Revolution
Title: Revolution
Author: olfactoryeyes
Characters/Pairings: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Remus/Sirius
Rating/Warnings: PG, angst, boykissing, implied sex
Notes: Takes place before Halloween 1981, ends too soon to be an AU, but it is in my head.
Word Count: 743
It was like a quiet revolution. The tension was thick, almost palpable, like a bloodless coup or a headlong sprint toward the fabled point of no return. It made the air smell heavy and old, like violence and salt and hurt and stale beer. Remus felt like he was half-asleep. He woke up, dressed, made a pot of tea, and read the Prophet, but without retaining anything. He didn’t know if his clothes were clean, or if he had worn them yesterday. He didn’t taste anything or feel his throat burn as he drank scalding cups of tea. He stared blankly at the newspaper as letters danced across the page. Names occasionally caught his eye, but only to lead him read to the obituary of another person they couldn’t save.
Sirius, on the other hand, was angry. He had always been ruled by emotions, letting a hot rush of anger or jealousy or delight color his eyes and twist his mouth. Now everything he did was tinged with anger. He clenched his jaw, sharpening his profile, and pursed his lips. He stomped back and forth, heavy combat boots pounding the worn hardwood. He chain-smoked constantly, emptying packages of cigarettes, holding the smoke in his lungs until he felt like he was about to die. Sirius was running on caffeine, nicotine, and barely any sleep, but that wasn’t important.
First, Remus had stopped looking at him and Sirius thought nothing could be worse than that. He started dropping glasses and smashing plates just so Remus would look up. After a while, he gave up when Remus stopped responding to the crashes and just charmed the pieces back together. When Remus started looking at him again, Sirius almost wished he would go back to keeping his head down. Remus’s eyes were hurt and questioning. It was the unspoken question, the one that hung in the air with dust and sour smoke, the three words that Sirius silently choked on.
The words ran through Sirius’s head on a loop. It didn’t take long for the bitter paranoia to attach themselves to everything: the question that sat between them, the way Remus would say an indifferent goodbye without mentioning his destination. Sirius wanted to ask Remus the same question. It sat in his mouth, tasting like bile, dragged noiselessly behind everything he said. It was what made him cast a Silencing Charm in their tiny bathroom so he could scream.
The tension in the flat was so conspicuous that it felt like every movement was planned and rehearsed, every word practiced a thousand times. Which was why it was such a surprise when Remus came home, tired and irritated, from wherever he had been, and threw his worn coat on the floor before pulling Sirius up from the couch by his collar and kissing him. Sirius was momentarily shocked. He and Remus hadn’t touched each other in two weeks, other than to begrudgingly pass a take away carton or squeeze past each other in their small kitchen. His surprise vanished as he threaded his fingers through Remus’s hair and kissed him back. It was harsh and aggressive, two weeks of not talking and not touching and accusations and avoidance. Remus tasted like cheap coffee, and smelled like nerves and September. Sirius dropped his hands from Remus’s hair and grabbed at his shirt, trying to get his hands under it, trying to feel skin. Remus murmured something against Sirius’s mouth and dragged him backwards, still holding the collar of his shirt, until the back of his legs hit the mattress. He collapsed backwards and allowed Sirius’s hands to tug his shirt off.
They didn’t waste their words, as if they had rationed them for a situation like this. They saved them all until they were sweaty and tired, arms thrown over each other, afraid that if they let go again everything would go back to how it was before.
“I love you,” Remus whispered into Sirius’s hair.
“I love you too,” Sirius whispered back.
“Is it you?” Remus asked, the words slurring together.
Sirius’s eyes darted up to the anxious look on Remus’s face. It was honest and worried and hopeful.
“Never,” Sirius said, never sounding more solemn.
“I know,” Remus said, biting his lip and smiling a little.
“Is it you?” Sirius said, louder than he meant to.
“No,” Remus said, “Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” Sirius said, wondering if he meant it but hoping he did.
Author: olfactoryeyes
Characters/Pairings: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Remus/Sirius
Rating/Warnings: PG, angst, boykissing, implied sex
Notes: Takes place before Halloween 1981, ends too soon to be an AU, but it is in my head.
Word Count: 743
It was like a quiet revolution. The tension was thick, almost palpable, like a bloodless coup or a headlong sprint toward the fabled point of no return. It made the air smell heavy and old, like violence and salt and hurt and stale beer. Remus felt like he was half-asleep. He woke up, dressed, made a pot of tea, and read the Prophet, but without retaining anything. He didn’t know if his clothes were clean, or if he had worn them yesterday. He didn’t taste anything or feel his throat burn as he drank scalding cups of tea. He stared blankly at the newspaper as letters danced across the page. Names occasionally caught his eye, but only to lead him read to the obituary of another person they couldn’t save.
Sirius, on the other hand, was angry. He had always been ruled by emotions, letting a hot rush of anger or jealousy or delight color his eyes and twist his mouth. Now everything he did was tinged with anger. He clenched his jaw, sharpening his profile, and pursed his lips. He stomped back and forth, heavy combat boots pounding the worn hardwood. He chain-smoked constantly, emptying packages of cigarettes, holding the smoke in his lungs until he felt like he was about to die. Sirius was running on caffeine, nicotine, and barely any sleep, but that wasn’t important.
First, Remus had stopped looking at him and Sirius thought nothing could be worse than that. He started dropping glasses and smashing plates just so Remus would look up. After a while, he gave up when Remus stopped responding to the crashes and just charmed the pieces back together. When Remus started looking at him again, Sirius almost wished he would go back to keeping his head down. Remus’s eyes were hurt and questioning. It was the unspoken question, the one that hung in the air with dust and sour smoke, the three words that Sirius silently choked on.
The words ran through Sirius’s head on a loop. It didn’t take long for the bitter paranoia to attach themselves to everything: the question that sat between them, the way Remus would say an indifferent goodbye without mentioning his destination. Sirius wanted to ask Remus the same question. It sat in his mouth, tasting like bile, dragged noiselessly behind everything he said. It was what made him cast a Silencing Charm in their tiny bathroom so he could scream.
The tension in the flat was so conspicuous that it felt like every movement was planned and rehearsed, every word practiced a thousand times. Which was why it was such a surprise when Remus came home, tired and irritated, from wherever he had been, and threw his worn coat on the floor before pulling Sirius up from the couch by his collar and kissing him. Sirius was momentarily shocked. He and Remus hadn’t touched each other in two weeks, other than to begrudgingly pass a take away carton or squeeze past each other in their small kitchen. His surprise vanished as he threaded his fingers through Remus’s hair and kissed him back. It was harsh and aggressive, two weeks of not talking and not touching and accusations and avoidance. Remus tasted like cheap coffee, and smelled like nerves and September. Sirius dropped his hands from Remus’s hair and grabbed at his shirt, trying to get his hands under it, trying to feel skin. Remus murmured something against Sirius’s mouth and dragged him backwards, still holding the collar of his shirt, until the back of his legs hit the mattress. He collapsed backwards and allowed Sirius’s hands to tug his shirt off.
They didn’t waste their words, as if they had rationed them for a situation like this. They saved them all until they were sweaty and tired, arms thrown over each other, afraid that if they let go again everything would go back to how it was before.
“I love you,” Remus whispered into Sirius’s hair.
“I love you too,” Sirius whispered back.
“Is it you?” Remus asked, the words slurring together.
Sirius’s eyes darted up to the anxious look on Remus’s face. It was honest and worried and hopeful.
“Never,” Sirius said, never sounding more solemn.
“I know,” Remus said, biting his lip and smiling a little.
“Is it you?” Sirius said, louder than he meant to.
“No,” Remus said, “Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” Sirius said, wondering if he meant it but hoping he did.