Perhaps Still Untitled

1.

Remus wondered, if it ever rained in Azkaban. If it did, he was sure that it would be a brutish squall; the kind that was foul and passionless and somber, and not smooth at all. If it ever rained there, surely it would taste cold and tearfully insane.

Remus was also certain that Azkaban's rain would never be as cold as the rain here, because it never rained there, and never will. The sky there would never collapse into raindrops, nor would it roar and burst and slither into dullness, or let show any furor. The sky above Azkaban was always gray and emotionless. Always.

But whenever it rained, Remus thought of Azkaban. Thought of the eeriness of the song it sang, and the quieting waltz it danced, and its surrealism that made the rain feel as if it was never there.

He then remembered that Sirius liked rainy days.

2.

Remus never figured Sirius out.

He'd tried, by Merlin he'd tried; but Sirius was altogether too baffling, inside and out. Too impossible. Like some unsolvable puzzle that never really fit together.

It was all he'd ever wanted to be happy, or at least content. After all the years, all the turmoil and mistrust, he thought that he would be happy again -- he and Sirius -- it was only fair. But things never came together like they used to. Never quite there, like the older times. Never that golden.

Sometimes, behind fugacious, secret moments, Remus would watch the rain fall.

And when he wondered how the rain would taste in his mouth, he had only one answer --

Umm…bitter.

3.

They were friends. Very good friends. They were the kind of friends that were together ever since when they were eleven, and Sirius was one of those friends that Remus would never, ever have again because they grew up. Grew up; adolescence; simplicity lost; things got knotty. Lust mingled with innocence, so friendship with foreign fascinations.

Lust was too strange a thing, Remus decided, and love was stranger. It reminded him of the bloodiness of a metallic tang; of being free, of being bound, of Sirius. It reminded Remus of passion and how they'd fucked -- with all the teenage rage and fire -- fucked, while love never grew between them. Not that they knew what love was anyway, that abstract, unfamiliar thing. Maybe they did love; in a love that was not quite complete, never quite so sweet. Never as magical as others described it. But even if they ever did, Remus never knew.

That's why they were never lovers.

What had happened to their teenage, crazed passion, Remus wasn't too sure. Maybe it flew away -- like how birds do. But he pretended not to notice, for old time's sake. Besides, it was easier this way. It was better this way. Maybe he could just live in the past tense, where everything was golden and constant and all right. All right. Remus was sure that love was never supposed to work like this.

That's why we were never lovers.

Not even now. Because there was a degree of malice, a measure of odium driving every lick and bite and thrust. It was, in its own kind, atonement, in which he sought to take and exploit, and Remus would let him. But Remus also knew that he would never be satiated, because it wasn't desire at all that was driving him. It was something else -- resentment perhaps -- something that was empty and false and readily greedy. He supposed that this was their silent agreement, the cycling routine in which one took and one gave, while both knew that nothing was taken or given, since the only thing salvageable between them was a hollow promise to memories they'd made too long ago. And even if love did exist between them before, in one form or the other, Remus wasn't sure if he could love Sirius for the second time anyway.

Afterwards, he would laugh like thunder. He laughed in a manic, shrill madness, until there were sobs behind it, until there were saltiness and thickness in the back of his mouth, broken and sad. Azkaban followed him still and never really went away… so Sirius told Remus.

4.

True love stung the eye.

Remus would think in the darkness that would blind. Sirius liked darkness -- depthless, he would say -- and Remus would wonder why. Darkness meant that Remus wouldn't be able to predict where the marring grips would land, or how hard a thrust would be; or when their carefully acquired, intricate rhythm would change.

Remus loved the darkness too. He loved it because it helped to hide, it held secrets that Sirius, or anyone else, never knew; and secrets meant power. It reminded Remus of how familiar Sirius' heat was, although everything else about him had changed. The darkness hid that -- everything except the illogical instincts.

And it was amazing.

Perfection.

5.

Remus kept a leaf.

James gave it to him -- that's all Remus remembered, and he couldn't recall why he'd kept it. James. He'd kept it green, though, and must've charmed it a thousand times already. There was something poignant and brisk in the way the dryness left and the cool of green came back; the way in which life chased the deathliness away. He would charm it everyday to keep it fresh. Keep it alive. Keep it close. Remus unwittingly thought that James and Lily might even come back like this; somehow.

He was sure that Sirius thought the same thing too. And he remembered Azkaban.

Laughter in the darkness.

6.

When Remus came back to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, it was there. Their unfinished love. Silently bleeding, strange and nostalgic, not warm -- tense -- nothing at all like their first kiss.

Remus thought of the Hogwarts express, the old dorm room, their childhood, and that he'd never be eleven again. Eleven was a good year. Things felt real back then. Tangible and important and pure. The eleven year-old Sirius did not like darkness.

7.

Remus wondered if the sun really shone above the rain clouds.

8.

It was the thirtieth of October, and it was the last of that year's true autumn days. The air that day was tall and sheer; with a distant sun that was neither warm nor cool; with a wind-ridden breeziness, and was damningly heartbreaking. Summer was gone and winter spilled in.

It rained terribly the next day.

9.

"It's raining," Remus said and smiled softly.

Sirius looked out to the window, captured. "Yeah. On Halloween too."

And there was a comfortable, pensive silence.

"Cream?" Remus finally asked.

Sirius paused at length, and Remus wondered if he remembered too that he always drank cream with his tea, and how much he loved to hear the sound of rain against windowpanes, even if it is Halloween. "No thanks."

"Oh," Remus was then silent too. For a long time.

Cloudburst on Halloween.