Errors in the Landscape

1) Him, full of metal and torn jeans, full of mock-laughter filling up his pants pocket where he charms them into something else, something brilliant. In his eyes there are glimmers of genius guised in layers and layers of aplomb; a hidden revolutionary who is too clumsy with some things and too clever with others.

2) And the other him, a pack of smoke in his frayed jacket, hair worn-down and brown with rain and sun. A tiny bitterness inside his mouth where he hides it, where he tastes like so fierce like cheap whisky but cheap whisky with class. (Where he smirks with theories and histories spinning in his head, where he covers them up, the post-modernity, the part of the world called mystery.)

*

One of Sirius’s hands is on Remus’s hip but Remus can’t focus his eyes properly and he can’t see where the other hand is. Sirius is intent and licking, his head stirring on the curl of Remus’s pale neck, tongue tracing the scars like a system of celestial calendar. He has his hand on the jut on the hip and the other hand between the thighs. Umm, he mumbles and it rings like an forethought.

This is right. Remus thinks when he rolls from under and pins one of Sirius’s hands. Who’s doing who, whispers even though he knows his grammar, at which Sirius’s lips break into curves. Well, let’s see. He reaches for the lube when Remus lets go of that arm and his teeth are so hot against his ears.

-You know what?

-Uh?

-It’s going to be full moon soon.

-Oh yeah?

-Yeah, we’ll have to find a place.

-I’m sure we’ll manage.

Fuck, Sirius cries out and arches his back.

*

Afterwards, Sirius would put on jeans to go to the window and smoke out to the city. And Remus would lie on top of the bed and breathe, make shadows from his brows and his skin would glisten from the open window. Sirius is a black figure and a white outline, tousled hair with a silvered hem. Remus is a frail but solemn weight on the bed, flipping through channels on the television with the Prophet creaking when he moves.

-I don’t get that thing.

-There’s nothing to get.

-How do they put people in there without magic?

-They don’t. It’s just an image. Illusion. Like photographs, except it’s in a box and it doesn’t respond much to you.

-They’ll think of anything.

-Not like we won’t.

The aplomb is almost gone. Remus has soot underneath his nails everyday from Floo and fireplace; he has to clean them everyday. Sirius vomits quietly into the toilet the next morning stinking with liquor, grunts and swings ill-aimed punches when Remus tries to touch or talk to him. Oh fuck, go away Remus. Go away. Remus will sink into the bed and it would creak worse than the one in the Shack, and the bulb over his head will swing like a sword to his neck. The room shifts a bit, left to right, back.

It’s all very smothering in summer afternoons. Remus takes walks at night to get the buzz out of his head and he has a strain between his temples. He fingers the cigarettes in his pockets and throw them away into the trashcan in the park. But when he comes back to that spot under the streetlight, he stops. He looks down and the grass is very wet and his shoes are very wet. He reaches down and gets the pack back.

Their pillows smell. Their sheets smell.

Remus is silent as Sirius fucks him into that dirty stench.

*

When they wake up, it’s Sirius making toast and coffee. They never seem to get anything decent, though, the toast is dry and the coffee is either too sour or too bitter. Remus is used to this but Sirius isn’t so he goes out without breakfast. He’s not hungry, he says. He’s not hungry.

Fine. Sometimes Remus accepts things without really accepting them. Example: Sirius’s habit of stealing things from his own house. Sirius stole his flask from the Black household and Remus knows that it was never his because he had seen it in Regulus’s possession. So he guesses that it was given to Regulus but Sirius got jealous in his quiet and simmering way. But Sirius would somehow justify it saying that Regulus is an enemy anyway, so Remus won’t even try to argue.

-Stop drinking.

-Why?

-You’ll fucking get poisoning. The metabolic system will collapse. Remus is quiet when he says this but Sirius doesn’t get why.

-Oh sod off, Moony. I can take care of myself.

Except, Remus thinks, you can’t. The window glass is smoggy with grease when he sits on the sill and leans against it.

And.

The ceiling is all wrong. The hot air leaks into their room through little cracks between the sealing rubber against Remus’s back. Remus closes his eyes just for a second, before leaving for Birmingham for the tracking mission. The air is too dense with smoke and things gone sour.

It’s silver and Remus can’t touch it if he wants to keep his hand, but maybe he’ll just glide a broom glove over it and it wouldn’t hurt much. It’s dull and pawed with greasy prints all over the intaglio B and the words knotted into vines over that curve.

He frowns.

The air is hot and sticky between his back and his shirt, but Remus stays there and frowns.

His hand is starting to sear, maybe he’ll go now.

*

The cigarette swirls in his fingers and they shake when he holds the tobacco against the wand. He should probably use the stovefire but he doesn’t because it’s too far. White paper lights bluely for a minute and then starts to burn.

Sirius is on the bed with an arm over his head and a novel pyramided over his chest. It is comfortably silent for a moment before Remus can hear the buzz of a city outside and a world waiting for them.

-You will kiss me. Sirius says.

-Yes. After a pause he mutters in a hiss.

Except they don’t and they just stare at each other.

The bulb starts to whine and Sirius stands up.

-I’m going.

-Fine.