Shattered

It had always been quiet between us. He and James were the ones that had joked, talked about girls, homework, professors, and classmates. But Sirius was different when the crowd went away: when I'd find him alone in the library (he'd never admit to being there voluntarily), when he would visit me in the infirmary after a transformation. It was companionable silence, interspersed with jokes and planning pranks, but never quite easy. Something always hung in the air between us: words unspoken, stuck in the backs of our throats because some things are too difficult for teenaged boys to say. But they were always there, though I couldn't hear them clearly back then.

It was always quiet between us, but Sirius is never silent. He would watch me when he thought I wasn't looking, much the same way I watched him. Burning, curious, and yet strangely shy stares. And now, we watch each other differently, warily: pack mates separated for too long. The veil of unspoken words between us is thicker, made closer to opaque with regret and age and tinged with fear.

I let myself in to the Black house, wishing I could just spell away the layer of filth I felt on my soul as easily as I could will away the grime on my skin. Pleading and bargaining with the darker members of my own kind only served to remind me of how narrow the knife blade I walk between light and dark truly is.

I placed a hand over my eyes, willing the past few days away, willing the last few years away, and ignored the soft footfalls just ahead of me. When I opened them again, there was a too-wiry form leaning against the wall, and nearly-black eyes boring into mine.

The most important things Sirius has ever said have never been said aloud. He speaks with his eyes, all of his eloquence poured into almost unreadable eyes that have grown wary and hard, and eerily silent on darker days.

They were soft now, an echo of the Sirius I had known, but hadn't seen since before Voldemort came to power. He was a shadow of himself, and I wasn't ever quite sure that I knew him any more. So much had changed, so much had gone unspoken, voiced or no. I had changed, too; I had gotten used to living without him, without James, without Peter. I had mourned and tried to continue to live. Now that he was back, my senses were overwhelmed, and I was having trouble rationalizing the Sirius I had known with the Sirius who stood before me now. I could only imagine the readjustment difficulties he was experiencing.

I sighed, weariness finally overcoming me. Our eyes locked, and I gave in to the words that have always been in my eyes, very carefully hidden. He understood, and I was moved to see a tear form in the corner of one of his eyes.

"Remus."

His whisper, somehow harsh and gentle, urgent and infinitely patient all at once, broke the silence that had always been there as he closed the distance between us, keeping his eyes on mine.

A whisper became a full-throated howl as he touched my hair, and softly brushed my lips with his; and the darkness slipped away as I closed my eyes.

A timeless moment, and the kiss broke. My arms had slipped around him in a tight embrace, and I couldn't be sure if I was supporting him or reassuring myself that he was real.

"Sirius?" My voice was soft, treading carefully on the unspoken words which lay shattered like glass at our feet.

"Have we changed too much?" he murmured into my hair, barely veiled emotion colouring his voice.

In a very un-characteristic way, at least of the carefree boy he had been, Sirius had given voice to my own fear. We were broken, he and I, and accustomed to solitary worlds. All of my being wanted to reassure him, 'No, of course we haven't,' but I knew that he had intoxicated me by the sheer closeness that warmed the coldest parts of my soul. Internally, I wept weakly, cursing the truth, for to say it aloud might mean losing his warmth, having to break the only human contact that had ever felt to me like home.

Was it truly Sirius I didn't want to lose, or simply the presence of a warm body next to mine?

I pulled away, and he tensed at the small motion. I searched his eyes, which held whispered terrors, and a lonely ache, and the faintest glimmer of hope. They begged me to lie to him, to tell him that it would all be all right, and I had to look away. My throat choked my words, and my voice sounded tight.

"I don't know, Sirius."

He took my chin in his hand, gently forcing my eyes back to him.

"I don't either. All I know is that I don't want to be alone in this house, and you . . .God, Moony, you . . . ."

He ran out of words and bent his head to rest on my shoulder, holding me in an embrace I wouldn't have dared to break even if I summoned the will to move.

"You too, Padfoot."

And so we fell, as broken men, into something like home, torn asunder by a moment and which time had left a raw scar, but never again silent.