing crack Remus had arrived back at the flat. His flat. Their flat: his, and Sirius’. Remus’ stomach lurched suddenly at the thought: the flat – the life - he had shared with a murderer. Hands trembling and legs shaking, Remus hurled himself forwards in the hope of making it to the bathroom, but to little effect: the acrid liquid spilled angrily from his lips, over his tear-stained shirt and onto the threadbare carpet of the lounge room.
“Scourgify,” Remus croaked as he stood, hunched over the pool of vomit that lay at his feet, speckling the toes of his shoes. He kicked them off with his heels and stumbled forward, gravity propelling him more so than will power or his own decisiveness, into what had been their bedroom.
The room seemed to swim before Remus’ eyes: what had once, had always, been firm definite lines shifted and melted into one another. The binary opposites of black and white dissolved into grey: Remus could not believe it, and yet he had to. He must.
There could, he knew, be no other explanation.
He had seen that in Dumbledore’s eyes: the certainty.
And yet, as he surveyed what had been their life together – his and Sirius’ – Remus realised: he could not be certain of anything anymore.
***
Remus hastily pushed the thought to one side: he had re-lived enough painful memories over the last twelve years, he did not need to do it all again, not tonight, not as he was about to embark on this new life.
This new chapter: his feeble attempt at penance for the sins of his past, to rectify the hollow ache of regret that had for so long lay settled in the pit of his stomach.
Undressing in the middle of the room, Remus shivered in the cold before slipping into a pair of tattered and too loose pyjama pants. He clambered into his new bed and, pulling the covers tightly up around his chin, waited for sleep to descend.
But it would not.
Each time Remus closed his eyes, visions of what was, of what had been, how they had been sketched themselves on the inside of his eyelids.
Sirius’ hands; lips; eyes: touch, taste, sight.
The heat of his breath mixing with Sirius as they kissed, panting into one another; tongues wrestling and hands roving, grasping, groping. Moans and sighs in the darkness of the night, against the walls and in the corridors. The whining of mattress springs in the dormitory, the irritated mutterings of James and Peter.
Soon, Remus could take no more and, letting his hand delicately trace over the curves of his body, he began to stroke his twitching cock. He ran his index finger along the length of the shaft, before gently pinching the tip, rolling the skin delicately between his thumb and finger.
The way Sirius used to…
He moaned into the darkness, his breath clouding above his contorting face.
Remus gripped his erection in one hand, and the bedclothes in the other, clenching the cotton sheets between in his fingers. He stroked himself fiercely – almost painfully, as though punishing himself for memories he and Sirius had once made, and for the emotions he could not escape – before coming to a shuddering climax. Semen spilled from the head of Remus’ cock over his fist as he loosened his own intense grip.
Remus peeled his fingers from his softening cock and guiltily wiped his hand on the clean sheets. The self-loathing and disgust that had for so long been his closest companion returned, and he rolled, groaning, onto his side. His face pressed against the cool surface of the pillow, Remus’ body shook with silent sobs. Each breath rasped and rattled in his lungs as he tried desperately to eradicate the images of the past: of Sirius; and of happiness, from his mind.
Staring ahead, Remus allowed his eyes to rest on the rain-spattered window: trails of water colliding with glass, and merging into one another; descending ever downards. The wind howled violently: it seemed to shake the windowpane.
Wiping the dried tears from his face, Remus sighed. Resigned to the reality of a sleepless night Remus turned away from the calamitous weather that assaulted the windows and walls of the castle.
Hitching his legs up to his chest, Remus tried not to see the soft tendrils of Sirius Black’s hair in the engulfing darkness of the night.
He tried not to see the memories passing before his consciousness.
He tried not to feel the love that he and Sirius had shared.
But Remus knew, he always knew, like the recollections that had tonight plagued him: it could not be denied.
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