Romulus

Romulus

*

Sirius,

Could you? You know the address.

Remus

*

Cornwall was known for its bleak mornings. From ironclad clouds to carved slate sea, the county had a claustrophobic feeling like it was collapsing inwards, or else dissolving into the sea. The air in Cornwall tasted metallic, something bitter in the back of your throat, never quite leaving, making itself known even through port wine and beer. Everything from bread to water seemed to adopt a sour quality this close to the sea, but Remus was so accustomed to it that he barely noticed.

It was minutes from dawn one chilly August morning and Remus found himself at Land's End, his favourite place to visit during his time at home. Land's End was the westernmost tip of England, one long jutting point of rocks and, preceding it, lush fields of grass pinpricked with slender, steeple-like trees. Remus lived just a few minutes bike ride from it, his parents owning a cottage just west of Penzance. Jokes about pirates aside, Remus found it to be the loveliest place in England. Having been born in London and raised outside Manchester it was nice to escape to the countryside, especially one as beautiful in its misery as Cornwall. Land's End was remarkably peaceful on this particular occasion, and Remus was grateful. The fishermen weren't yet up, pedestrians were kept away by the threat of rain on the horizon, and even the gulls seemed to find excuse not to crawl through the sky or wail. He was left to silence.

Remus was sitting on the edge of a rocky outcropping, Anouilh's Antigone open on his lap. He was struggling through the french text, a language he hadn't quite mastered the nuances of, but he enjoyed the sections of the play he did understand, so he continued to read. He looked up once or twice, glancing about nervously for sign of other people. At first sight of strangers Remus would usually pack up and find a new lonely outcropping to sit by. Even if the others were but specks in the distance, Remus felt as if he were being accused of some misdemeanour, his tragic flaws bubbling to the surface for every man and woman to see. It was a lonely kind of existence, he supposed, but that's how he enjoyed it.

In early summer, during the hot months, Remus would find a sheltered place by the sea, strip naked and just lie on the pebbly shore, revelling in the whole wonderful painful-pleasurable sensation of it. Sometimes he would bring a sketchbook and draw. They were terrible drawings, awkward and crooked, but they were his and he was proud of that. He was always alone though, always cast to his own thoughts.

Remus flipped the page, but his eyes could only skim over the words. He couldn't focus, his mind wasn't absorbing the text. None of it made sense; none of this made sense. He calmed himself, and tried again. It was no use. He closed the book with sudden frustration, and balled his hands into fists.

Dammit, dammit.

Tears sprung to his eyes, and he wiped them away angrily. He knew what was bothering him, knew it vividly. It was this, this sky of slate and sea of grey. It was this whole city, this county, this country and whole damn world. It was this requiem. The waves were the tolling of bells, wind the choir's song. It was playing for him, mocking him in its subrevelrous glory. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape it.

Not for one damn instant.

*

Remus,

I'm coming. Chin up, yeah?

Yours,

S.B.

*

Sirius found Remus by Land's End. He always did when he came to visit, and this was no different.

It was a sunny morning, though there was still a crisp chill about the coast. Sirius found this most comfortable, the superficial bite of cold wind and the deep, internal sun-bred warmth that permeated right to his bones. On this cheerful morning people were walking about with dogs on leashes and children in prams. Sirius, fifteen years old and brilliantly charming, smiled as he passed them, feeling for all the world a British gentleman. His black Cambridge shoes were gleaming and new, his white shirt half-untucked, hair just a bit longer than what society found comfortable. Sirius settled into a comfortable stroll - half walk, half swagger - tipping his head to round, red women and bonneted babies as he wandered. He needed a cane to complete the outfit, he thought. He made a note to buy one.

It took Sirius an hour and a half to find Remus, sitting in a distant, almost inaccessible outcropping of rocks under a scraggly and woollen tree, nose buried in T. C. Worsley's The Flannelled Fool.

"Remus? Reading? Well colour me shocked," Sirius exclaimed, standing some three metres behind Remus, hands on his hips.

Remus, startled by the sudden noise, whipped his head around. On seeing Sirius, confident and smiling under the summer sun, tears leapt to Remus' eyes and he began to cry furiously, earnestly, and painfully.

"Hey, hey," Sirius said softly, walking over and sitting heavily next to Remus, "I didn't think I was that ugly."

"You came. Oh Sirius, you came," Remus sobbed, taking Sirius around the shoulders and burying his face into the smooth skin of the boy's neck, tears soaking into the cotton shirt. The rest of his words were a half-sobbing mess of curses and wounds that Sirius couldn't begin to understand. Not quite sure what to do with this foreign weeping boy, Sirius tentatively put his arms about Remus' shoulders and rocked him gently, face as expressionless as stone, heart solely made of determination.

It was a strong twenty minutes before Remus could compose himself enough to speak, though his voice still trembled with exertion. Sirius let go, and Remus retreated to his spot under the tree, ashamed by his outburst.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Sirius asked at length, a hot and heavy silence having passed between them.

Remus swallowed and ran a hand through his dirty brown hair, messing it about anxiously. He was summoning the words, calling them from the Pandora's box of his heart. They were dark, furious, terrible things. Things Remus had spent years exorcising from his mind, covering them with literature and music and opera, hiding them beneath his friendships, his glories, and his failures. But now, during this cold and horrible August, they could no longer be repressed.

He turned to Sirius, spoke the words, and broke down into tears once more. Sirius' awkwardly cheerful expression vanished to be replaced with a look of blank shock. In a motion, Sirius grabbed Remus and pressed him into a hard, heavy hug, never ever wanting to let go.

*

Dear Mother,

I won't be returning home for another few days. Hope you are well.

Your son,

Sirius

*

Night of the same day sees Sirius sleeping in Remus' bedroom. He's on the floor, under a blanket Mr. Lupin provided for him before kissing his son goodnight and going back to the hospital.

The crickets creak that night. They don't normally, usually staying far from the coast. There were frogs and toads too; but those were common. There was something romantic about the crickets chirping though. Something felt proper, like a real summer's night, the kind you see at the cinema. There was a cheesy quality to it to, for it seemed to accentuate their silences into a kind of swirling nether of Hollywood clichés. Sirius enjoyed it, and commented. Remus concurred in that rumbling thoughtful way he had.

"What are thinking about?" Sirius asked, already knowing the answer.

"Her."

"Oh." There was a long pause. "You shouldn't." Remus looked down to him, halfway between a glare and a look of agreement.

"I know I shouldn't," said Remus, sullenly.

"Your dad's there, yeah?" Sirius began with false cheer. "He'd tell you if something was wrong." A pause. "She'll be right as rain in a couple of days." His voice sounded dead, even to his own ears.

"Yes, I suppose." Silence. Crickets, and they both gave low chuckles. Then, "Sorry about, you know, crying - crying on you."

"S'no problem." Sirius ran a hand through his dark hair and turned to look up at Remus, lying awkwardly just along the edge of his mattress, so he could see Sirius and talk to him properly. "Did you want to - um - did you want to talk about it?" This was a monumental question for Sirius, a milestone in the path of his young fifteen years. He had moved from the realm of "oh, well, yes, that's how things go, stiff upper-lip, what what" into the realm of talking, discussing, conversing, solving, and catharsis. It was just too bad he adopted this in his fifth year - leaving behind him the woe-begotten pieces of many fractured conversations - and not, like Remus, in his first.

"I - not if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Oh - oh, no. Oh Merlin no, Remus. I just want to help you. I wouldn't have come so quickly if I didn't."

That night Sirius and Remus stayed up late talking. It was dawn by the time they fell asleep, exhausted but ultimately relieved. In his final whispers before sleep, Remus asked Sirius if they might sleep side-by-side, so he might feel more comfortable, less alone.

Funny, Remus thinks. I spend my time at home trying to be alone, searching desperately for a place I might sit in loneliness, in peace, and now I'm asking Sirius if I could sleep next to him.

Sirius replied in the affirmative, and when Remus crawled in next to him Sirius took his hand and squeezed it. And the crickets kept chirping.

*

Sirius,

You are to return home immediately. Your Aunts are visiting and you are to make a proper appearance.

Mrs. Black

*

Mrs. Black,

Sorry, no. More important things here.

Your loving son,

Master Black, esquire.

*

It is the day after Remus' ninth birthday. He has received, like he asked for, the hardcover collected works of Mark Twain - bound in beautiful red leather, with gold-leafed rice paper and a beautiful gold tail-mark. He loves it deeply. It smells as books should smell - old, musty, full of sour character and scratchy beauty. The front cover is smooth and cold, and he likes to rub his hands over the ridges of the embossed writing. He outlines the gold curlicue designs that loop around the cover of the book with one slender finger, explores the dips and troughs of the text on the back, and the stylised image of the author on the front. He opens the book and re-reads the note written in neat calligraphy on the front page:

To our dearest son on his ninth birthday,

May you be happy, healthy and whole your entire life. Happy birthday.

With love,

Mummy and Daddy

Whole. That word carried a meaning for Remus, a meaning it carried for no one else. It was the sacred word in the Lupin household, uttered like one might thank God, or finish a prayer. It was the point-stop, the punctuation to their existence. To be whole. Growing up, Remus' parents had told him that, if he were poor, if he were rich, if he were tall, or short, or fat or small or straight or gay or healthy or sick, it didn't matter - the most important thing was to be whole. They were whole. Margaret Lupin and Frederick Lupin, whole in that they had each other. Whole in that they had a happy son. That was their completion. They were happy, they were whole.

Remus has the book when he visits the hospital with his mum and dad. He reads it, spread open on his lap, as his father hugs his mother before a costumed nurse takes her into the backr oom. Remus doesn't register when his father starts humming Dvorăk's New World Symphony, the piece he sang when he was nervous. He doesn't register the panicked glances his father casts when a nurse emerges from the hallway. All Remus knows is the nice feeling of his new leather sandals, and Tom Sawyer's shining, brilliant adventures. He doesn't even see his father get up to meet the nurse, who holds a clipboard and a sullen face.

And, thank God, he doesn't hear when the nurse tells Frederick that his wife has cancer of the bone. All Remus wonders is, Why is daddy crying? He's never cried before. And then he continues to read in the car all the way home, full of cheer, a cheer his parents reflect, hugging their son and giving him twin kisses on the cheek.

They cook him dinner that night. It's his choice again, as birthday boys and girls of the Lupin household get to choose what's for dinner the day before, of, and after their birthday. Remus chooses - for the third night in a row - mince lamb pie and pickled beetroot, which his mother makes succulently and perfectly. They finish with a nice treacle, all thick and gooey and sweet. That night his father reads to him, from his new book. His voice sounds strained, but Remus doesn't connect it to the hospital visit, he only recommends his dad lemon tea if his throat is scratchy.

Before he goes to bed, Remus' mother takes out their star chart and their calendar, and she and Remus go over which days are full moons for the next few months. The next one is in twelve days and Remus suddenly grows very sombre.

"I don't want to, mummy," he says, curling his lower lip in a pout.

"I know, Remus, but we'll be here, yeah? Yeah." She strokes his hair as only a mother can, soft and distant, almost as if she isn't touching him at all, so warm and motherly the action. "But it's not so bad - look at the moon."

"Pardon?"

"It's whole, isn't it Remus? It's whole." She cries and Remus doesn't know why.

*

Sirius,

Hey biffo. What's going on? Family a drag? Hah! What a question. Was gonna ask you, wanna come up here? We could check out Glastonbury. It'll be rad. What do you say, mate-o?

James

*

James,

Ahh no way! I wanted to go, too! Family stuff though. You know how it is. Whatever, you can bring Petey, I'm sure he'll go. See you in September.

S.B.

*

"You don't have to stay."

"Are you going to play or what?" Sirius said, tapping his cards against the table.

"I don't want you to miss out on things just to stay with me."

Sirius sighed. "Listen, are you particularly happy right now?"

A pause. "No."

"Well then, it's settled."

Remus drew a card and stared blankly at it for a moment. He felt dizzy; they don't make sense, a blur of black and red, of Kings' faces and diamond shapes. He put the cards down and took a deep breath. He was surprised to find tears in his eyes, as he didn't feel them come, but certainly there they were, sliding down his cheeks, blurring his vision. He heard Sirius take a rattling breath and slide his cards onto the table.

"Sorry," Remus said, holding his hands over his eyes, wiping the tears away. "I don't know why I'm crying."

Sirius took a deep breath. "How long?"

Remus looked up, eyes still full of unwanted tears. "Pardon?"

"How long?" His voice had adopted the soft qualities of cotton or silk, low and blurry, inconsistent in his throat. "How long does she have?"

Remus swallowed. "A week or two, at best."

"Oh." Sirius got up from his chair and wandered to the kitchen window. He watched the rain fall with unseeing eyes for a long while. It was a few minutes before Remus joined him, at which time they grasped hands as Remus felt hot tears slip once more from his eyes.

"Oh bollocks, I'm sorry Sirius," Remus said, letting go of the boy's hand and rubbing his eyes.

"Sorry for what?" Sirius asked, darkly.

"For - for crying."

"Why would I be upset by that?"

"Well - it's your summer hols, and here you are spending it with me while I - I cry all day." Remus sniffed and wiped his hands on his brown corduroy trousers.

Sirius spun around in half-fury and grabbed the front of Remus' shirt. "You bloody stupid ponce, I don't care." Remus sniffled, silent. Sirius let go with an indignant snort and turned back to the window. He spoke: "Remus, your mother is dying. You're going to cry, and I'm here to be - to be cried on. That's it."

Remus was struck by the paradox of the statement. The words were so terribly inelegant. Sirius' voice was rough, incongruent, coarse and awkward. It was blunt, even callous in its performance, but Remus didn't mind. Those words made him want to cry. The sincerity, the earnestness, the pure affection of the meaning, so much friction against the rotten words it made Remus feel sick with gratefulness.

The bubble burst and all at once Remus fell against Sirius and buried his head in his shoulder, weeping and sobbing into his friend's shirt as Sirius grasped him heavily about the shoulders, holding him in a hard embrace.

"Listen, Remus," Sirius said as the boy sobbed into his shoulder. "I didn't mean to yell. You're just so - so -" He sighed, and rubbed Remus' shoulder slowly.

A half hour later and Sirius and Remus are sitting awkwardly on opposite sides of the couch, almost as if compensating for their previous frighteningly intimate experience. The record player was squeezing out a tinny rendition of Saint-Saëns' Symphony no. 3 and the rain was pounding outside in a discordant rhythm to the piece.

"It's nice, this," Sirius said, having chosen the record himself.

"Mm," Remus agreed. "It was the last piece he wrote."

"Oh." Silence. "Er, sorry."

"What?"

"Well, it's a bit morbid -"

Remus sighed. "You didn't know, it's okay." He even smiled to punctuate the statement. It was the ghost of a smile, some fragmented iota of a grin that wouldn't pass as half-cheerful any other day, but at this moment it made Sirius' heart soar. He had been feeling increasingly useless at comforting this foreign boy, a boy whose experiences and desires and worries were so different from his own. Sirius had never gone through the death of a loved one before; he didn't know what he could do to compensate for his friend's misery. Certainly jokes were out of the question, and Remus always seems so stiff and unwanting of physical affection. It left Sirius with very little left at his disposal. He settled on a middle route; firmness, gentleness, but not overly affectionate or abrasive. But still he felt useless.

He voiced this concern.

"You're not useless," Remus sniffed from across the couch.

"But I feel it. I don't know how to comfort you."

"I'd be amazed if you did." Another fragment of a smile. "Besides, I - I like your, er, physical affection."

Sirius frowned. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"You make it sound so clinical." Sirius ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah," Remus said, cheeks going pink, "I can be like that sometimes. Sorry."

Sirius stretched a hand across the couch, which Remus caught in his own. They looked at each other, and then apart just as fast, reddening fiercely, hands retreating to fortified positions clasped between laps. The rain patted down a kind of natural chuckle at the boys' embarrassment, and Sirius ran another nervous hand through his hair.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Remus spoke. "You know, erm, you're my - oh, how do I say this - you're my, uh, you're my whole. Erm, oh dear." Remus went red and darted his eyes to the window once more. "Er, sorry, never mind. Stupid bringing that up, I'm just going to cry again."

"Your whole what?" Sirius persevered.

"My whole - um," Remus made a vague circular gesture in the air. "My whole, you know?"

"Not really."

"Okay, it's like this. My family, we have this - this thing. Where to be happy you need to be whole. It's a state of mind. My mum is whole because she has my dad. My dad is whole cause he has my mum. They're both whole because they have me. Get it?"

"Sort of. So, you - uhh - are whole because, because of me?"

"Well, that's what I meant - oh, no," Remus glanced at his socked-feet and blushed, "not like that. I mean, I don't want to marry you. It's just that you're so important and - I don't know, I just feel better around you, even when my mum is - and I can't even - Oh gods, I'm crying again."

"No, it's okay, just kind of," Sirius paused, "odd. That's all."

"Yeah. But you knew I was odd already."

"Certainly did."

"This was a friendship faux-pas wasn't it? These are the kind of things that boys keep inside, isn't it? Merlin - why can't I stop crying? Oh Sirius, you must hate me."

"Shut up, you neurotic twerp." Sirius grabbed the shoulder of Remus' shirt and pulled him into a half-hug. "Now just listen to the music."

And the band played on.

*

It is through the influential works of Malcolm Eldritch that one might truly see the vast impact magical surrealism had on the world of art, both muggle and wizard. One need only look to non-magical art nouveau lithographer and painter Alfons Mucha to see the effect Eldritch had on the muggle community. In looking at Eldrtich's later works his influence in developing the neo-rococo style is quite evident. It might even be extrapolated that, despite the small number of pieces that had filtered into the muggle art community, Eldritch was the principal inspiration behind the Pre-Raphaelites, his work going so far as to instigate both fiction and poetry, the most notable example being Dante Rossetti's The House of Life.

*

Sirius tapped anxiously on Remus' shoulder. "So, how'd you do, eh?"

Remus made a vague noise, shoving his paper into his schoolbag. "I did okay, I guess." He turned around in his seat and faced Sirius. "How'd you do?"

He slid the paper toward Remus, which was proudly displaying, in red ink, the letter E.

"Hey, well done," Remus said quietly as to not disturb Professor McDowell's seventh year advanced muggle studies lecture.

"What'd you get?" Sirius pressed on, withdrawing his paper and sliding it into his bag. "Couldn't have done better than me. I worked ages on that paper." He grinned. "So what'd you get?"

"I told you, I did okay."

"Ah," Sirius said in the manner of a world-weary sage, "only an A?"

"I did okay." Remus turned around, dipped his quill in the inkpot and began to take notes.

Sirius could not be put down. In a heavy whisper he asked again, "No, seriously, what did you get? Letter grade, old chap, letter grade."

"I did O-K."

"That's not funny. Are you just angry cause I did better, Remus? Eh, eh? I bet that's it. Old Remus, scholar and genius, beaten by Sirius, truant and misfit."

Remus turned around as subtly as he could manage, so as not to alert the rest of the class to his exertion. "Fine, I got an - A. I got an A, all right?"

"Ha ha! I knew it. That A is going to look a right sticky bitch on your O.W.L. grades, dear one."

"Yes, I fashion that it will. Now will you leave me alone?"

"Yes, yes, you'll have to study hard to beat me now. That paper was worth a hefty portion of our final mark."

Remus sighed, finally being goaded by Sirius to rebuttal. "Yes, well, I must say Sirius that our final exam is worth far more than -"

He was interrupted by Professor McDowell's short Scottish brogue. "Romulus and Remus will you shut your gaping mouths and face forward, you great slimy boys. I won't have conversation interrupting my class, if you please."

Sirius, who was always one to challenge authority, even in the worst of scenarios, was first to reply. "What? Sorry sir, what did you call me?"

McDowell smirked. "Romulus and Remus." With the Scottish tilt, the words were given an unduly balance - a long, rolled 'r,' which seemed to stretch for miles, followed by a sharp hiss for the 's,' sheared as one might train the branches on a cedar hedge.

"Romulus and Remus?" Sirius parroted.

"Well indeed. You two are always together, are you not? He's Remus, and you, Sirius - canis lupus familiaris - are his brother, in arms, legs, what have you. Romulus and Remus. I trust I don't need to recount to you their myth, dear boy?"

Sirius flushed red. "No, sir. I understand."

"Good, now kindly shut up and face forward, you great dirty mutt." With that, he continued lecturing.

Remus, though generally moved to indifference, was inspired by this last comment. "Great dirty mutt. Think he knows, Padfoot?" There was a teasing, mocking air to his voice, but beneath it was also the greatly blushing nature of someone given an unexpected gift - in this case, rather unusually, a brother.

"Shut up. You're the lupus around here."

"How right you are, Romulus."

The class ended amidst a flurry of paper, quills, and the cacophonous applause of closing books. Dust was emitted in smoky clouds from the chalkboard, filtering through the rays of sunlight as Professor McDowell closed up shop. Sirius slammed his book closed with a dramatic flair and gave Remus and gentle punch to the shoulder, a demand that he be paid attention. Before Remus could turn though, Professor McDowell had approached the boys

"Master Lupin," he said stoutly, "I would like to see you after class." His smile belied any malice behind the dreaded words.

Remus turned and gave Sirius an apologetic look. "See you later?" he asked meekly. Sirius nodded, picked up his bag, and strode off.

Remus approached the Professor's desk anxiously. "Yes, sir?"

"Master Lupin," McDowell said, leaning on his fists. "Your term paper."

"What about it, sir?"

"It was truly one of the greatest papers I've read." He smiled and put a hand on Remus' shoulder. "You are a fine student, Lupin. A fine student. Your paper was really quite beautifully written - and the depth! You should be very proud.

"Thank you, sir. I am, sir."

"You well deserved that O. You're the sole student in this class to get one."

"Thank you, sir." Remus blushed awkwardly and looked at his shoes.

"Keep up the good work, lad." McDowell gave a great shake of his noble head.

"Thank you, sir. Good day." And with that, Remus left the room, his cheeks a sickly pink.

Remus walked the familiar route back to the Gryffindor dormitories. Marble hallways, punctured all over with fan-windows and Victorian rounds were filtering wide pools of afternoon light, which reflected blindingly off the white floors. Dust occupied the air like incense, swirling behind the capes and cloaks of students as they slid through the corridor. Remus sniffed loudly and cursed his allergies.

When Sirius reached the Gryffindor common rooms, he found the few students contained within at the end of a burst of laughter. They smiled and welcomed Remus with nods of the head. Remus replied in similar fashion before treading up the stairs to the dormitory he shared with Sirius, James, and Peter. Remus snorted derisively at the sight that greeted him.

Sirius was sitting bare-foot and cross-legged on the floor next to his bed, eyes closed and assuming a look of troubled meditation. Pink Floyd's Piper at the Gates of Dawn was rattling out of the record player at the far end of the room, beside which two scented candles were lit and were dwindling into molten heaps on Sirius' bedside table. Fingers curled into circles on his knees, Sirius nodded his head as Syd Barrett crooned about Matilda Mother.

"Enter, Remus," Sirius said distantly. "And see a man condemned."

"Indeed," Remus murmured, dropping his bad on the end of his bed.

"The world hateth me this day, Remus."

"In a particularly archaic mood, are we?"

"Mm," Sirius replied, opening his eyes.

The music reaching its psychedelic climax, Remus strode over to the record player with the intent of turning it off, but Sirius made a grumbling grunting noise and Remus was stayed. After a minute, the song ended amidst a fanfare of strings and bells, and Sirius opened his eyes breaking his pose of intense meditation. He stretched languidly, exposing belly and dark plaid boxers. He made the very sleepy dog-like action of opening and closing his mouth with a nauseating smacking noise, as if tasting something sweet at the back of his throat.

"Did you know," he proposed to Remus, "that in my seven years here at Hogwarts, I've not had one public nickname. Certainly, I'm Padfoot and Pads to you boys, but out there - in that vast, influential real world - I've always been Sirius, or Black, or Your Majesty? In seven years I've been the one giving nicknames, labelling people as I see fit. And now, in this treacherous last term, I've been given one. It's not fair Remus, it's not fair by any stretch of the imagination."

"Sorry?"

As if on cue, Andrew Raynor, a sixth year, poked his head into the dormitory. "Hey, Romulus, you in for a game of chess?" He grinned a very cheeky grin. Sirius threw a pillow at him and groaned, falling flat on the floor.

Remus chuckled, which he turned into a cough so as to avoid upsetting Sirius. "Oh dear. It's stuck."

"It's stuck," Sirius concurred. "It's bloody well stuck."

*

Well, the noble size and beauty of Romulus and Remus' bodies, even when they were infants, betokened their natural disposition; and when they grew up, they were both of them courageous and manly, with spirits which courted apparent danger, and a daring which nothing could terrify.

Plutarch, The Life of Romulus, section six.

"Ha! Told you I'm sexy."

"Shut up, Sirius."

*

Remus was just putting on the first record of Richard Strauss' Der Rosenkavalier when Sirius walked into the bedroom.

"Hallo Moony," he said quietly, not wishing to disturb the established peace of the place. Remus' father had gone to the hospital to spend the night again with his wife, so Remus and Sirius were left with free reign over the house. Normally this would have resulted in mischief, destruction, and spontaneous bouts of wrestling or play-fighting, but under the present circumstances it saw Sirius and Remus curled on their respective beds, listening to opera on a crackly record player - or rather, Remus listening and Sirius being forced to.

"Listen," Sirius said suddenly, "could I sit beside you?"

Remus shrugged inconsequentially, only paying heed to the sound of the record player and the shining squeaks of the crickets filtering through his open bedroom window. Sirius did as he asked and crawled in next to Remus. It was awkward at first, an odd kind of formality parting them. Sirius immediately wished he had never asked and could be back on his cot by the foot of Remus' bed. Thinking of his plan though, he steeled his nerves and set about trying to remedy the stiffness between them.

It began subtly; Sirius loosened his muscles, relaxed against the headboard. In doing so, he had inched nearer to Remus so that their legs were pressed neatly together. He let this stay for a moment, this new closeness. He observed Remus, not through looking at him, but rather feeling him; feeling for the inherent twitches, the hitched breath, the trembling lips or trembling heart. Remus seemed accustomed to the movement, to Sirius' rather blatant attempts at closeness, thus Sirius pressed on. The next step was the less subtle motion of Sirius' hand finding Remus' thigh. Sirius nearly withdrew it, but seeing Remus' passive reaction - not wishing to pull away, or even comment on it - he was calmed. Sirius slowly let his thumb play over the fabric, a warming gesture, an offer of intimacy. Remus, far from rejecting the offer, slid down against Sirius, his head resting on the dark-haired boy's shoulder. Eventually, through Sirius' coercion and Remus' willingness, Sirius managed to goad his friend into a comfortable position, Remus' head resting softly on his lap, Sirius touching his hair absently.

Then, the plates shifted.

"Remus," Sirius said in a painfully awkward voice. It was the kind of voice one adopted when the words had been planned out, calculated, thought of and pored over. Sirius rarely assumed this manner; he was one of the few people Remus knew who never thought of what came from between his lips. Something was afoot

"Mm?" Remus murmured.

Sirius made an indistinct noise, summoning his voice. "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

"Oh," Remus said numbly. "All right."

Sirius did so. Quickly, shamefully. A dip down, his mane of jet-black hair tickling Remus' nose, eyelids and forehead, and Sirius kissed him. It was barely a kiss at that, just lip-to-lip, none of the silly smacking noises that seemed to permeate public consciousness under the guise of being a true kiss. It was just an action. Mouths had been where mouths hadn't been before. Sirius, withdrawing from the embrace, leaned back against Remus' headboard and gave a half-sigh.

"What was that about?" Remus asked awkwardly. Sirius merely made a noise, and Remus knew it was One Of Those Things You Didn't Talk About. He dropped the subject, and tried once more to immerse himself in the opera. It was no use, for all his senses - sight, touch, smell and taste - having been heightened by Sirius, his hearing seemed to have gone oddly dim, as if distantly tuned.

So he ignored the music and appeased the rest of his senses; he snuggled close to Sirius, gave a great sigh, and fell asleep.

*

MARGARET ANNE LUPIN, August 21st 1975, peacefully in her sleep, aged 47. She leaves a husband and son. Funeral and ceremonies to be held at St. Mary's Parish, Penzance, Cornwall.

*

Remus looked sadly beautiful in his suit. A soft grey-charcoal, it picked out the gold in his eyes, the sun-yellow in his hair. His tie was of grey silk with thin diagonal black stripes, and his shoes were well shined and gleaming in the noontime light. Hair parted fiercely and locks greased and curled behind his ears, he looked awkwardly formal, but handsome in a 1940s frame-of-mind. Sirius, shockingly attractive in a well-cut black two-piece and black tie, remarked on it.

"Remus," Sirius said, sliding into his room as the boy was getting dressed. He ran one hand over Remus' hair and touched his waist with affectionate possessiveness. "You look beautiful."

Remus pulled at the cuffs of his jacket. "It's too small."

Sirius put a hand over Remus'. "It's fine." He paused, and gave Remus a once over. Tugging his shirt collar and straightening his tie, Sirius hugged him, tight and warm. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not," Remus stuttered. "I feel sick."

"I know," Sirius said, maintaining the hug. "But I'm here, eh? We can get through this."

"No. I can't. I can't go down there. I can't see those, those people with their veils and kerchiefs and - I don't want to say goodbye." He sat heavily on the end of his bed, sending plumes of dust into the air. "It's not fucking fair, Padfoot. It's not fucking fair," he said before falling into helpless weeping.

"I know, Moony, I know," he said, stroking Remus' hair. It had a static feel, this comfort. The whole world seemed to have this feel. It was a straight-laced feel, a starchy, stiff, up-right kind of feel. It was the atmosphere of an attic; still, quiet, but altogether separated from peace or restfulness. It had a discomfiting warmness to it, a rigidity of arms, legs, necks, and words. Unpleasant, unwanted, and painfully formal.

After half-heartedly composing himself, Remus strode to the opposite end of his room and looked out his small bedroom window as if searching for solace. Sirius joined him with hesitation, unsure of what to do. They stood there, in silence, watching the outdoors for a long while. A thick cover of blue-grey clouds, a fitting mood for the event on hand, had engulfed Penzance. Trees were bent to breaking by the thick gusts of misty wind, and the sea was turned into a white-capped choppy mess of waves. A long procession of cars, like a staggered train, was halted before their house, headed by the black Cadillac hearse that would take his mother away - away, away from him, forever.

There was a great earthiness to Cornwall on this occasion, despite the painful concentration of bleakness. The land had a sullen vibrancy, as if it were thrumming with life, invigorated by the falling water. The grass had a coarse lushness it didn't normally adopt, and the gullies and troughs along the road were filled with earthy-brown mud. It was a James-Herriotesque portrait of a lost England, an England of cricket games and horseback riding and fox hunts, of stone cottages, shortbread, pipe tobacco, and sea salt. Instead of lonely rock and miserable sea, he saw the sea of Nelson, saw Victoria's plains, and Boadicea's autumn. It was the England his mother had told him so much about, so often wished for. And now, here it was, gleaming and wet and bright, and too late for her. Maybe it had been there all along, and her death had merely lifted the veil on the whole affair.

Then again, maybe she had been seeing it all along, only trying to make Remus see, for once, the England she loved. There was a kind of painful irony that her death made him acknowledge the life of the land. It was not just a blanket for him to cower under, not anymore. It was a companion, a complementary force, a support. A fearful replacement.

Sirius stirred. "Let's go downstairs now."

Remus went downstairs. Difficultly, but supported by Sirius on one side, arm around his waist, guiding him down the stairs. Before they hit the bottom landing, Sirius snuck a bashful kiss on his cheek, which made Remus flush.

"Come on," Sirius whispered, "you can do this."

Aunts engulfed him in furious weeping hugs, young cousins were strolling and laughing inappropriately. Remus almost yelled at them, their laughter expounding his grief, but he stopped himself. He even managed a soft smile when one young cousin held tightly onto his leg and murmured, in a sleepy way, "Wee-mus." All the while, even as Remus talked quietly with uncles and grandparents, Sirius stood silent by his side, hand dangling by his waist ready to take Remus' if he needed it.

And Remus did need it. When soft-eyed family and friends arrived and talked about how beautiful and brave and wonderful a woman his mother was, Remus would reach behind him and Sirius would hold his hand, firm and warm, as Remus talked with them.

In the night, after all had been said and done, Sirius - bare-chested and subdued - helped Remus out of his suit, as Remus had gone weak and shy, reduced to quavering moments of laughter and weeping. They made no pretence of assumed buddy-buddyness that evening, it was almost unspoken that Remus would sleep with Sirius. They crawled into bed, both in just their cotton shorts, and, unthinkingly, Sirius wrapped one strong arm around Remus' waist, pulling him close. The friction between them produced sweat and vague discomfort, but neither was moved to separate, Remus too tired and Sirius too concerned. They fell asleep easily, Sirius stroking Remus' hair until his eyes had closed and his breathing regulated, at which time he too was cast adrift.

They would never talk of it again, the soft kind of affection they shared, almost romantic in its intimacy. The kiss, the funeral, that night; they were distant memories. It didn't serve to be talked about. They were boys, they were friends, it was just how things went in times of crises.

*

"Go," Romulus said, "and tell the Romans that by heaven's will my Rome shall be capital of the world. Let them learn to be soldiers. Let them know, and teach their children, that no power on earth can stand against Roman arms."

Livy, The Early History of Rome, chapter one, section sixteen.

*

'There might have been something else to us,' Remus later wrote in his autobiographical novel. 'We might have been - together. What kind of word is together? It's inaccurate. We always were together, Sirius and I. Not lovers, not romantic - why does 'together' always have to imply that connotation? No, we were friends, through thick and thin. Even when he was in Azkaban under false charges, we were still together. I had photos of him, clippings, memories. Even when I thought he was guilty, I couldn't escape him, couldn't escape that treacherously deep affection I held for him.

Certainly I was in love with him. With great confidence do I assert that I will never love a man nor woman as much as I loved - love - Sirius. Was it romantic? Of course it was romantic. They called it puppy love then (what a terrible pun), a "crush," a passing affection. Total, as Sirius might say, hanging bollocks. I was, as love songs like to inform us, head over heels, over the moon (another terrible pun, I'm afraid), and totally enamoured with the boy. I desperately cherished the memories I had of our kiss, as terrible a period as that summer was, and I wanted so much for him to kiss me again, and again, and again. There were times when my affection was so intolerably strong that I had to avoid him for weeks at a time, just so I wouldn't do or say something rash.

On that same thread, I truly do believe that Sirius loved me as I loved him. Certainly, it had been he who initiated that kiss, far away on that blustery August day. Often, once he had been disowned, Sirius would seek comfort and solace in my arms, an affection of which I was never terribly fluent despite my eagerness to learn. Occasionally he would even propose a "what if."

"Remus," he would say in that tone he adopted when composing a hypothetical question, "do you think we could ever be, well, you know."

He seemed, for all intensive purposes, sincere, so I would reply: "Maybe. I don't know." This always had a terribly saddening effect on him.

"Why couldn't we? It would work, we're so - we fit." By this time his hypothetical air had vanished, and it felt to me as if he were proposing a true question, perhaps even... asking me.

I always replied in the same manner. "Sirius," I would say in that maddeningly calm way I had when dissecting sensitive matters, "would that really change much? I mean, it's not like we have an ordinary relationship."

He would pause for a moment and realise I was right. I laugh to myself, reminiscing about these times, for during most of these occasions one of us would be embraced tightly in the arms of the other, and we would generally be bereft of what one might call clothing. It was an unusual state of friendship, but it never really surpassed it - we were forever to be just that, odd friends. Intimate, at times romantic, but never kissing (save that one August) and certainly never engaging in any sexually explicit activities (though I believe neither of us would have objected if the proposition arose.) It was an unusual pseudo-romance, but we were both happy and both satisfied. At the time I didn't think it odd, our intimacy, but then again, in those times when you did anything with Sirius your concept of "odd" was greatly skewed, and boys sleeping in the same beds and sharing frighteningly intimate encounters seemed to fit under the pubescent umbrella of "normalcy."

But I digress. To summarise the last few rambling paragraphs, I will turn - as I usually do when trying to pinpoint awkward emotions - to a quote. Chaucer, in the Canterbury Tales (to be reproduced as a name of a Caravaggio painting, if I am not mistaken) said, rather notably, amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all. Certainly, a cliché now, but at the time I would imagine it was beautiful and new. I shall appease the memory of Sirius who is telling me to cut out the Latin nonsense, and will end this chapter with a bit of wisdom.

Friends, in this life you might be many things, none of them important. You might be healthy, you might be sickly, you might be wealthy, you might be poor, you might be tall, or small, or any number of genders, sizes, races, creeds, or religions, and you might change between them any number of times. That doesn't matter. I beg you, remember this: be whole.

Be whole.

*

THE FOUNDING OF ROME

by Remus J. Lupin

An Autobiography

For Romulus.

Forever thanking you for your strength,

your support, your help, and most of all, your love.

Missing you always.