Rituals

It's a ritual they generally don't talk about.

Both of them think about it a great deal, whether upon waking the next day or at dinner some weeks later, but they most assuredly do not talk about it. Remus fears bringing it out in the open will breathe life into it, somehow, make it completely unavoidable and utterly final. Sirius simply doesn't know what to say.

The first time might have been excusable, Remus thinks, if Sirius had only followed his example and gone into quiet denial about it. But of course, nothing Sirius does is inherently quiet. For days afterward he trailed Remus's every move with those intensely dark eyes, questioning incessantly without ever opening his mouth, and it was all Remus could do to not suggest that their living together - a situation that had arisen purely for the purposes of convenience and financial stability - might not have been the brilliant idea they at first thought it was.

"Full moon tonight." Remus looks up sharply and Sirius pointedly avoids meeting his eyes, instead sticks his finger in his teacup and stirs the leaves around. Sirius says the same thing one morning out of every month, but it never fails to make the blood rush to Remus's ears and leave him incapable of responding intelligently.

"Mm," he acknowledges. An improvement on the last full moon conversation, which resulted in a mug of hot coffee soaking into the crotch of Remus's slacks. Sirius removes his finger from the teacup, shoots Remus a look of immense frustration, and empties his Earl Gray into the sink.

"'M going out," he says.

Remus remembers to respond just after the back door slams shut.

What never ceases to surprise Remus is how the moon has become, impossibly, something that pumps in his veins. It's something he can taste, like smoke or a powerful stench, when he inhales sharply. He doesn't need to keep a chart or even examine the night sky periodically to know when the next full moon will be. The moon tells him, has made itself a part of him somehow, and if it weren't accompanied by monthly binges of pain and terror, he might find the sensation almost comforting. Recently, serving as a reminder of more than just an imminent transformation, Remus finds it anything but.

It's best to achieve a sort of meditative state the day of a full moon. Remus has always found controlling his condition, bending to the effects of Wolfsbane without too much of a struggle, significantly easier when mentally prepared. But today Sirius is gone, having charged away on his motorbike to some pub or possibly James's flat, and Remus is still seated at the kitchen table in their modest two-bedroom house-shack, located quite literally in the Middle of Nowhere, and his mind will not agree to focus on anything at all with the vivid exception of their first night in the house together.

This coffee, Remus thinks despairingly, is getting cold. He stands up, grateful for any distraction, plucks his wand from his back pocket, and tries to recall the simple warming spell he learned in fourth year.

It never comes.

Sirius has the vague impression that something is very, very wrong. Not here - no, certainly not here, where his biggest concern is how bright those sodding lights are, and can't they do something about that? - but somewhere nearby, and getting more urgent and more wrong with each passing minute.

"We aren't open twenty-four hours, y'know." The muggle bartender, whose arms are thicker and, if possible, harrier than his head, favors Sirius with a bored glare. "I gotta close up sometime."

Sirius frowns and fights to keep his eyes open. Why he decided to take his business to a muggle pub, he'll never understand. Not one candle in the whole blasted place, only those wretched, blinding lighter bulbs, and no appreciation for a distraught, harmless, utterly plastered customer. He stands up unsteadily and brushes himself off.

"If this is the respect with which you . . . if this is the respect I get, then I'll be leaving, good sir," he says huffily. The bartender snorts but makes no protest.

Sirius takes a step toward the front door, feels his knees buckle beneath him, and grabs out at the nearest object for support. Good old windowsill, Sirius thinks, patting the wooden ledge affectionately. You never let me down. He straightens up once more, allows his eyes to wander out the window, and sees the first sign of dawn breaking over the horizon.

And the previous inkling that some distant something is wrong hits him with the force of double-decker bus, brings him to his knees followed by a wave of nausea so fierce that he is left fighting for breath.

"You gonna be all right there?" the bartender asks, and Sirius can vaguely recall replying "No, not even remotely," just before tearing out the door, hands clutching his stomach. Within seconds he is on his bike and in the air, intoxication be damned, fighting the urges to cry and to vomit and to break his own jaw.

I can never make this one right again, he thinks, taking in a strangled gasp of air. Not this time.

He revs the bike twice, fully aware he is already traveling at top speed but uncaring, and focuses his gaze on the distant spot where their house will eventually appear.

The front door slams and Remus feels it reverberate through his body, feels his slender frame shudder with the force of it and then still again. Sirius is back, the least-muddled part of his mind realizes, followed shortly by I am still naked. He is about to scan the floor for something to cover up with - as if, after seven years of friendship with Sirius Black, he has any modesty left - but then his bedroom door is thrown open and Sirius is there, out of breath and shaking and absolutely reeking of booze.

"You smell awful," Remus says.

"Oh my God," Sirius says, and that is more than adequate retaliation. He stoops down and picks Remus up off the floor effortlessly, pulls him into his arms like a child and carries him across the hall to the bathroom. Remus curls a fist into the fabric of Sirius's open jacket and buries his face into his chest, tries his best not to cry, because in the name of all that is sacred, he is an independent adult and nineteen years old and he will not cry.

"I didn't. Wolfsbane, I mean. Today." Remus's face is muffled against Sirius's shirt, but he continues to speak incomprehensibly. "Forgot. Stupid."

"Remus," Sirius says. It is an apology. Remus hears his name spoken in a hushed whisper and recognizes it as the most sincere apology Sirius Black has to give. Sirius sets him down in the bathtub gently, and Remus pulls his knees up to his chest and leans over until his face is buried and he doesn't have to think anymore. The ceramic tub is cold on his bare skin and he can feel his body slowly slipping downward, riding on streaks of blood and sweat.

"I'm turning on the water," Sirius says, voice hoarse, and Remus doesn't have to look up to know what happens next. It is their first night together in the house all over again, their first night with only a slightly different pretext, and when he feels Sirius's warm body step in behind him and lift him up by the armpits, he leans back into that warmth and forgets to care anymore.

It was cold the first night. Technically, distantly it was morning, but the sun could barely be seen. They were both giddy at being reunited and exhausted from running and drunk off the moon. Sirius slung Remus's arm over his shoulders, helped him to limp inside and upstairs to the bathroom, and suddenly, inexplicably, something in Sirius changed, and he could not force himself to leave.

He took hold of Remus's hand and led him into the bathtub, drew the curtain and turned on the tap. Remus was still throughout it all, shoulders tense and stiff, relaxed enough to allow Sirius to wash his scattered cuts but otherwise as cold as the air. They returned to their own bedrooms immediately after, slept so long they risked missing the sun entirely, and hours later, after both had woken up and fetched something to eat and taken a look at the newspaper, they most definitely did not talk about it.

It happened again after every full moon since.

The sun filters in through Remus's tattered curtains, bears down on his closed eyes until they refuse to stay closed any longer. His body aches with a ferocity he has become accustomed to. He sits up stiffly, offended by his own movements, offended by the fresh dark stains of blood on his mattress. Downstairs he can hear Sirius clattering around in the kitchen, awake before Remus for once, and his head clears itself of sleep in a swell of recognition. Remus throws his tangled bed sheet off his legs, stumbles out his bedroom door and downstairs to the kitchen. Sirius looks up when he arrives, tangled black hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes. By some miracle, he manages a weary smile. Remus does not think to smile back.

"I'm going to take a shower," he says slowly, eyes never leaving Sirius's for a second. Sirius furrows his brow, takes a sip of coffee, tears his gaze away.

"All right."

"Sirius," Remus says. Their eyes lock again, and Sirius sets down his coffee mug, lips barely parted. Remus tousles his own hair, reaches out a hand, swallows once.

"Come with me."

fin.