R. J. Lupin: A Closed Book
Sirius was very rarely lost for words.
A strict upbringing, overbearing parents, years of propriety and good manners combined so that he knew exactly what to say in any situation.
Apart from when Remus looked at him like that.
It didn’t happen very often and Sirius was sure that the young lupine wasn’t even aware of it, but just occasionally, late at night, or after long hours studying in the library, he would tilt his head, straighten his shoulders and soften his jaw; there would be that spark of something almost intangible in his eyes; ancient, liquid, feral eyes that tore at those carefully constructed mental barriers and weakened Sirius’ resolve to let things be.
How could he just let things be when Remus looked at him like that, open, inviting, vulnerable even?
But then he would blink and look away and when their eyes met again, a fraction of a second later, they would both be hiding once again behind those mental barriers and Sirius could convince himself it was nothing more than his own fantasy; a trick of the light or something, anything other than harbouring a potentially misguided hope that his feelings were requited.
More worrying than Remus’ ability to render Sirius speechless with that Look, was the way he threw his thoughts into complete disarray with the most innocent of words, touches or movements. Something in the Look, for Sirius, went some way to excuse his feeling of helplessness, but when he fell apart at innocuous, everyday moments, he felt ridiculous.
Remus would catch sight of Sirius playing the fool at the breakfast table, for example, and pause, fork halfway to his mouth, the faintest of smiles playing on his lips and his left eyebrow raised in friendly admonishment, before resuming his quiet steady eating; somehow this would make Sirius horribly flustered, nearly embarrassed and he compensated by acting even more ridiculous and cheeky, if only to make Remus look over at him again, notice him again.
And this was another one of those times, the Great Hall filled with the buzz of a hundred conversations, the whispered hum of owls gliding overhead and Remus’ gentle, exasperated smile as Sirius lowered his wand, allowing several slices of toast and jam to drop to the table from where they had been orbiting Remus’ head.
He raised his eyebrows innocently, fighting against the wide grin that threatened to surface and scratched at his ear.
“Everything okay Remus?”
“I’m fairly certain you can’t expect me to know what is happening across the entire world therefore will assume that your ‘everything’ is strictly limited to ‘everything concerning myself’ and in that case, the answer is still far closer to no than yes.”
Sirius hesitated momentarily, as was often the case in the face of Remus’ more rambling sarcastic comments, then raised his wand again, allowing the smile to spread slowly over his features, “Wouldn’t make much difference if I carried on then?”
“If you say so.”
Sirius hesitated again, swearing under his breath, his right hand held a few inches above the tabletop, the end of his wand rattling slightly against his water goblet.
“Yes or no Remus.” He knew he was being unnecessarily sharp, but couldn’t help the swell of annoyance, unease, confusion, whatever it was, at Remus’ apparent indifference to him. Frowning, hand shaking minutely from frustration, Sirius added a further edge to his voice, a tiny part of his brain watching the rest of it incredulously and shouting at him to stop.
“Well?”
Remus’ delicate smile wavered as he glanced up into molten silver eyes, tempered anger hidden in their depths; vague, unfocussed anger not at him, but at what his comment, or possibly his silence, represented.
“Of course it would make a difference; how couldn’t it?” Remus climbed out of his seat as he spoke, collecting a slim volume from between their plates - ‘Magical History, Mythical Folklore’ - and resting a hand briefly between Sirius’ shoulder-blades before leaving.
Sirius watched him leave, his skin tingling slightly from the warmth of where Remus’ fingertips had been even through his shirt.
Absently he reached for one of the pieces of toast, now cold and soggy from the jam, but he ate it anyway, so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t realise James was trying to talk to him.