There are no words.
Title: “A little less conversation-”
Rating: R
Summary: A love-story with no dialogue.
Truth is in things, not in words.
-Herman Melville
But words - words are not enough!
Klaus Kinski
Don't speak/I know just what you're saying/So please stop explaining
-No Doubt
“I’m angry.”
Remus is navel-gazing - a much less renowned, but much more frequently practised art than astrology. It’s much easier; no need for all that messing around with telescopes and waiting for nightfall. A suitably slow weekend afternoon and an empty dormitory will suffice, although the scale of things to see is admittedly less impressive. In space, black holes are meant to suck all surrounding matter deep within them, while the only thing that Remus’s belly-button has trapped so far is lint. He lets his T-shirt drop abruptly at a sudden noise. It’s footsteps stamping up the outside stairwell, and then all at once Sirius is in the doorway with eyes hurricane grey. Before Remus can estimate the scale of the storm, he’s on the bed, knocking Remus’s pack of digestive-crumbed cigarettes to the floor, kicking his shoes off and twisting up the duvet. Remus is pushed, back against the wall, feels the gritty stone graze the skin of his back. Sirius’s heart is beating violently and Remus can feel it against his own chest, like a trapped butterfly. He barely has time to think and Sirius is pulling his own shirt over his head and just for a moment Remus can see his face clearly - wild with hair falling in his eyes. Remus reaches up and tries to smooth it away but Sirius grabs hold of his fingers, gripping them too-tight like winning lottery tickets, and presses Remus’s palm against the front of his trousers and Remus is hard and fuck he pushes Sirius back and they roll tightly together in a muddled scrum of arms legs skin zipper down -
It isn’t long before Remus is seeing suns and moons and whole constellations, which do in fact seem to originate from somewhere below his navel.
Afterwards they’re lying breathless, and staring up at the ceiling. Remus rolls on his side to look at Sirius, in order to ascertain what the forecast is, but, miraculously, the clouds have passed.
“You’re a mate.”
Sirius is only a social smoker, so he periodically bums cigarettes off decent, hardworking people like Remus - who have to suffer the consequences of smoking alone (chronic poverty and lung cancer are included in these). Sirius makes the puppy-dog eyes at Remus, however, and Remus acquiesces - grudgingly - pulling out a Marlboro - which just happens to be the last in the pack - and handing it over. Sirius leans in to toke it - light it from the end of Remus’s already lit fag - and as he does so, he briefly puts his hand on Remus’s shoulder, and squeezes, hard.
“I’m tired.”
Every fibre of Remus is aching, throbbing with dull tiredness and a sweet, muted pain so insistent that he can almost hear and see it as well as feel it - it seems to hover hazily in the air in front of him, to hum low in his ears. He glances up from where he’s sitting, back against the wall, and sees Sirius entering the Shack, carrying a bundle of Remus’s clothes: clean, pressed, perfect. Sirius stops when he sees him, and stares for a few moments. Remus tries - and fails - to speak, to get up, but then just gives up and simply watches as his friend moves closer. Sirius starts to dress him. He does it carefully, as if he’s packaging a glass ornament or a Christmas tree bauble. He raises Remus’s exhausted arms and slots them into the sleeves, then gets his boxers on - which is much more fiddly and uncomfortable and seems to be a reversal of what should be going on - Remus tries not to wince as Sirius’s fingers rub against his bruises, but despite the pain he can’t help but huff amusedly at this thought when Sirius pulls the waistband over his arse. Sirius raises an eyebrow and then kisses him on the cheek, doing up his buttons rapidly and smoothly. Remus feels a tiny shock of electricity each time the fabric rustles and Sirius’s fingers touch his chest. He even reaches round to check that the label isn’t sticking up and scratching the back of Remus’s neck. Then it’s socks, then trousers - Remus manages to muster up the energy to help here a bit more. He reaches for his shoes - but Sirius shakes his head and shifts so he’s sitting like Remus, back leant against the wall, and gently guides Remus’s head into his lap.
Remus sleeps.
“You’re getting too skinny, you wanker.”
At breakfast, Sirius throws three sausages at Remus. One lands in Remus’s apple juice, but he obligingly takes a bite of it anyway, before throwing it back. James has an absolute fit about how unusual and disgusting this is, but Sirius just laughs.
“I want you, right now.”
“You could, you could do that with just Dungbombs and a Bubble Charm.”
Peter.
“You’re absolutely mental mate, that’d never work.”
James.
They are speaking loudly, both waving their arms about as if they’re trying to signal aircraft from tiny landing strips of drunkenness. Peter is speaking Firewhisky patois - which is a very simple dialect - all you have to do is slur your words and sound like an utter tosser. Most of the Gryffindor boys are highly fluent in this, especially after a trip to Hogsmeade.
“No, no, I swear you could. As long as you could sustain it. You’d like trap the smell.”
“You’d asphyxiate the entire room, is what you’d do, no-one would be able to breathe, knobend.”
“You sure?”
“Overwhelmingly positive.”
Peter is sulky.
“I… I still think it’s a good idea.”
“You would, Petey, you would - hey, where’s Moony and Pads?”
“I dunno, Remus coughed or something a while ago and then they both left while we were talking.”
“Right, well, I’m having the last Chocolate Frog then.” James throws it up in the air and crunches it in his mouth, forgetting the existence of the inedible card within.
“Woo-ow.”
Peter wishes there was one more left, so he could have a go.
“I’ll pretend you’re as hard as you pretend you are.”
Mrs Black’s screams are still ringing in the stunned silence of the common room as the Howler crumbles into ash. No-one knows quite what to say or do. There aren’t that many people there, thank fuck, but Yasmin and Georgie are looking supremely concerned - and Hamish, that third-year with the monobrow, is utterly at a loss - he can’t snigger and acknowledge the public humiliation that has just occurred because Sirius is older and far cooler and would undoubtedly hex him into a pulp, but neither can he - or any of them - ignore what has just happened. Remus wishes he could hug Sirius - just hug him - just hold him - he takes a step towards him, even. But instead of doing what he wants, Remus claps Sirius - who is standing so perfectly still he is afraid this might topple him - on the back and laughs raucously - and Sirius snaps back into life and laughs too, and pulls a grotesque face, and the girls roll their eyes at rebellious leather-jacketed Sirius Black: ‘Merlin knows what he’ll do next’, before going back to discussing their respective diets. Hamish, now he’s been given his cue to be obsequious, laughs appreciatively. And just like that, the elephant in the room packs up its trunk and leaves.
“I love you.”
“You do, don’t you?” Remus grins, a smile beginning to form on his face.
“Do what?”
“Love me.”
Sirius groans loudly.
“Awh, fuck off. You big girl’s blouse.”
“You do.”
Sirius doesn’t say anything, just twists a finger round a bit of Remus’s hair and pulls on it, twice.
“I love you too.”
“D’you love me?” Sirius blurts out, utterly randomly, three days later. They’re in the bathroom - Remus is actually by the sink, brushing his teeth. Sirius has just finished taking a piss. It’s wonderfully unromantic.
Remus shrugs, then kisses Sirius in a flurry of gooey mint and bashed incisors before spitting.
It tastes like a yes.
Right then.
Rating: R
Summary: A love-story with no dialogue.
Truth is in things, not in words.
-Herman Melville
But words - words are not enough!
Klaus Kinski
Don't speak/I know just what you're saying/So please stop explaining
-No Doubt
“I’m angry.”
Remus is navel-gazing - a much less renowned, but much more frequently practised art than astrology. It’s much easier; no need for all that messing around with telescopes and waiting for nightfall. A suitably slow weekend afternoon and an empty dormitory will suffice, although the scale of things to see is admittedly less impressive. In space, black holes are meant to suck all surrounding matter deep within them, while the only thing that Remus’s belly-button has trapped so far is lint. He lets his T-shirt drop abruptly at a sudden noise. It’s footsteps stamping up the outside stairwell, and then all at once Sirius is in the doorway with eyes hurricane grey. Before Remus can estimate the scale of the storm, he’s on the bed, knocking Remus’s pack of digestive-crumbed cigarettes to the floor, kicking his shoes off and twisting up the duvet. Remus is pushed, back against the wall, feels the gritty stone graze the skin of his back. Sirius’s heart is beating violently and Remus can feel it against his own chest, like a trapped butterfly. He barely has time to think and Sirius is pulling his own shirt over his head and just for a moment Remus can see his face clearly - wild with hair falling in his eyes. Remus reaches up and tries to smooth it away but Sirius grabs hold of his fingers, gripping them too-tight like winning lottery tickets, and presses Remus’s palm against the front of his trousers and Remus is hard and fuck he pushes Sirius back and they roll tightly together in a muddled scrum of arms legs skin zipper down -
It isn’t long before Remus is seeing suns and moons and whole constellations, which do in fact seem to originate from somewhere below his navel.
Afterwards they’re lying breathless, and staring up at the ceiling. Remus rolls on his side to look at Sirius, in order to ascertain what the forecast is, but, miraculously, the clouds have passed.
“You’re a mate.”
Sirius is only a social smoker, so he periodically bums cigarettes off decent, hardworking people like Remus - who have to suffer the consequences of smoking alone (chronic poverty and lung cancer are included in these). Sirius makes the puppy-dog eyes at Remus, however, and Remus acquiesces - grudgingly - pulling out a Marlboro - which just happens to be the last in the pack - and handing it over. Sirius leans in to toke it - light it from the end of Remus’s already lit fag - and as he does so, he briefly puts his hand on Remus’s shoulder, and squeezes, hard.
“I’m tired.”
Every fibre of Remus is aching, throbbing with dull tiredness and a sweet, muted pain so insistent that he can almost hear and see it as well as feel it - it seems to hover hazily in the air in front of him, to hum low in his ears. He glances up from where he’s sitting, back against the wall, and sees Sirius entering the Shack, carrying a bundle of Remus’s clothes: clean, pressed, perfect. Sirius stops when he sees him, and stares for a few moments. Remus tries - and fails - to speak, to get up, but then just gives up and simply watches as his friend moves closer. Sirius starts to dress him. He does it carefully, as if he’s packaging a glass ornament or a Christmas tree bauble. He raises Remus’s exhausted arms and slots them into the sleeves, then gets his boxers on - which is much more fiddly and uncomfortable and seems to be a reversal of what should be going on - Remus tries not to wince as Sirius’s fingers rub against his bruises, but despite the pain he can’t help but huff amusedly at this thought when Sirius pulls the waistband over his arse. Sirius raises an eyebrow and then kisses him on the cheek, doing up his buttons rapidly and smoothly. Remus feels a tiny shock of electricity each time the fabric rustles and Sirius’s fingers touch his chest. He even reaches round to check that the label isn’t sticking up and scratching the back of Remus’s neck. Then it’s socks, then trousers - Remus manages to muster up the energy to help here a bit more. He reaches for his shoes - but Sirius shakes his head and shifts so he’s sitting like Remus, back leant against the wall, and gently guides Remus’s head into his lap.
Remus sleeps.
“You’re getting too skinny, you wanker.”
At breakfast, Sirius throws three sausages at Remus. One lands in Remus’s apple juice, but he obligingly takes a bite of it anyway, before throwing it back. James has an absolute fit about how unusual and disgusting this is, but Sirius just laughs.
“I want you, right now.”
“You could, you could do that with just Dungbombs and a Bubble Charm.”
Peter.
“You’re absolutely mental mate, that’d never work.”
James.
They are speaking loudly, both waving their arms about as if they’re trying to signal aircraft from tiny landing strips of drunkenness. Peter is speaking Firewhisky patois - which is a very simple dialect - all you have to do is slur your words and sound like an utter tosser. Most of the Gryffindor boys are highly fluent in this, especially after a trip to Hogsmeade.
“No, no, I swear you could. As long as you could sustain it. You’d like trap the smell.”
“You’d asphyxiate the entire room, is what you’d do, no-one would be able to breathe, knobend.”
“You sure?”
“Overwhelmingly positive.”
Peter is sulky.
“I… I still think it’s a good idea.”
“You would, Petey, you would - hey, where’s Moony and Pads?”
“I dunno, Remus coughed or something a while ago and then they both left while we were talking.”
“Right, well, I’m having the last Chocolate Frog then.” James throws it up in the air and crunches it in his mouth, forgetting the existence of the inedible card within.
“Woo-ow.”
Peter wishes there was one more left, so he could have a go.
“I’ll pretend you’re as hard as you pretend you are.”
Mrs Black’s screams are still ringing in the stunned silence of the common room as the Howler crumbles into ash. No-one knows quite what to say or do. There aren’t that many people there, thank fuck, but Yasmin and Georgie are looking supremely concerned - and Hamish, that third-year with the monobrow, is utterly at a loss - he can’t snigger and acknowledge the public humiliation that has just occurred because Sirius is older and far cooler and would undoubtedly hex him into a pulp, but neither can he - or any of them - ignore what has just happened. Remus wishes he could hug Sirius - just hug him - just hold him - he takes a step towards him, even. But instead of doing what he wants, Remus claps Sirius - who is standing so perfectly still he is afraid this might topple him - on the back and laughs raucously - and Sirius snaps back into life and laughs too, and pulls a grotesque face, and the girls roll their eyes at rebellious leather-jacketed Sirius Black: ‘Merlin knows what he’ll do next’, before going back to discussing their respective diets. Hamish, now he’s been given his cue to be obsequious, laughs appreciatively. And just like that, the elephant in the room packs up its trunk and leaves.
“I love you.”
“You do, don’t you?” Remus grins, a smile beginning to form on his face.
“Do what?”
“Love me.”
Sirius groans loudly.
“Awh, fuck off. You big girl’s blouse.”
“You do.”
Sirius doesn’t say anything, just twists a finger round a bit of Remus’s hair and pulls on it, twice.
“I love you too.”
“D’you love me?” Sirius blurts out, utterly randomly, three days later. They’re in the bathroom - Remus is actually by the sink, brushing his teeth. Sirius has just finished taking a piss. It’s wonderfully unromantic.
Remus shrugs, then kisses Sirius in a flurry of gooey mint and bashed incisors before spitting.
It tastes like a yes.
Right then.