Love In The Ruins

"Ouch! Hey, that hurt!"

"It would hurt far less if you'd just hold still," Remus' tone was rather didactic. "Or do you want me to stop altogether?"

"I'm not saying..." Sirius winced again, his body tensing against the sofa, his face buried in a sofa cushion. Dismissing the pain, he tried to turn his head slightly to watch Remus, but succeeded only in seeing the edge of Remus' robe. It is difficult to get a good look at a person who's cleaning up your bleeding shoulder blades.

That robe, though. It looked rather familiar, but surely not even Remus would keep the same robe for fifteen years... Weren't robes more flared, back then, anyway? What had happened to all that? He'd missed out on so much over those twelve years. Losing track of fashion was a problem he didn't mind agonizing over.

Perhaps it was just Remus' touch that felt familiar. So light: Sirius really had no business complaining. What a wimp he was. Had he really become so unaccustomed to clean physical pain? What would Remus think, Remus, who had always been so good with his hands?

"Just like old times, eh, Moony?" Sirius asked.

"What?" Remus' skilled hand slipped a little. No, he flinched to himself, not that. He's not going to bring that up again.

"Me bleeding and you fixing me up," he answered quickly, so quickly that Remus wondered if Sirius sensed his unease.

"Oh, right," Remus concluded gratefully and got back to work on the two gashes. Work had become almost a friend to him in recent years, something to take his mind off life when life got painful. Or confusing. Perhaps it would keep his mind off his confusing human friend, too.

"Two more scars to add to my collection." Sirius was trying to sound cheerful. Remus could almost see the grin spread across his face.

And what a collection it was. Here, on his lower back, was the curse scar. He'd got that in a duel with a young Death Eater. A pub brawl, really. A sober Sirius had always claimed that he could out-duel every single lackey of Voldemort's, but a drunk Sirius usually wanted the whole world to know that he could handle several, and with his wand arm tied behind his back. He'd been very lucky that time, Remus remembered: the curse had missed his heart by six inches at best.

And here on his left shoulder was the dragon scratch, an inch-long pucker that was still visible; dragon wounds were notoriously hard to heal, even by magic. Remus touched it lightly, remembering how Sirius had taunted that Welsh Green and then suffered the consequences. He'd been laughing all the while, too: joyous, unforced laughter, unlike today. And had he really said that about the dragon's mother?

Serious scars, but the marks of light-hearted adventure.

"You don't have much faith in me, do you?" Remus said lightly, and guiltily withdrew his hand from the dragon's mark. "I can heal these wounds without a scar."

At those words, Sirius felt almost disappointed. It was odd. He could, of course, still remember how his very first real scar had filled him with excitement, but that had been because he'd seen it as a way of making himself more interesting in the eyes of potential lovers. But now - well, now, after all his years in Azkaban and his time on the run, he was surely interesting enough for anybody.

Still, there was something else. This would be his first real scar since... since his life had paused, and turned into a nightmare. He could still remember crawling about in his cell, uncertain of his identity, of the very existence of a world outside. He had been truly glad, then, to have his scars as proof of his memories. A living record of what he had endured and accomplished, as permanent as his own flesh.

"Sometimes a scar is a good thing to have," Sirius found himself saying, "to remind you of being alive and...of what things cost."

Remus was struck, once again, by the change in his friend. That remark was something the "old" Sirius could never have felt or expressed. What would he have said? Probably some boast about how "chicks would really dig a cool scar."

With a murmured spell, he passed his wand over the clean, but bloody wounds and was pleased to see them vanish, drying up like beach sand when the tide rolls out.

He ran his fingers lightly over Sirius' back, feeling the smooth and unblemished skin. He noticed, too, the lack of muscle tone and the bones so close to the skin. The muscled upper back and shoulders that he remembered were no more, victims of Azkaban like so many other things.

Sirius sensed his friend's pensive mood. What a pair of old wrecks they were! His teenage self would be appalled. As for the teenage Remus, well, in all honesty the teenage Remus, when left alone, had had a certain tendency to dwell on things and act mature beyond his years and all that terrible stuff. Still, he had always responded very well to his friends' distractions, joining them in their pranks with a passion that, in turn, inspired others.

Passion. Yes. Sirius couldn't help wondering if there was any scar left to remind Remus of the long scratches he'd once had down his back...

He supposed he could ask. He should ask. He should try something. Twelve years alone could not have done Remus much good, but perhaps the old spark would still be there...

"Remus?" Sirius asked, stirring and turning over.

Remus jumped. He watched Sirius sit up, pushing off the tattered robe. Underneath he wore only a pair of boxer shorts that looked suspiciously familiar. Remus thought that some of his clothes had gone missing over the summer, and here was the proof.

"How about you? Have you got any good scars to show for the last thirteen years?" Sirius grinned at him with a familiar invitation to tell tales.

"What?" Remus sat back on the sofa and didn't speak or meet Sirius' eyes for a moment. He didn't know why his pulse quickened at the hint of a dare in his old friend's voice. He had never been very good at the sort of competitive boasting practiced by Sirius and James in their school days, yet something in him wanted to rise to the challenge.

"Come on," scolded Sirius, "you must have had some adventures, even without me."

"Well....I did fight a vampire," Remus replied, pushing up the sleeve of his robe and showing the six-inch scar on the inside of his left forearm. Now that had been an adventure worthy of Sirius.

"Very impressive. You won, I take it," Sirius gestured at the mark, but Remus withdrew his arm quickly, not wanting to be touched. "Didn't get bitten or anything?" he continued lightly.

"Er, werewolves don't taste very good to vampires," Remus said, trying for the same light tone in response. This was silly. He shouldn't have tried to play the game. Maybe Sirius still gloried in the marks of past adventures, but thinking about these things only made him melancholy.

"I don't have any souvenirs of Azkaban," Sirius said lightly, his tone becoming darker as he continued, "They don't have to leave marks on you in there."

He tried to shake off the memories bubbling in his mind like potion in a Slytherin's cauldron as he stood up and freed himself from the rest of the robe.

"This would still be my most impressive trophy," he gestured along his thigh. "The scar, I mean," he explained, looking down at the eighteen inch line, ragged and white against the too-pale flesh, that ran down his left thigh.

"From the motorbike, right?" Remus asked weakly, unable to look away. He told himself that he shouldn't get drawn into this, shouldn't think about the way it had felt to run his fingers along Sirius' leg, tracing the familiar geography of his flesh. An atlas of scars, a catalogue of the insane joy for living of-- of a boy he had known over a decade ago.

For one dizzying moment, he wasn't sure that boy still existed. The boy who had been Remus Lupin was certainly gone.

"Of course, you still have...," Sirius began oh-so-casually. He didn't really have to say more. That had been a joke between them long ago, Sirius challenging him to go out and get another more impressive scar and Remus countering that one was quite enough, thank you. There was no one else with whom he would discuss--let alone make jokes about--the ever present reminder of who he was: the mark of the wolf.

Remus stared at the achingly familiar grin splashed across a face he thought was gone forever, while his heart beat furiously under that silvery half-moon shaped scar above his left breast.

"As I recall, it's right about ... there." Sirius leaned toward him and jabbed a finger at his robe, unerringly finding the spot hidden underneath the fabric. The touch burned like a fresh wound and Remus began to shiver. He closed his eyes, hoping that the memories would vanish if he could not see that face.

Sirius did not withdraw his finger. Instead he pressed his palm against Remus' chest, probing gently. The cloth felt thin and fragile, the only barrier separating him and a place long abandoned. I can't go back there, Remus thought desperately. Yet the harder he tried to manufacture logical arguments, the more he thought of Sirius touching the silvery scar years ago, touching it with his fingers, with his lips, with his tongue.

"Moony?" called Sirius softly.

Remus did not answer and made no protest as Sirius gently slipped his hands through the neck of his robes, pushing the fabric down off his shoulders. The scar throbbed painfully, but he not did open his eyes, did not cry out, until he felt Sirius' kiss quench the pain like ice on a burn. Only then did he gasp, first in surprise, then in pleasure.

Sirius looked up at the sound. Eyes closed and lips parted slightly, Remus was once again the boy who had shared pleasure with him, and not the tired looking former Hogwarts teacher who seemed so distant and so grown up. Could he have the boy back? No. That wasn't possible. But what they shared...could they find that again?

And why not? Happiness of any sort could be so elusive: a painful lesson which was taught him often--too many times to count--in the classroom of Azkaban. There was no quiet and no privacy for anyone in that prison. People screamed out their greatest fears and greatest joys loud enough so that even the great black dog who was immune to the power of the dementors could hear and understand.

So many of them had grasped happiness and then lost it, gambling it against greed or jealously or spite. After the dementors got through with them, of course, only the pain remained. Well, he knew that he had been happy and had managed to hold on to that knowledge, keeping it safe the way a single coal is saved from a fire to kindle it anew.

With excitement rising, Sirius ran his tongue over the scar, wanting to touch and taste the familiar country of Remus' skin, hoping that some pleasure might still exist amidst the wreckage of their friendship. If only...

Did he still have the nerve? After twelve years in hellish limbo, he wasn't sure. A single word from Remus might end it before it had even begun. And then he would never know...

Not a word, but a touch--fingers hesitantly stroking his hair--made him look up again.

It was so...easy, Remus realised, to slip away, to be overcome by the familiar feeling of Sirius exploring, his mouth wandering and leaving no place untasted. And he did not want it to stop. More than thirteen years of loneliness and rejection showed him how precious and rare happiness could be. Turning away from pleasure, however brief, seemed very foolish all of a sudden.

Tired as he was from the transformation, Remus was aroused now. He plunged his fingers into Sirius' hair and opened his eyes, looking down at his friend's expectant face.

"I don't think you..." he breathed hoarsely, "should stop because..."

He was distracted by Sirius tugging at his robe, forcing it down around his hips, and then taking up the tasting where he'd left off. "...because you never know..."

Remus' mouth felt dry and he had trouble recollecting his thoughts as Sirius sank lower, running his tongue playfully across his belly. "..when a load of Death Eaters is going to..."

He struggled to free himself from the last of his clothes, sending them to the floor in a heap. "...is going to show up and..."

"...take you by surprise," murmured Sirius, who proceeded to remind Remus something about the art of surprise.

Some time later, Sirius rested his head on Remus' thigh, breathing hard, and felt rather than heard the quick, sharp breaths of his friend, slowing down in tempo in the aftermath of pleasure. Lazily, he snaked his arm upward, running it along Remus' forearm. As his fingers dug into flesh, Remus grasped his arm, pulling him up with surprising strength.

They met and kissed, awkwardly at first, although not for lack of passion. No, rather too much passion, long put aside, spawned some hesitancy about where to put arms and hands and fingers.

But Sirius remembered the rhythm of kissing and breathing, and then dove deep without any thought of coming up for air... and was rewarded by feeling Remus, too, pick up the old rhythms, his hands moving with certainty and purpose

"Gods, you're strong," Sirius said, taking a break, but still enveloped in Remus' arms. "I'd forgotten what a monster you are."

"Grrrr," replied Moony the monster.

"Bet I could still beat you in wrestling, though."

Remus tackled him in response, rolling down off the sofa and pinning Sirius to the floor. For his part, Sirius sank into the warmth and security of lying with someone who has supernatural strength, but refuses to use it. Most of the time.

Of course, just because Moony was stronger, that was no reason for Sirius not to fight back. And he did, exchanging nips with Remus, wherever he could reach. As they grappled, he felt certain that no Anti-Wilting Charm would be needed tonight, and he enjoyed more and more the feeling of Remus pressing down on him.

"Ouch. Hey, your teeth are still pretty sharp!"

Moony growled again, a throaty and feral sound buried in Sirius' hip. Then he stopped, picked up his head, and sat back on his heels. Sirius thought he saw a hint of the wolf looking down at him.

This was the grand game for him: flirting with a powerful Dark creature, daring the beast to devour him (literally or figuratively--either could be enjoyable). There had been plenty of times in the past when he took control of their romps, but when the beast came out...well, it was best to enjoy the ride.

Breathing hard, Sirius reached up and pulled a cushion down from the sofa, so that he'd be comfortable. This was starting to get good....

"I won't have you chewing my cushions," Remus frowned and tried to catch his breath. Sirius couldn't gauge the true state of his irritation; had Remus always been this fussy? He couldn't remember. Well, there had been a few things chewed up over the years, but all in good fun.

"Aw, Moony. It's only because you make me." He propped himself up on his elbows and leered. "Make me...?"

Taunting, pleading, daring. No-one else but Sirius could do this to him, could make him want to attack with such ferocity. Who was the victim here? Remus had pondered this on more than one occasion.

Moony was not troubled by such inner turmoil, however. He knew he was top dog, and who owed him allegiance. And so he sprang, dismissing whatever angst troubled Remus, even as Sirius reached up to pull him down.

They kissed briefly, but Moony moved on, eager to reclaim long-forgotten territory. He tasted hungrily from neck down, savoring the many flavours and tracing the texture of the more interesting scars with his tongue.

Sirius closed his eyes, luxuriating in the tingling that remained all over his skin and the curious buzzing in his head. This is really getting good, he thought, chewing on his cushion.

Later Remus listened to breathing. His own and Sirius'. He lay sprawled across Sirius' smooth back, one cheek against a shoulder blade he had so expertly healed a few hours earlier.

"Padfoot...?" he called softly over his friend's shoulder.

"Mmmm." Came the slow, slurred response; he could feel it vibrating beneath him. "I'm too tired, Moony..."

Remus grinned, thinking this must be a first: Sirius, too tired. So, he stroked the pale skin and tugged at the sweaty ribbons of black hair at Sirius' neck.

And it came to him gently, stealthily. He understood the why's in a way he never had before. He understood why he fell, becoming Sirius' lover at age eighteen; he understood why, after more than fifteen years, he needed this now; he understood why it felt so comfortable.

Adult life had made him harder, had stripped away illusion and security, had forced him to become a person he frequently detested. But those long, hard years had also taught him that finding happiness by losing yourself in another person was rare but not impossible. And when the opportunity arose...

Remus sighed and gently turned over the sleeping Sirius, whose face finally resembled the lost boy he remembered. The lines about the eyes and forehead were smoothed and the terribly empty eyes were closed. Neither of them, or anything they might do, would bring back the boys they once were. Still, it was enough to know that they were there.

Remus twined his arms around Sirius and slept more contentedly than he had in years.

And even later.

"Aaroooooo!"

"Wha-" Sirius mumbled incoherently. There seemed to be a wolf howling somewhere.

Where was he? That took some thought. After disentangling himself from a sleeping Remus (looking more exhausted than he remembered after a full moon), he sat up and looked around. He was on the rug next to the sofa in Remus' front room.

"Aaroooooo!" There it came again. On consideration, it sounded like a bad imitation of a wolf.

"Remus." He shook his friend gently. "You expecting company?"

"Boggart," groaned Remus softly, opening one eye and then thinking better of it. "Boggart...in the clock."

Sirius glanced around the small sitting room. There was a grandfather clock next to the front door.

"Lives in there sometimes," mumbled Remus sleepily, "and messes up the chimes. Keeps time correctly, though." Remus yawned, managed to open both eyes, and propped himself up on one elbow. "Why, what time is it?"

Sirius craned his neck to see over the back of the sofa. "Noon. Noon!" he gasped. "I told Harry I'd be there at two. How did I-- I mean, how did we, er, sleep so late?" That last question was largely rhetorical, at least as far as Remus was concerned. Sirius grinned at him with wicked pride, showing that he knew the answer, too.

However, he knew that he didn't want to be late meeting Harry for his birthday. He took his godfather's responsibilities seriously, even though he frequently wasn't sure what it was a godfather actually did.

"You'll make it," said Remus, lazily stroking his thigh. "Borrow whatever clothes you need and have a quick wash up. You can fly there in under an hour."

Sirius grumbled at that and stood, stretching in a way that Remus admired. It was a long, slow stretch and Remus wouldn't have minded if it had gone on for a lot longer. But that might make Sirius late.

The stretch seemed to invigorate Sirius (and not in the same way as his friend), who dashed off to find some clothes. When he returned to the main room, Remus was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket and blinking at the sunlight flooding through the back windows of the cottage.

"When you see Arthur Weasley," Remus said thoughtfully, "tell him about what happened. Don't tell Harry, though."

"Think I'm the kiss and tell type, eh?" Sirius grinned, willfully misunderstanding his friend. He came over to the sofa, standing behind Remus and kneading his shoulders. "I suppose next you'll be telling me to submit something to the Fabulous Farfetched News column in Witches' Weekly."

"Oh," scowled Remus, turning to look up at him, "about Malfoy, I meant. You're terrible, really, and you haven't changed a bit."

"Speaking of Malfoy," Sirius mused, "I think I'll write him a thank-you note."

"Pardon?" said a sleepy and befuddled Remus.

"Thanking him for bringing us together after all these years. What a matchmaker Lucius Malfoy turned out to be."

With a final squeeze of Remus' shoulder, Sirius strode toward the door.

"Don't forget my present for Harry. It's on the table next to the door," Remus called.

"Right," said Sirius crisply, "and get some sleep, Moony. I'll be back later tonight to see just how rested you are."