Cold Flesh by wildestranger
Title: Cold Flesh
Author: wildestranger
Summary: Sirius has been stealing Remus' fags for two months now. Remus has yet to comment.
Rating: R
Recipient: taffetablue
~*~
Cold Flesh
Sirius' fingers are shaking, just a little, but he doesn't think about them, he focuses on the cigarette he is pulling out of the packet. He's been stealing Remus' fags for two months now. Remus has yet to comment.
He doesn't like the taste, but it's something to do with his hands and mouth. Sirius enjoys the occupation, it saves him from awkward mumbling and pouting. Besides, he looks good when he smokes. Pursing his lips without thinning them, sucking in the smoke, inhaling without coughing. Sirius imagines the smoke as a liquid pouring down his throat, the movement visible under his skin. He lets out a short breath of blue air.
It starts to rain and Sirius feels like a cliché.
The Ministry building is grey, as they always are. To hide them from the Muggles, they say. Apparently Muggles can't see grey buildings. Sirius stumps his cigarette into the wall and considers lighting another.
"Black?"
Gideon Prewett sounds concerned, official and polite. Sirius wonders whether there is a policy for dealing with aggrieved family members of dead Death Eaters, and whether they train their Aurors to use the right tone of voice to regret that kind of bollocks. Gideon coughs, looks at the ground, and Sirius decides he can't be bothered to make it easy on him. He is in mourning, after all.
"Shall we go in?"
He gives Gideon a Look of Great Grief and watches as the other man looks quickly away. That should take care of the friendliness.
They walk, side by side, past endless grey corridors. Sirius entertains himself with imagining the conversations they must have had while planning these hallways. It mustn't be too cheerful. Must give people time to realise how serious it all is. And not too fast. Need time to make them properly depressed. There are witches wondering around, with similar inane concerned faces, their robes considerately blue. That's probably a calming influence, an appropriate colour.
"This way."
Sirius notes that Gideon is still too eager in his job to save people that he also wants to save them from bumping into walls. Which they would surely do without Gideon there to direct them. Sirius considers lighting up another cigarette and seeing whether his role as an anguished brother and an enraged Black would let him get away with it. He would hope not. But these places, these people, they generally disappoint him.
Gideon opens a door for him, and Sirius is about to pick a fight and ask if he thinks Sirius is a girl, when he sees the body. Some kind of makeshift bed, clearly not intended for sleeping, though. Intended for dead bodies.
Regulus' eyes are still open and Sirius starts to get pissed off that no one has bothered to do this, to close them like you're supposed to. It's the same pale grey as his own, same shape of the eye even, and they look so strange and unmoving. Regulus was always sly with it, watching, but he would look, at everyone and everything, whether they knew it or not. His eyes would follow Sirius around the room, crinkling in the corners when he got caught, not minding if Sirius caught him. Sirius never told.
There are bruises on his body, nakedly displayed for anybody to see, vulnerable in a way that Regulus never was in life. There are cuts all over his arms and legs, scars from duels or Lord Voldemort's pleasure. Huge purple blotches on his belly and thighs. Skin scraped raw by his neck and wrists.
Gideon is looking at Regulus in way that suggests he's about to throw up. Sirius refrains from calling him a wuss of an Auror, and telling him this is nothing unusual for Blacks, let alone Slytherins or Death Eaters. A body is a thing to be marked, with scratches and bites of love as much as with welts and torn flesh. That's why they like to be pale, after all, that's why they like to have such delicate skin.
The killing curse is supposed to be merciful, without pain, or at least the signs of it. Sirius looks at his brother's body, and hopes for a less easy death.
: :
Remus is home when he gets back. There's a sound of hot water being poured, the slow warm hiss of tea that would make Sirius' heart beat faster on any other day. He had bought the tea set for Remus, delicate glass pot and thick smooth cups, leaves of green and black and red for Remus to taste. But Remus doesn't like to use them, doesn't like presents, doesn't like expensive things that Sirius buys for him.
The smell of jasmine coming from the kitchen is a favour, a thing given in consideration of Sirius' loss.
He is still standing in the hallway, his leather coat dripping on to his shirt and soaking his skin, making a puddle on the floor when Remus comes to find him.
"Hello, Sirius."
Remus is holding a mug, a deep earthy red thing, his fingers curling around it with delicate reverence. There is hot air rising on to Remus' face, making him twitch his nose. He blows into the mug, his lips pale and wet, reflected in the clear green liquid.
Sirius knows that Remus could stand like that for hours, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, drinking tea and breathing into his cup. That there are muscles enough in that narrow frame to keep him still, joints bending to find comfort in all positions. Remus has strength, and patience.
Yet that knowledge doesn't thrill him now, doesn't make him wonder, or hope. Remus gives out pieces of himself sparingly, just enough to keep Sirius from giving up. An open smile, a hug of comfort and friendship, a bottle of wine and tolerant ears. A cup of tea.
But Sirius has no patience, he is tired and wants no dreams, no pleasurable tempting thoughts of Remus' rolled up sleeves and thin wrists. He doesn't want tea or warmth or dry skin.
Remus is looking at him, tilting his head, curving the corner of his mouth. He could probably say something true and meaningful, make it better, make Sirius forget for a moment.
But Remus didn't know Regulus, and quite obviously doesn't know Sirius. He doesn't want Sirius. So Sirius takes off his leather coat, wet material clinging to his arms, takes it off and shakes it and looks at Remus. Then drops it at Remus' feet, and starts to stagger away.
"James said to come to dinner. Lily is cooking. For all of us."
Remus' voice is almost harsh and Sirius stops, unable to walk from such a request. Remus' insidious voice and James' need for friends and warmth and good food, his need to make things better by companionable drinking. This loss is for James too, he knows.
"He also said to tie you up and bring you anyway if you refused to come."
There's a smile forming somewhere in him, and Sirius observes it dispassionately until it goes away.
"What time?"
"Eight."
"Right. Okay."
Remus nods and takes a sip of his tea, his eyes still on Sirius. Sirius swallows, watches Remus lick the liquid from his lips, swallows again.
Then the quiet of his room becomes irresistible and he runs away.
: :
The wine is bitter in his mouth, but he makes a point of drinking it anyway. Something cheap and French; James never did get the hang of choosing good wine. He's a beer man, loves his frothing pints and the bitter stoutness of ale. They used to have boozing nights, just after Hogwarts, with Remus and Peter bringing strange, small bottles of liquor, and James betting his Guinness against Sirius' twenty-year-old bordeaux. They would all end up sprawled on the floor of Sirius' flat, his feet somewhere on James' face and his hands accidentally trailing across Remus' stomach. Remus would smirk, and take another sip of his wine, and Sirius would be invincible.
James doesn't like drinking wine, but he is downing it with determined gulps, while Lily smiles uneasily. The wine is there for Sirius, another friendly gesture to accommodate his loss, but perhaps also for Regulus. Sirius watches James mourn with every desperate sip of his drink, his eyes red from Lily's spicy food.
The warmth of the room becomes suddenly unbearable.
"I need a cigarette. Excuse me."
Sirius stands up and doesn't look at the surprised faces around the table. He stumbles only once on his way outside, his boots still wet from the earlier rain. The sky is clear now, the stars promising more cold tomorrow. Sirius doesn't put his coat on.
He's learning to like it, the taste of burning paper and nicotine in his mouth. His breath is cold but the cigarette warms him, makes the inhalation of pure air more endurable. He doesn't mind the poison anymore.
"Give us a fag."
Remus is always tantalisingly quiet, careful feet making just enough noise not to be creepy. Sirius doesn't look at him when he hands over the pack.
"A light?"
The matches are stuck in his pocket and Sirius curses when they fall on the ground, soaked in an instant. Remus smiles with deliberate smugness and Sirius' hair stands on his neck.
"Guess you'll have to help me out."
The voice is steady and innocent, as if Remus hadn't just hexed him into dropping the packet. Sirius decides not to think about Remus' skills in non-verbal wandless magic, and concentrates on the threat of this new situation instead.
Remus leans over, a cigarette drooping between his lips. The corner of his mouth is curved. Sirius bends his head, touches Remus' fag with his own, and tries not to breathe in the heady warmth. They stand immobile for a moment, their faces inches apart. Sirius' hands start to shake again.
"Cheers."
Sirius says nothing, turns away. He doesn't want the slow torture of Remus' rough-sweet voice.
"How long have you been smoking?"
Sirius sucks in a long draught of tar, and waits for it to blow out through half-parted lips.
"A few months."
He hears Remus take a drag, sees the stars go cloudy for a moment when he exhales.
"It's a filthy habit, you know."
There's a smirk behind those words and Sirius doesn't dare look, can't bear the provocation.
But it gets worse when Remus' cold fingers curl around his neck and he is pulled closer until a spicy breath of wine and nicotine is fluttering on his cheeks. Remus is looking at him, serious now, with determination and not desire, not even a challenge. Sirius closes his eyes against him.
Yet the cold wet lips make him shiver, sliding across his mouth and teasing out the last remnants of longing from him. They soon become warm and Remus' tongue is careful and knowing, licking the underside of Sirius' lips and stroking the delicate corner of his mouth. There is an underlying greed beneath the controlled movements, and Sirius almost gives in, almost lets himself drown in the idea of Remus kissing him, touching him with want.
Remus' fingers are holding him in place, his thumbs flicking across Sirius' cheekbones, stroking under his jaw. It is the comforting closeness of their position that snaps Sirius awake.
"What the fuck?"
Remus slides his fingers on Sirius' cheeks one last time, then drops his hands and stands back, just far enough for Sirius' to miss him.
"Isn't that what you've been saying you want all this time?"
Remus sounds calm but there is a flush to his cheeks that isn't caused by wine or hungry kisses.
"And you decide you give in now? When my brother is dead and I need your pity? Fuck you, Remus. I'm not that stupid, not that fucking needy and pathetic. How can you."
Sirius stops to find more breath for his rage. Remus shifts on his feet, moving further away.
"It's not out of…"
"You think you can just do that, kiss me and humour me to make me feel better? You forget that you don't fancy me, Remus. You forget that I'm immature and irresponsible and beneath your notice. You certainly seem to forget that you've told me precisely what you think of me many times. And no matter how stupid and childish I may be, I'll still remember what you've said. Fucking hell, Remus, do you seriously think I would want that? Want to be fucked out of pity?"
Remus is pursing his lips now, all amusement and concern gone from his face. Sirius can't even be bothered to hate Remus' ability to hide, it doesn't matter when anger is making him shake and he is still raw from seeing Regulus' white body. He swallows down all taste of Remus, leaving only Black eloquence in his mouth.
"I realise you have no respect for me, Remus, but you should at least have enough consideration for our past friendship not to whore yourself for your conscience. If James can restrain himself to serving me bad quality wine, you might follow his example and refrain from adding insult to contempt. Or just keep your distance and leave me alone."
Remus goes white, his mouth incongruously red and bitten against the pale skin.
"Kindly convey my apologies to our hostess."
The venom tastes good underneath the courteous words. Sirius throws his burnt cigarette at Remus' feet and Apparates away.
: :
Sirius wakes to cold sheets and a bony hand on his shoulder. There's a sharp smell in his room, sour wine and his coat stinking of cigarettes. He should be used to it by now, but nicotine and tar are still Remus-smells, not his own like motor-oil and bitter alcohol and leather.
"Wake up!"
Remus is shaking him but Sirius doesn't open his eyes, he knows the world isn't ending yet. There would be more people shouting.
"Sirius!"
Slowly, he opens one eye. The room is still dark so it doesn't hurt, but his heart is racing and there is the beginning of a hangover at the back of his skull.
"What do you want?"
Remus bites his lip and says nothing. His mouth is dark against his teeth, and Sirius wonders what he's been doing for the last few hours. Then he remembers that he's not supposed to think about that anymore, he's supposed to be justifiably enraged. And in mourning, and it hits him again, his brother's white body, his brother's face that he hadn't seen in two years, staring at him. Without accusation, for once empty of hate. Sirius closes his eyes and curls into a tight ball.
"Sirius. I wasn't…"
Remus sighs and the part of Sirius that isn't wailing silently laughs at the theatricality of it all.
"Look, perhaps this isn't the best time. I just wanted to say. You should know that it wasn't out of pity. And I don't think that of you, I don't despise you or think you're an idiot. You're too lovely and too good for me, that's the thing, you're something I should never want and that's why I haven't…"
Remus coughs and his voice loses its last remnants of dignity.
"I'm sorry."
Sirius knows that at his most defensive Remus reverts to impossibly formal language. Normal words, everyday words are turned into expressions requiring four syllables and a subjunctive. But this Remus goes beyond that.
Sirius lets out a long breath, and learns to breathe again.
"You're naked, you know."
"Yes. I was sleeping."
"I see."
Remus' hand hesitates a moment on his shoulder before moving down. It trails across Sirius' chest, the nails flicking briefly against a nipple, then turning so that Remus' palm is open against him. Sirius can feel the heartbeat in his fingertips, trembling against his skin.
And he starts to remember, as Remus' long limbs coax him to uncurl, all those years and months of watching his friend. As Remus wraps himself over and around Sirius, he remembers that first shock of realisation, that this was what he wanted, that it was Remus who made him blush and shiver and grind into his mattress at night.
When Remus' mouth presses open kisses against Sirius' stomach, teasing him with long, slow swirls of a tongue, his flesh begins to thaw. There are sharp fingers against his ribs, following the curve of his hipbone, learning his body as if it were a precious book. Remus keeps looking at Sirius, his eyes round and serious, honest in their offering.
And when Remus sobs his longing into Sirius' cheek and shudders against him with abandon, Sirius almost believes him.
~*~
Author: wildestranger
Summary: Sirius has been stealing Remus' fags for two months now. Remus has yet to comment.
Rating: R
Recipient: taffetablue
~*~
Cold Flesh
Sirius' fingers are shaking, just a little, but he doesn't think about them, he focuses on the cigarette he is pulling out of the packet. He's been stealing Remus' fags for two months now. Remus has yet to comment.
He doesn't like the taste, but it's something to do with his hands and mouth. Sirius enjoys the occupation, it saves him from awkward mumbling and pouting. Besides, he looks good when he smokes. Pursing his lips without thinning them, sucking in the smoke, inhaling without coughing. Sirius imagines the smoke as a liquid pouring down his throat, the movement visible under his skin. He lets out a short breath of blue air.
It starts to rain and Sirius feels like a cliché.
The Ministry building is grey, as they always are. To hide them from the Muggles, they say. Apparently Muggles can't see grey buildings. Sirius stumps his cigarette into the wall and considers lighting another.
"Black?"
Gideon Prewett sounds concerned, official and polite. Sirius wonders whether there is a policy for dealing with aggrieved family members of dead Death Eaters, and whether they train their Aurors to use the right tone of voice to regret that kind of bollocks. Gideon coughs, looks at the ground, and Sirius decides he can't be bothered to make it easy on him. He is in mourning, after all.
"Shall we go in?"
He gives Gideon a Look of Great Grief and watches as the other man looks quickly away. That should take care of the friendliness.
They walk, side by side, past endless grey corridors. Sirius entertains himself with imagining the conversations they must have had while planning these hallways. It mustn't be too cheerful. Must give people time to realise how serious it all is. And not too fast. Need time to make them properly depressed. There are witches wondering around, with similar inane concerned faces, their robes considerately blue. That's probably a calming influence, an appropriate colour.
"This way."
Sirius notes that Gideon is still too eager in his job to save people that he also wants to save them from bumping into walls. Which they would surely do without Gideon there to direct them. Sirius considers lighting up another cigarette and seeing whether his role as an anguished brother and an enraged Black would let him get away with it. He would hope not. But these places, these people, they generally disappoint him.
Gideon opens a door for him, and Sirius is about to pick a fight and ask if he thinks Sirius is a girl, when he sees the body. Some kind of makeshift bed, clearly not intended for sleeping, though. Intended for dead bodies.
Regulus' eyes are still open and Sirius starts to get pissed off that no one has bothered to do this, to close them like you're supposed to. It's the same pale grey as his own, same shape of the eye even, and they look so strange and unmoving. Regulus was always sly with it, watching, but he would look, at everyone and everything, whether they knew it or not. His eyes would follow Sirius around the room, crinkling in the corners when he got caught, not minding if Sirius caught him. Sirius never told.
There are bruises on his body, nakedly displayed for anybody to see, vulnerable in a way that Regulus never was in life. There are cuts all over his arms and legs, scars from duels or Lord Voldemort's pleasure. Huge purple blotches on his belly and thighs. Skin scraped raw by his neck and wrists.
Gideon is looking at Regulus in way that suggests he's about to throw up. Sirius refrains from calling him a wuss of an Auror, and telling him this is nothing unusual for Blacks, let alone Slytherins or Death Eaters. A body is a thing to be marked, with scratches and bites of love as much as with welts and torn flesh. That's why they like to be pale, after all, that's why they like to have such delicate skin.
The killing curse is supposed to be merciful, without pain, or at least the signs of it. Sirius looks at his brother's body, and hopes for a less easy death.
: :
Remus is home when he gets back. There's a sound of hot water being poured, the slow warm hiss of tea that would make Sirius' heart beat faster on any other day. He had bought the tea set for Remus, delicate glass pot and thick smooth cups, leaves of green and black and red for Remus to taste. But Remus doesn't like to use them, doesn't like presents, doesn't like expensive things that Sirius buys for him.
The smell of jasmine coming from the kitchen is a favour, a thing given in consideration of Sirius' loss.
He is still standing in the hallway, his leather coat dripping on to his shirt and soaking his skin, making a puddle on the floor when Remus comes to find him.
"Hello, Sirius."
Remus is holding a mug, a deep earthy red thing, his fingers curling around it with delicate reverence. There is hot air rising on to Remus' face, making him twitch his nose. He blows into the mug, his lips pale and wet, reflected in the clear green liquid.
Sirius knows that Remus could stand like that for hours, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, drinking tea and breathing into his cup. That there are muscles enough in that narrow frame to keep him still, joints bending to find comfort in all positions. Remus has strength, and patience.
Yet that knowledge doesn't thrill him now, doesn't make him wonder, or hope. Remus gives out pieces of himself sparingly, just enough to keep Sirius from giving up. An open smile, a hug of comfort and friendship, a bottle of wine and tolerant ears. A cup of tea.
But Sirius has no patience, he is tired and wants no dreams, no pleasurable tempting thoughts of Remus' rolled up sleeves and thin wrists. He doesn't want tea or warmth or dry skin.
Remus is looking at him, tilting his head, curving the corner of his mouth. He could probably say something true and meaningful, make it better, make Sirius forget for a moment.
But Remus didn't know Regulus, and quite obviously doesn't know Sirius. He doesn't want Sirius. So Sirius takes off his leather coat, wet material clinging to his arms, takes it off and shakes it and looks at Remus. Then drops it at Remus' feet, and starts to stagger away.
"James said to come to dinner. Lily is cooking. For all of us."
Remus' voice is almost harsh and Sirius stops, unable to walk from such a request. Remus' insidious voice and James' need for friends and warmth and good food, his need to make things better by companionable drinking. This loss is for James too, he knows.
"He also said to tie you up and bring you anyway if you refused to come."
There's a smile forming somewhere in him, and Sirius observes it dispassionately until it goes away.
"What time?"
"Eight."
"Right. Okay."
Remus nods and takes a sip of his tea, his eyes still on Sirius. Sirius swallows, watches Remus lick the liquid from his lips, swallows again.
Then the quiet of his room becomes irresistible and he runs away.
: :
The wine is bitter in his mouth, but he makes a point of drinking it anyway. Something cheap and French; James never did get the hang of choosing good wine. He's a beer man, loves his frothing pints and the bitter stoutness of ale. They used to have boozing nights, just after Hogwarts, with Remus and Peter bringing strange, small bottles of liquor, and James betting his Guinness against Sirius' twenty-year-old bordeaux. They would all end up sprawled on the floor of Sirius' flat, his feet somewhere on James' face and his hands accidentally trailing across Remus' stomach. Remus would smirk, and take another sip of his wine, and Sirius would be invincible.
James doesn't like drinking wine, but he is downing it with determined gulps, while Lily smiles uneasily. The wine is there for Sirius, another friendly gesture to accommodate his loss, but perhaps also for Regulus. Sirius watches James mourn with every desperate sip of his drink, his eyes red from Lily's spicy food.
The warmth of the room becomes suddenly unbearable.
"I need a cigarette. Excuse me."
Sirius stands up and doesn't look at the surprised faces around the table. He stumbles only once on his way outside, his boots still wet from the earlier rain. The sky is clear now, the stars promising more cold tomorrow. Sirius doesn't put his coat on.
He's learning to like it, the taste of burning paper and nicotine in his mouth. His breath is cold but the cigarette warms him, makes the inhalation of pure air more endurable. He doesn't mind the poison anymore.
"Give us a fag."
Remus is always tantalisingly quiet, careful feet making just enough noise not to be creepy. Sirius doesn't look at him when he hands over the pack.
"A light?"
The matches are stuck in his pocket and Sirius curses when they fall on the ground, soaked in an instant. Remus smiles with deliberate smugness and Sirius' hair stands on his neck.
"Guess you'll have to help me out."
The voice is steady and innocent, as if Remus hadn't just hexed him into dropping the packet. Sirius decides not to think about Remus' skills in non-verbal wandless magic, and concentrates on the threat of this new situation instead.
Remus leans over, a cigarette drooping between his lips. The corner of his mouth is curved. Sirius bends his head, touches Remus' fag with his own, and tries not to breathe in the heady warmth. They stand immobile for a moment, their faces inches apart. Sirius' hands start to shake again.
"Cheers."
Sirius says nothing, turns away. He doesn't want the slow torture of Remus' rough-sweet voice.
"How long have you been smoking?"
Sirius sucks in a long draught of tar, and waits for it to blow out through half-parted lips.
"A few months."
He hears Remus take a drag, sees the stars go cloudy for a moment when he exhales.
"It's a filthy habit, you know."
There's a smirk behind those words and Sirius doesn't dare look, can't bear the provocation.
But it gets worse when Remus' cold fingers curl around his neck and he is pulled closer until a spicy breath of wine and nicotine is fluttering on his cheeks. Remus is looking at him, serious now, with determination and not desire, not even a challenge. Sirius closes his eyes against him.
Yet the cold wet lips make him shiver, sliding across his mouth and teasing out the last remnants of longing from him. They soon become warm and Remus' tongue is careful and knowing, licking the underside of Sirius' lips and stroking the delicate corner of his mouth. There is an underlying greed beneath the controlled movements, and Sirius almost gives in, almost lets himself drown in the idea of Remus kissing him, touching him with want.
Remus' fingers are holding him in place, his thumbs flicking across Sirius' cheekbones, stroking under his jaw. It is the comforting closeness of their position that snaps Sirius awake.
"What the fuck?"
Remus slides his fingers on Sirius' cheeks one last time, then drops his hands and stands back, just far enough for Sirius' to miss him.
"Isn't that what you've been saying you want all this time?"
Remus sounds calm but there is a flush to his cheeks that isn't caused by wine or hungry kisses.
"And you decide you give in now? When my brother is dead and I need your pity? Fuck you, Remus. I'm not that stupid, not that fucking needy and pathetic. How can you."
Sirius stops to find more breath for his rage. Remus shifts on his feet, moving further away.
"It's not out of…"
"You think you can just do that, kiss me and humour me to make me feel better? You forget that you don't fancy me, Remus. You forget that I'm immature and irresponsible and beneath your notice. You certainly seem to forget that you've told me precisely what you think of me many times. And no matter how stupid and childish I may be, I'll still remember what you've said. Fucking hell, Remus, do you seriously think I would want that? Want to be fucked out of pity?"
Remus is pursing his lips now, all amusement and concern gone from his face. Sirius can't even be bothered to hate Remus' ability to hide, it doesn't matter when anger is making him shake and he is still raw from seeing Regulus' white body. He swallows down all taste of Remus, leaving only Black eloquence in his mouth.
"I realise you have no respect for me, Remus, but you should at least have enough consideration for our past friendship not to whore yourself for your conscience. If James can restrain himself to serving me bad quality wine, you might follow his example and refrain from adding insult to contempt. Or just keep your distance and leave me alone."
Remus goes white, his mouth incongruously red and bitten against the pale skin.
"Kindly convey my apologies to our hostess."
The venom tastes good underneath the courteous words. Sirius throws his burnt cigarette at Remus' feet and Apparates away.
: :
Sirius wakes to cold sheets and a bony hand on his shoulder. There's a sharp smell in his room, sour wine and his coat stinking of cigarettes. He should be used to it by now, but nicotine and tar are still Remus-smells, not his own like motor-oil and bitter alcohol and leather.
"Wake up!"
Remus is shaking him but Sirius doesn't open his eyes, he knows the world isn't ending yet. There would be more people shouting.
"Sirius!"
Slowly, he opens one eye. The room is still dark so it doesn't hurt, but his heart is racing and there is the beginning of a hangover at the back of his skull.
"What do you want?"
Remus bites his lip and says nothing. His mouth is dark against his teeth, and Sirius wonders what he's been doing for the last few hours. Then he remembers that he's not supposed to think about that anymore, he's supposed to be justifiably enraged. And in mourning, and it hits him again, his brother's white body, his brother's face that he hadn't seen in two years, staring at him. Without accusation, for once empty of hate. Sirius closes his eyes and curls into a tight ball.
"Sirius. I wasn't…"
Remus sighs and the part of Sirius that isn't wailing silently laughs at the theatricality of it all.
"Look, perhaps this isn't the best time. I just wanted to say. You should know that it wasn't out of pity. And I don't think that of you, I don't despise you or think you're an idiot. You're too lovely and too good for me, that's the thing, you're something I should never want and that's why I haven't…"
Remus coughs and his voice loses its last remnants of dignity.
"I'm sorry."
Sirius knows that at his most defensive Remus reverts to impossibly formal language. Normal words, everyday words are turned into expressions requiring four syllables and a subjunctive. But this Remus goes beyond that.
Sirius lets out a long breath, and learns to breathe again.
"You're naked, you know."
"Yes. I was sleeping."
"I see."
Remus' hand hesitates a moment on his shoulder before moving down. It trails across Sirius' chest, the nails flicking briefly against a nipple, then turning so that Remus' palm is open against him. Sirius can feel the heartbeat in his fingertips, trembling against his skin.
And he starts to remember, as Remus' long limbs coax him to uncurl, all those years and months of watching his friend. As Remus wraps himself over and around Sirius, he remembers that first shock of realisation, that this was what he wanted, that it was Remus who made him blush and shiver and grind into his mattress at night.
When Remus' mouth presses open kisses against Sirius' stomach, teasing him with long, slow swirls of a tongue, his flesh begins to thaw. There are sharp fingers against his ribs, following the curve of his hipbone, learning his body as if it were a precious book. Remus keeps looking at Sirius, his eyes round and serious, honest in their offering.
And when Remus sobs his longing into Sirius' cheek and shudders against him with abandon, Sirius almost believes him.
~*~