Fic: Clarity, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wandersfound
Dec. 9th, 2009 04:34 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
a_shadow_there.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
small_giftsTitle: Clarity
Author:a_shadow_there
Recipient:wandersfound
Rating: PG-13
Highlight for Warnings: *angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, explicit language*
Word Count: 1232
Summary: Trapped within the walls of Twelve Grimmauld Place, Sirius seeks out something real.
Author's notes: inspired by the following prompt: "Love me. Because Love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does" – Everything is Illuminated, Jonathan Safran Foer. I know I can't possibly hope to do your prompt justice (the words of Mr Safran Foer are just too beautiful, aren't they? *sigh*), but I *think* (read: hope) I've managed to write something that you'll like,wandersfound - happy holidays!
And many thanks tobrighty18 and auntypsycho for looking over this <3
The front door of Twelve Grimmauld Place creaks as Remus heaves it open. Stepping into the entry way, he looks about: even now, after all their efforts, it still appears to be cloaked in a veil of dull grime; of drab greys and stale air.
And silence.
And it is strange, the silence. It is strange, because usually when Remus returns to the house; Sirius is there, awaiting his arrival. His lips will crack into that familiar, lop-sided smile, and the wrinkles around his eyes will crease in delighted recognition as Remus enters and Sirius will cry out, in a voice that Remus knows is trying too hard to be pleased – not because Sirius isn't pleased to see Remus, because he is, but because being here, in this place, weighs on him.
But not today.
Today there is only silence.
Only
only
only –
silence.
In the instant it takes Remus to register Sirius' absence, he can feel the beating of his heart intensify in anxiety, and his breath catches in his throat.
He panics.
*
The rain falls hard. Droplets of water tumble from the cloudy expanse above and catch in Sirius' hair, on Sirius' skin; they caress the soft, pink flesh of his parted mouth as he turns his face skyward.
*
The silence of Grimmauld Place is shattered by Remus' frantic footfalls as he tramps up the stairs, calling Sirius' name.
*
Sirius gasps. He shivers. The cold wind skids across the yard and hits him and shoots through his aching body like a poorly-timed hex. Through squinting eyes and pouring rain and the sheer insistence of his body's almost feverish trembling as it urges him to seek shelter from the elements, he remains standing.
He always was stubborn.
*
It is only by chance that Remus catches sight of Sirius through the kitchen window.
*
"Sirius!"
Remus' voice stumbles into the din of wind and the rain as he calls out from the back door: "Sirius, what the bloody hell are you doing?"
Sirius doesn't even flinch as his name is called. He doesn't turn his head.
Nothing.
"Bloody stubborn bastard," Remus mutters as he braces himself for the cold and tramps off into the back yard.
*
"Sirius," Remus says quietly, as he stands behind his old friend. He extends a hand and places it on his shoulder. "What're you doing mate?"
Sirius remains silent, but peers over his shoulder. Through fluttering lashes, his gaze falls momentarily to the place where Remus' hand rests; the fingers curving against the bone, cupping that small, innocuous part of him.
He looks up and meets Remus' eyes.
"I wanted to feel something real," he says. His voice is a whisper, and among the booming notes of the storm, it sounds fearful and earnest.
"Real?"
Sirius nods.
"What – what exactly do you mean?" Remus ventures. He gives Sirius' shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"This can't be it."
"What can't be it?"
"This," Sirius gestures to nothing, and to everything, all at once: "I can't – this – this can't be it. Twelve years, Remus. Twelve fucking years. And now this. It can't be, it just –"
"Sirius –"
Sirius turns slowly at the repetition of his name. He stands facing Remus. His hair is plastered to his skull and neck. Slivers of grey shimmer in the glare of this muted daylight. His chest rises and falls with increasing rapidity as he shivers with cold. Clear rivulets of rain water run down over Sirius' face and neck, soaking his shirt through so that it clings to his body and Remus can see the line of his sternum protruding from beneath the drenched fabric.
"Is it even fucking worth it, Remus?" he asks. His eyes are almost unnervingly-wide, and brimming with an uncompromising clarity that, even as teenagers, had caused Remus to blush and stammer and want to do nothing more than take Sirius' face in his hands and kiss him and hold him close - and cling to just one part of him even though he knew that if he did he would want to crush his whole person against his own skinny, adolescent chest, and just feel him.
"Is – is what worth it?" Remus replies through his own now-chattering teeth.
"This – this – being on the run and in hiding and trapped here and it –"
"Yes?"
"I just don't feel like any of it is real. Like any of it - the war and James and Lily and – and - and that - place - it can't be," Sirius' voice trails off. Remus thinks that it is as though the effort of articulating his thoughts, of breathing life into them and making them real has sapped Sirius of all energy and Remus can feel Sirius' body slacken under his hand as his words take flight. And he can feel the weight of those words, and the way they hang in the air above and between them in a way that is almost too vast for Remus to be able see clearly, wholly.
"So was it?" Sirius asks; "Real?"
Gnawing at his bottom lip, Remus can only nod his reply from under his furrowed brow.
"And us?"
Remus releases his lip – stinging and torn from the machinations of his teeth - and the bittersweet tang of blood stains his tongue.
"Sirius," Remus begins. He reaches for Sirius' hand to draw him indoors, but Sirius shirks from the touch.
"And us?" he repeats.
Remus swallows. They can't be doing this, not now. Things are complicated enough as it is, he thinks, what with Voldemort rallying his forces, and all the Order business, and Harry, and making sure Sirius stays well-hidden and, and, and ...
And
and
and.
"Come inside, mate," Remus says, "You're soaked through. We both are. We'll dry off and have a cuppa and a chat and – "
"No. Tell me, Remus." Sirius stands rigid; his mouth is set. He is determined. He won't be going anywhere until Remus answers him. Remus sighs and looks Sirius squarely in the eye – those eyes, those clear, grey eyes that, even now, even after years of grief and guilt and the horrors of war, still burn with that same brightness of their shared adolescence. And as they do, Remus' concerns – the and, and, and of this time and place in which they find themselves – melts away and there is only he and Sirius, the wind and the rain, and those eyes.
Remus takes a deep breath. "You said you wanted to feel something real?"
"I want you to answer me, to tell me about us, about –"
Remus raises his hand for Sirius to stop speaking.
"Something real," Remus mumbles. He moves toward Sirius and raises his own trembling hand, all cracked skin and scars, to cup Sirius' jaw; the bone, smooth and angular, jutting against the warm, soft curves of Remus' palm.
Sirius stands silent and still and leans into Remus' touch. His eyelids fall closed and Remus gently runs the flesh of his thumb over Sirius' lightly parted lips. Rain trickles along the bridge of Sirius' nose and falls, in a steady drip, from the tip to his lips, wetting Remus' thumb.
"Real," Sirius mouths against the skin, his breath hot in contrast to the ice-cold rain that clings to the bodies of both men.
With a shuddering sigh, Remus nods. "Yes," he says, "real."
Author:
a_shadow_thereRecipient:
wandersfoundRating: PG-13
Highlight for Warnings: *angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, explicit language*
Word Count: 1232
Summary: Trapped within the walls of Twelve Grimmauld Place, Sirius seeks out something real.
Author's notes: inspired by the following prompt: "Love me. Because Love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does" – Everything is Illuminated, Jonathan Safran Foer. I know I can't possibly hope to do your prompt justice (the words of Mr Safran Foer are just too beautiful, aren't they? *sigh*), but I *think* (read: hope) I've managed to write something that you'll like,
wandersfound - happy holidays! And many thanks to
brighty18 and auntypsycho for looking over this <3The front door of Twelve Grimmauld Place creaks as Remus heaves it open. Stepping into the entry way, he looks about: even now, after all their efforts, it still appears to be cloaked in a veil of dull grime; of drab greys and stale air.
And silence.
And it is strange, the silence. It is strange, because usually when Remus returns to the house; Sirius is there, awaiting his arrival. His lips will crack into that familiar, lop-sided smile, and the wrinkles around his eyes will crease in delighted recognition as Remus enters and Sirius will cry out, in a voice that Remus knows is trying too hard to be pleased – not because Sirius isn't pleased to see Remus, because he is, but because being here, in this place, weighs on him.
But not today.
Today there is only silence.
Only
only
only –
silence.
In the instant it takes Remus to register Sirius' absence, he can feel the beating of his heart intensify in anxiety, and his breath catches in his throat.
He panics.
The rain falls hard. Droplets of water tumble from the cloudy expanse above and catch in Sirius' hair, on Sirius' skin; they caress the soft, pink flesh of his parted mouth as he turns his face skyward.
The silence of Grimmauld Place is shattered by Remus' frantic footfalls as he tramps up the stairs, calling Sirius' name.
Sirius gasps. He shivers. The cold wind skids across the yard and hits him and shoots through his aching body like a poorly-timed hex. Through squinting eyes and pouring rain and the sheer insistence of his body's almost feverish trembling as it urges him to seek shelter from the elements, he remains standing.
He always was stubborn.
It is only by chance that Remus catches sight of Sirius through the kitchen window.
"Sirius!"
Remus' voice stumbles into the din of wind and the rain as he calls out from the back door: "Sirius, what the bloody hell are you doing?"
Sirius doesn't even flinch as his name is called. He doesn't turn his head.
Nothing.
"Bloody stubborn bastard," Remus mutters as he braces himself for the cold and tramps off into the back yard.
"Sirius," Remus says quietly, as he stands behind his old friend. He extends a hand and places it on his shoulder. "What're you doing mate?"
Sirius remains silent, but peers over his shoulder. Through fluttering lashes, his gaze falls momentarily to the place where Remus' hand rests; the fingers curving against the bone, cupping that small, innocuous part of him.
He looks up and meets Remus' eyes.
"I wanted to feel something real," he says. His voice is a whisper, and among the booming notes of the storm, it sounds fearful and earnest.
"Real?"
Sirius nods.
"What – what exactly do you mean?" Remus ventures. He gives Sirius' shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"This can't be it."
"What can't be it?"
"This," Sirius gestures to nothing, and to everything, all at once: "I can't – this – this can't be it. Twelve years, Remus. Twelve fucking years. And now this. It can't be, it just –"
"Sirius –"
Sirius turns slowly at the repetition of his name. He stands facing Remus. His hair is plastered to his skull and neck. Slivers of grey shimmer in the glare of this muted daylight. His chest rises and falls with increasing rapidity as he shivers with cold. Clear rivulets of rain water run down over Sirius' face and neck, soaking his shirt through so that it clings to his body and Remus can see the line of his sternum protruding from beneath the drenched fabric.
"Is it even fucking worth it, Remus?" he asks. His eyes are almost unnervingly-wide, and brimming with an uncompromising clarity that, even as teenagers, had caused Remus to blush and stammer and want to do nothing more than take Sirius' face in his hands and kiss him and hold him close - and cling to just one part of him even though he knew that if he did he would want to crush his whole person against his own skinny, adolescent chest, and just feel him.
"Is – is what worth it?" Remus replies through his own now-chattering teeth.
"This – this – being on the run and in hiding and trapped here and it –"
"Yes?"
"I just don't feel like any of it is real. Like any of it - the war and James and Lily and – and - and that - place - it can't be," Sirius' voice trails off. Remus thinks that it is as though the effort of articulating his thoughts, of breathing life into them and making them real has sapped Sirius of all energy and Remus can feel Sirius' body slacken under his hand as his words take flight. And he can feel the weight of those words, and the way they hang in the air above and between them in a way that is almost too vast for Remus to be able see clearly, wholly.
"So was it?" Sirius asks; "Real?"
Gnawing at his bottom lip, Remus can only nod his reply from under his furrowed brow.
"And us?"
Remus releases his lip – stinging and torn from the machinations of his teeth - and the bittersweet tang of blood stains his tongue.
"Sirius," Remus begins. He reaches for Sirius' hand to draw him indoors, but Sirius shirks from the touch.
"And us?" he repeats.
Remus swallows. They can't be doing this, not now. Things are complicated enough as it is, he thinks, what with Voldemort rallying his forces, and all the Order business, and Harry, and making sure Sirius stays well-hidden and, and, and ...
And
and
and.
"Come inside, mate," Remus says, "You're soaked through. We both are. We'll dry off and have a cuppa and a chat and – "
"No. Tell me, Remus." Sirius stands rigid; his mouth is set. He is determined. He won't be going anywhere until Remus answers him. Remus sighs and looks Sirius squarely in the eye – those eyes, those clear, grey eyes that, even now, even after years of grief and guilt and the horrors of war, still burn with that same brightness of their shared adolescence. And as they do, Remus' concerns – the and, and, and of this time and place in which they find themselves – melts away and there is only he and Sirius, the wind and the rain, and those eyes.
Remus takes a deep breath. "You said you wanted to feel something real?"
"I want you to answer me, to tell me about us, about –"
Remus raises his hand for Sirius to stop speaking.
"Something real," Remus mumbles. He moves toward Sirius and raises his own trembling hand, all cracked skin and scars, to cup Sirius' jaw; the bone, smooth and angular, jutting against the warm, soft curves of Remus' palm.
Sirius stands silent and still and leans into Remus' touch. His eyelids fall closed and Remus gently runs the flesh of his thumb over Sirius' lightly parted lips. Rain trickles along the bridge of Sirius' nose and falls, in a steady drip, from the tip to his lips, wetting Remus' thumb.
"Real," Sirius mouths against the skin, his breath hot in contrast to the ice-cold rain that clings to the bodies of both men.
With a shuddering sigh, Remus nods. "Yes," he says, "real."
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