It Never Rains Underwater

He'd thought, more than once, of moving somewhere warm -- no, baking -- and dry, but Remus wasn't one for summer ravaged, red-raw lips, or clothes that exposed his angry pink scars. He'd thought, too, about moving somewhere cold and dry, but he didn't fancy the taste of blood from winter split skin, or huddling, wrapped in limp blankets, alone by a quiet fire. And, when it came to it, he liked the clouds that lazed big bellied in the sky, whispering by slow as thought. Remus liked the mist and the fog, and the subtle way they had of masking shadows, masking ghosts.

It was just the rain -- the soft, sweet smelling rain that clung to his clothing and hair and skin as if it were trying to burrow in through his pores -- that he didn't care for anymore. He shook his head at the thought, as if trying to worry droplets of water from his brow. Running the back of one hand across his forehead, Remus realised he was sweating despite the chill in the air. Sirius had loved the rain. More than once, he had tried to pull Remus outside as the dark sky threatened a downpour with no success.

Moooony, he'd whine, in that rugged way Sirius had that somehow made it seem as if he weren't whining at all. It feels wonderful!

But Remus would make up some scholarly excuse about how all water ran eventually to the sea, whose tides were linked to the moon and that he'd rather not be reminded, just now. And Sirius would concede with a nod, in that sly way Sirius had that said he didn't really quite believe what had just been said. Remus had always fought the tug of a smile, because Sirius had always been right about that.

The truth was that he liked to watch Sirius watch the first rainfall, tingeing the world just a shade darker, drop by drop; liked to watch him spread his arms and turn his head, mouth wide open, to the sky. He just liked to watch Sirius. He loved the smell of the rain on Sirius' skin when he came back inside; the slick feel of it beneath his fingertips as he ran them over Sirius' collarbone; the taste of it on his lips as he pressed them to Sirius' throat.

Thunder rumbled softly, shaking Remus from his reverie where he stood by the window, the sky's grey light making him look more gaunt than he was. He straightened, the scent of rain hanging thick like a curtain, and started to pull off his shirt as he headed for the door. The sun had set not long ago, and the air outside was almost cold enough to convince him to start a fire. Almost -- he'd learned over the years not to be bothered by it anymore.

The back garden was small for a house in the country, and the ivy-smothered walls towered well above his head, making the air feel close. Remus hooked his thumbs into the waist of his trousers as the first drop landed with a soft sound on his shoulder, making him wince. He stepped quickly out of his remaining clothes, tossing the jeans and boxers at the edge of the rough brick walkway where he'd left his shirt, and stepped out onto the cool grass.

His throat felt thick, his nose filled with the bittersweet scent that came just before the rain, just before the deluge of water brought with it a flood of memories. A few long strides and Remus pushed off with his toes, slipping with a splash into the very reason he'd bought this quiet, distant home. The pond was cold, colder than the night air, but it no longer raised the hair on his arms or caused gooseflesh to crawl across his skin.

Arms wrapped around his legs, Remus curled into a ball for a moment, holding his breath as he felt the water churn around him and then begin to still. The surface rippled with his presence, but he could still see the small barrage of vibrations overhead as the rain tried to get through. But it couldn't reach him, not down here, and a cloud of darting bubbles bellowed toward the surface as Remus laughed under water at the irony. Sirius, still somehow missing the point entirely, had been convinced Remus just didn't like getting wet.

Remus couldn't hold his breath forever -- not even until the rain stopped. He was never foolish enough to fight beyond the constrictive burning in his chest that told him he was soon to be out of air. But surfacing at last, and crawling out of the dark water, it felt as though whatever now fell from the sky could do nothing more to him. He grabbed his sodden clothes and made his way back to the house.

He couldn't leave the rain behind. It was just going to take him a while to remember he didn't have to forget.