harry potter; By the Shores of the Sea | Remus/Sirius
Title: By the Shores of the Sea
Pairing: Remus Lupin/Sirius Black
Wordcount: 1687
Summary: James and Lily live. Peter is captured. And Remus can't breathe. Canon divergence.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter in any shape or form.
Notes: This was, believe it or not, originally written for an assignment for school. I was so into R/S that I couldn't even think of working with another universe, so I basically wrote this and then took out all references to Harry Potter. This is, of course, not the same version that I turned in. The assignment was to be inspired by something that someone else wrote, like a poem, which ties in nicely with my claim of the poetry table at mission_insane. I chose Maggie and Milly and Molly and May by e.e.cummings, which, I think, has one of the most beautiful endings I've ever read in a poem, and some of which I quote at the beginning of this piece.
Crossposting to mission_insane and maybe remusxsirius.
By the Shores of the Sea
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea
Remus comes to the seashore when the weather grows cold and everyone has left, the sound of creaking signs and the wind whistling through empty rooms a constant reminder of summer past. There's a hundred reasons as to why he comes. To escape. Because no one cares about the beach in winter and the rent is cheap and he'll probably never be able to afford it otherwise, not on his own.
Because it's easier to pretend there's no one else in the world when you're all alone.
The place he rents is more of a cottage than a house. He wanders through it the first day, watching the cool grey light filter through the windows. The furniture hasn't had a chance to be touched by dust.
He doesn't go outside until night falls, and the porch groans under his every step. He looks up into the night sky. The moon hangs low, the barest hint of a crescent.
The second day, he unpacks. It shouldn't take long- he owns little, and has brought even less- but he's meticulous about it. Each item has its own spot, and he takes his time deliberating over each choice. Before he knows it, the morning is gone and he has nothing to show for it but a cottage that will soon be empty again.
He makes a sandwich and eats it standing against the railing on the porch. There's a swing there, chains rusting from the sea air. When he finishes eating he sits there, perfectly still, and watches the glitter of the waves.
The third day, he actually walks down to the shoreline. He abandons his shoes before he even hits sand, and the grains slink into the creases between his toes. The waves crawl in, then scatter back out, never touching.
He walks along the shoreline long after the cottage disappears from the horizon. It's not until the sand gives way to a more rocky terrain that he turns back, returning the way he came, and it's not until he's sitting on the porch later that night, his cup of tea burning the skin of his hands, that it occurs to him that his walk that afternoon could have been a twisted metaphor for his life.
It's the first time he's allowed himself to think about the world outside since he came here. The moon still hangs low in the sky, its crescent just a little bit thicker.
The fourth day he walks into the wet sand, goose bumps prickling up the flesh of his legs as the waves swirl around his feet. He digs his toes into the sand and looks over to the horizon, seeing nothing but grey and blue.
His feet are numb when he finally leaves, and his steps are thick and clumsy. He struggles to light a fire in the fireplace when he returns to the cottage, unused to doing so without magic. He keeps on trying. His wand lies, untouched, on the mantle above. When he finally succeeds the heat is sharp, like needles, and when he looks into the flames he pictures black fur, large grey eyes, and a lolling tongue sitting besides him. When that image fades, he thinks of a boy like a dog like a friend instead.
It's the second time he lets himself think of the world outside. The moon still hangs in the sky, ever-growing.
The fifth day isn't much different from the third and the fourth. He walks down to the beach and the water is ice against his skin, gentle and grey. He hasn't seen the sun once since he's come here, and he wonders how the moon can be so clear at night.
When he returns inside he makes both a fire and tea, and curls up by the hearth. Rain taps against the roof, soft and sweet, and when he looks outside the window everything is a gentle blur. It is a night for memories.
He thinks of the dog and the stag and the silver doe. It sounds like a fairy tale, that way. Once upon a time there was a wolf who liked tea and chocolate and hated getting wet.
Childish, unassuming.
Brutal.
He cannot see the moon that night.
On the sixth day he finds himself low on tea and food. He heads into town, and he cannot smell the rain for the sharpness of the sea.
Inside the store, the air conditioning is somehow colder than the wind and the ocean. When he leaves he sees a black dog, a little more than an overgrown puppy, hanging off the edge of a truck. It watches him as he passes, a curious intelligence in its eyes, and he must look twice before he's sure it's not Sirius.
Fog rolls in that night. He retires to bed early, and thinks of the stag and the silver doe and the dog and the rat. He thinks of how easily everything could have gone wrong, how the stag and the silver doe could have been dead and the rat gone and the dog far beyond his reach and him, all alone.
But they're all still alive, and it is the rat who has gone beyond where he can reach, and somehow he is still alone.
He cannot see the moon that night either.
On the seventh day the fog remains, hanging thick and soupy in the air. He spends the day inside, eating sandwiches and drinking tea as he thumbs through a well-worn paperback he's half-memorized.
It's not until mid-afternoon he sets the book aside, and picks up the photo album instead. It takes him two cups of tea before he opens it up, and he doesn't set it aside again until well after nightfall. A decade's worth of memories are inside those pages, and he flips through them slowly. James. Sirius. Peter. He looks at his face, and wonders when it all began. He looks at James, and thinks how easy it would have been for everything to go wrong- for him and Lily and Harry to be laying on the ground, bodies cooling, his grin fading.
He looks at Sirius, and carefully does not let himself think as he takes in that smiling face and those laughing eyes.
The fog drifts across the sky, and still he cannot see the moon. He doesn't like it. The moon is his enemy, has been ever since he was a small boy, and these days he has learned that it's better to see your enemy, to know who it is, than it is to only suspect.
On the eighth day the fog melts away and leaves behind only clouds. The sand and the wind and the sea are all still the same, cast grey by the sun's filtered light. He walks for hours along the shore, feet dipped in sand and water, and doesn't turn back until grey begins to darken into black. Then he sits on the porch and slips through the photo album, a cup of tea by his elbow. He rolls a stone that he's found, sea-smooth, in the palm of his hand.
The moon rises higher and thicker in the sky as he watches in silence.
On the ninth day rain drizzles down from the sky throughout the morning. He sits by a window, drinks his tea, and reads words as familiar as the scars on his body and the creases on his hands. When the rain stops so does he, and he wanders out to sit on the porch swing. The cushions are damp but he settles back anyway, letting the water seep into his robes. Tonight, the moon is more grin than smile.
On the tenth day he wanders again. He reaches where the sand turns to rock and thinks of metaphors and fairytales and dogs and rats and other such things.
Once upon there was a wolf who made four wonderful friends, until one of them wasn't.
He closes his eyes, and wants.
There's someone sitting on the porch swing when he returns. The chains creak back and forth.
Remus doesn't stop until he's standing before him. He takes in the familiar details- that sleek black hair, getting longer now, those peculiar pale grey eyes, the aristocratic features given to him by the family he hates so much.
"You look like a corpse," Sirius says, his voice hoarse. He chuckles, then, but the mirth doesn't reach his eyes.
"You always did know how to flatter someone," Remus replies, his own voice like paper.
They go inside, and Remus makes him tea and a proper meal. They eat in front of the fireplace and they talk of little, inconsequential things until the shadows grow long. They talk about home and they talk about the people they know and the ones they knew.
They don't talk about the rat.
They talk until the sky grows black and clear, until they find themselves on the porch again, the chains creaking in the otherwise silent night.
"Are you ready to stop running away?" Sirius asks, finally. He leans back on his hands and does not look at him, his eyes fixed on the constellations in the sky, a study in nonchalance, but Remus knows his body as well as his own, better, and he can read what Sirius does not say in the curve of his jaw and the flicker in his eyes.
Remus looks away from him, and looks at the moon instead, swollen in the sky. He thinks about the dog besides him and the rat behind him and all those before and after. He thinks of James's laugh and Lily's smile and the way Harry's tiny hand clenches at his fingers. He thinks of Peter, quiet and unassuming and loyal and there, until he wasn't. He thinks of Sirius, his mouth hot against his own, his fingers tangled in that black black hair.
He breathes in the sea air, and answers.
Pairing: Remus Lupin/Sirius Black
Wordcount: 1687
Summary: James and Lily live. Peter is captured. And Remus can't breathe. Canon divergence.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter in any shape or form.
Notes: This was, believe it or not, originally written for an assignment for school. I was so into R/S that I couldn't even think of working with another universe, so I basically wrote this and then took out all references to Harry Potter. This is, of course, not the same version that I turned in. The assignment was to be inspired by something that someone else wrote, like a poem, which ties in nicely with my claim of the poetry table at mission_insane. I chose Maggie and Milly and Molly and May by e.e.cummings, which, I think, has one of the most beautiful endings I've ever read in a poem, and some of which I quote at the beginning of this piece.
Crossposting to mission_insane and maybe remusxsirius.
By the Shores of the Sea
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea
Remus comes to the seashore when the weather grows cold and everyone has left, the sound of creaking signs and the wind whistling through empty rooms a constant reminder of summer past. There's a hundred reasons as to why he comes. To escape. Because no one cares about the beach in winter and the rent is cheap and he'll probably never be able to afford it otherwise, not on his own.
Because it's easier to pretend there's no one else in the world when you're all alone.
The place he rents is more of a cottage than a house. He wanders through it the first day, watching the cool grey light filter through the windows. The furniture hasn't had a chance to be touched by dust.
He doesn't go outside until night falls, and the porch groans under his every step. He looks up into the night sky. The moon hangs low, the barest hint of a crescent.
The second day, he unpacks. It shouldn't take long- he owns little, and has brought even less- but he's meticulous about it. Each item has its own spot, and he takes his time deliberating over each choice. Before he knows it, the morning is gone and he has nothing to show for it but a cottage that will soon be empty again.
He makes a sandwich and eats it standing against the railing on the porch. There's a swing there, chains rusting from the sea air. When he finishes eating he sits there, perfectly still, and watches the glitter of the waves.
The third day, he actually walks down to the shoreline. He abandons his shoes before he even hits sand, and the grains slink into the creases between his toes. The waves crawl in, then scatter back out, never touching.
He walks along the shoreline long after the cottage disappears from the horizon. It's not until the sand gives way to a more rocky terrain that he turns back, returning the way he came, and it's not until he's sitting on the porch later that night, his cup of tea burning the skin of his hands, that it occurs to him that his walk that afternoon could have been a twisted metaphor for his life.
It's the first time he's allowed himself to think about the world outside since he came here. The moon still hangs low in the sky, its crescent just a little bit thicker.
The fourth day he walks into the wet sand, goose bumps prickling up the flesh of his legs as the waves swirl around his feet. He digs his toes into the sand and looks over to the horizon, seeing nothing but grey and blue.
His feet are numb when he finally leaves, and his steps are thick and clumsy. He struggles to light a fire in the fireplace when he returns to the cottage, unused to doing so without magic. He keeps on trying. His wand lies, untouched, on the mantle above. When he finally succeeds the heat is sharp, like needles, and when he looks into the flames he pictures black fur, large grey eyes, and a lolling tongue sitting besides him. When that image fades, he thinks of a boy like a dog like a friend instead.
It's the second time he lets himself think of the world outside. The moon still hangs in the sky, ever-growing.
The fifth day isn't much different from the third and the fourth. He walks down to the beach and the water is ice against his skin, gentle and grey. He hasn't seen the sun once since he's come here, and he wonders how the moon can be so clear at night.
When he returns inside he makes both a fire and tea, and curls up by the hearth. Rain taps against the roof, soft and sweet, and when he looks outside the window everything is a gentle blur. It is a night for memories.
He thinks of the dog and the stag and the silver doe. It sounds like a fairy tale, that way. Once upon a time there was a wolf who liked tea and chocolate and hated getting wet.
Childish, unassuming.
Brutal.
He cannot see the moon that night.
On the sixth day he finds himself low on tea and food. He heads into town, and he cannot smell the rain for the sharpness of the sea.
Inside the store, the air conditioning is somehow colder than the wind and the ocean. When he leaves he sees a black dog, a little more than an overgrown puppy, hanging off the edge of a truck. It watches him as he passes, a curious intelligence in its eyes, and he must look twice before he's sure it's not Sirius.
Fog rolls in that night. He retires to bed early, and thinks of the stag and the silver doe and the dog and the rat. He thinks of how easily everything could have gone wrong, how the stag and the silver doe could have been dead and the rat gone and the dog far beyond his reach and him, all alone.
But they're all still alive, and it is the rat who has gone beyond where he can reach, and somehow he is still alone.
He cannot see the moon that night either.
On the seventh day the fog remains, hanging thick and soupy in the air. He spends the day inside, eating sandwiches and drinking tea as he thumbs through a well-worn paperback he's half-memorized.
It's not until mid-afternoon he sets the book aside, and picks up the photo album instead. It takes him two cups of tea before he opens it up, and he doesn't set it aside again until well after nightfall. A decade's worth of memories are inside those pages, and he flips through them slowly. James. Sirius. Peter. He looks at his face, and wonders when it all began. He looks at James, and thinks how easy it would have been for everything to go wrong- for him and Lily and Harry to be laying on the ground, bodies cooling, his grin fading.
He looks at Sirius, and carefully does not let himself think as he takes in that smiling face and those laughing eyes.
The fog drifts across the sky, and still he cannot see the moon. He doesn't like it. The moon is his enemy, has been ever since he was a small boy, and these days he has learned that it's better to see your enemy, to know who it is, than it is to only suspect.
On the eighth day the fog melts away and leaves behind only clouds. The sand and the wind and the sea are all still the same, cast grey by the sun's filtered light. He walks for hours along the shore, feet dipped in sand and water, and doesn't turn back until grey begins to darken into black. Then he sits on the porch and slips through the photo album, a cup of tea by his elbow. He rolls a stone that he's found, sea-smooth, in the palm of his hand.
The moon rises higher and thicker in the sky as he watches in silence.
On the ninth day rain drizzles down from the sky throughout the morning. He sits by a window, drinks his tea, and reads words as familiar as the scars on his body and the creases on his hands. When the rain stops so does he, and he wanders out to sit on the porch swing. The cushions are damp but he settles back anyway, letting the water seep into his robes. Tonight, the moon is more grin than smile.
On the tenth day he wanders again. He reaches where the sand turns to rock and thinks of metaphors and fairytales and dogs and rats and other such things.
Once upon there was a wolf who made four wonderful friends, until one of them wasn't.
He closes his eyes, and wants.
There's someone sitting on the porch swing when he returns. The chains creak back and forth.
Remus doesn't stop until he's standing before him. He takes in the familiar details- that sleek black hair, getting longer now, those peculiar pale grey eyes, the aristocratic features given to him by the family he hates so much.
"You look like a corpse," Sirius says, his voice hoarse. He chuckles, then, but the mirth doesn't reach his eyes.
"You always did know how to flatter someone," Remus replies, his own voice like paper.
They go inside, and Remus makes him tea and a proper meal. They eat in front of the fireplace and they talk of little, inconsequential things until the shadows grow long. They talk about home and they talk about the people they know and the ones they knew.
They don't talk about the rat.
They talk until the sky grows black and clear, until they find themselves on the porch again, the chains creaking in the otherwise silent night.
"Are you ready to stop running away?" Sirius asks, finally. He leans back on his hands and does not look at him, his eyes fixed on the constellations in the sky, a study in nonchalance, but Remus knows his body as well as his own, better, and he can read what Sirius does not say in the curve of his jaw and the flicker in his eyes.
Remus looks away from him, and looks at the moon instead, swollen in the sky. He thinks about the dog besides him and the rat behind him and all those before and after. He thinks of James's laugh and Lily's smile and the way Harry's tiny hand clenches at his fingers. He thinks of Peter, quiet and unassuming and loyal and there, until he wasn't. He thinks of Sirius, his mouth hot against his own, his fingers tangled in that black black hair.
He breathes in the sea air, and answers.