» Author: deadlybride AKA Liz
» Webjournal: http://deadlybride.livejournal.com/
» Fandom: Harry Potter
» Rating: NC-17
» On Going (WIP)/One-off/Series: One-off
» Classification(s): None
» Warnings: None
» Pairing(s): Remus/Sirius
» Author's Notes: Any feedback would be welcomed. I wrote this while scrolling through the art of lizardspots, so I suppose - in a roundabout way - I should credit her for inspiration.
» Summary: Sirius was always too fast.
When Sirius spoke, Remus could never keep up. He'd jump from topic to topic too rapidly to make any sense – Quidditch to girls to music to Charms – and Remus rarely could follow well enough to make any contribution to the conversation. He was the pacing type: he'd stride back and forth in front of the fire, hands sculpting the air as he talked, eyes restlessly scanning the entire room. James joked that Sirius got more exercise talking than by playing Quidditch. Remus never could keep up – and when Sirius finally halted, his winding train of thought drained of steam, and glanced at him with dancing, dark blue eyes, Remus found himself too breathless to try.
When Sirius played, he was ruthless. Never had Remus seen anyone so willing to prank, to make himself laugh, to entertain others. He'd flip that long tail of black hair over his shoulder, toss a wicked smile Remus' way, and unveil the next joke. James always chuckled; Peter always followed; and Remus, with his prefect's badge and his debts and his soft ways, always tried to blunt Sirius' tricks, to make the Marauders' adventures slightly less perilous. But Sirius, eyes alight, generous mouth curled up in conspiracy, would say, "Oh, Moony," and Remus knew himself lost, every time.
When Sirius kissed Remus, it was always too fast. That was the only problem. Remus softened his jaw, breathing in Sirius' scent, but after only three seconds (and Remus actually counted) the other boy was gone, leaving in his wake a swift grin, a quick laugh, dashing away with a shout. Remus pressed his fingertips to his mouth, feeling the briefest, warm impression of sweet-stained lips, and smiled.
When Sirius slept, he was, at last, quiet. He wore boxers to bed during summer, half-tangled in a single sheet, sprawled diagonally across his Gryffindor red four-poster. Remus leaned against one post, curling his hand around the dark wood, and drank in Sirius' stillness. His broadening shoulders and strong hands lax, the muscles of his face smooth with sleep. Remus shuffled off his slippers and eased onto the bed, drawing one curtain to shield from Peter's view. The open window let in the gentlest of breezes, smelling to Remus of pine and beeswax, and moonlight cascaded silver across Sirius' golden skin. Remus kissed Sirius, coaxing open the chapped lips and easing his tongue gently between them. Sirius' eyes opened and sluggishly registered the boy above him while the kiss flowed on. More than three seconds, this time (Remus counted: five, seven, ten…), before Sirius tugged away, a question in his face. But Remus knew what would happen if he gave Sirius the chance to speak (lost again, just a spectator), or pass this off as a fun joke (something to be exploited, a good laugh, Oh Moony), or if he gave Sirius control (already gone, too fast too fast). So he shook his head at his best friend, curling one hand over the dark spot on Sirius' shoulder, bruised from Quidditch, settling his other hand at the juncture of hip and thigh; he nuzzled at Sirius' silken temple, breathing against one ear – the breath saying, no, this is mine now, let me – my time, my way, just this, please – and claimed Sirius for his own.
When Sirius got out of prison, Remus thought he'd rupture from the dark emotion roiling in his belly. Worry, he recognized, and love – those had been commonplace at school, years ago – but the deep, bone-chilling dread was new. His Sirius, dark eyes gone hollow, now, slender body skeletal, soft hair matted and rank. His easy swiftness was gone, replaced by a jerky speed – like a snake. The tanned flesh faded to waxen yellow. Remus nearly sobbed with relief with the realization of his Sirius' innocence – he did sob when Sirius, hunted once more, was forced to run. Curled on the floor of his office, grit of dirt and stone under his wet cheek, still-full goblet of Wolfsbane cooling on his desk, he shuddered, weeping, to exhaustion.
When Sirius finally returned to England, to his mother's house, Remus was there, waiting. It was raining. Remus stepped forward, eyes trained on the door, when Sirius stumbled into the foyer, sopping wet, cursing, and his mother's portrait immediately screamed invective. Remus' mouth trembled into a smile, while Sirius stared back, looking thunderstruck. Remus' voice guttered in his throat, emitting an abortive laugh, and he grabbed Sirius' rain-slick hand, tugging him away from Mrs. Black's shrieks, up the stairs, into the master bedroom. A crash of thunder masked the thump Sirius' bag made, falling onto the battered wood floor. Uncertainty lacing every move, Remus stepped closer, taking in the smell rising heady from Sirius' body – salt, rain, sweat, mud.
"Remus," he heard. That voice, which had once been so clear, so confident, was now rusty, unused, brittle. The fine, dark hair clung wetly to temples, fell across shoulders, dripped steadily on the dusty floor – hid the dark eyes that Remus wanted so badly to see. No urgency, now, no speed: Remus sensed a deep silence under Sirius' breast, holding him still, cold. So unlike the Sirius of the past. ("Sirius, serious? Never!")
"Sirius," he replied, moving within arms reach. He brushed the hair from Sirius' eyes with coarse fingers and looked his fill. The dark blue was dimmed even further, a night-color, surrounded by spiky black lashes; fatigue spread purple under his skin, which looked thin, now, too pale. The expression that formed slowly (too slowly, too slow for Sirius) in his eyes was something Remus had seen only once, and that in the mirror – a sort of awful yearning, which tightened his mouth and strained his features.
"Sirius," he said again. Now his hands settled, carefully, at the thin waist, as he pulled himself close enough to breathe in Sirius-scented air – the look of yearning sharpening, intensifying, tension rising unbearably – until Remus tilted his head up and kissed him. Counting absently (three seconds, six, eight), Remus felt a cool sense of relief when the tension in Sirius snapped and the man sagged into Remus' hands, slipping from the kiss to fall onto Remus' shoulder, arms bound tightly around the shorter man's back.
"Sirius," he whispered, mouth pressed just behind one ear. It was easier, then, with Sirius feeling less like a stranger, to pull off unnecessary clothing – to struggle with Sirius' damp pants, having to yank to get them off his long, scarred legs – to pry off boots and socks, having to light a fire in the filthy grate when chilliness swept over the two of them. The rain pounding the window eased the quiet when Remus led Sirius to the bed, tattered coverlet scratchy against their skin. They touched each other with a mix of familiarity and the caution born of newness – each with a new set of scars, Sirius' thinness and Remus' muscularity alien. When Remus finally eased his hand down Sirius' too-visible ribs, fingers circling gently around his erection, a rumble of thunder made both of them start, and chuckle.
"Sirius," Remus breathed, smiling. Simple, then, to bend his head and suck at that place on Sirius' slender throat, just above the hollow; simple to rock gently against his pelvis, white skin alternating furred and smooth. He curled his fingers tighter when he felt Sirius exploring his back, along the curve of his arse, between his legs, and released Sirius' neck on a gasp when a soft touch was pressed against his hole, his perineum, drawing a circle at the base of his balls. Arching together, chests tight, Remus pulled Sirius down for another kiss – and in the dark, damp tangle of it, fire flickering orange across their skin, his fingers tangling in Sirius' wet hair, the taste of Sirius rich under his tongue, he forgot to count. This would go on forever, whether their bodies happened to be together or not: this was something they would never truly leave. Never.
"Sirius," he cried as he shuddered, and the other man came with a sigh. Never. He allowed his mouth to settle over Sirius' lips, but didn't kiss him. He inhaled, the damp air leaving Sirius' lungs slightly sour, smelling to Remus of nighttime. Sirius blinked sleepily at him, eyes lighter.
"I won't let anyone take you," Remus whispered, pulling Sirius' dark head up to rest on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. Their bellies slid slickly together and Remus closed his eyes, relishing the feel of it, memories rising thick in his throat, of days sunnier, of easy afternoons with the fast, trouble-free Sirius. That Sirius would have scoffed, grinning mockingly, if he had voiced his too-tender thoughts – but now he had this one, this still Sirius, and Remus murmured gentle oaths.
Sirius pulled back, eyes somber, and pressed a chaste kiss to Remus' brow. They curled together, on top of the ragged blankets, and watched as the rain fell outside.