Nobody

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The shrill whistle of the teakettle shook the gray-haired man from his thoughts. With a heavy sigh he stood shakily, crossing the room to the stove. As the hot liquid hit the chilly cup it steamed and hissed and the slender man blew the vapor away from his pale face. His thoughts drifted as he stirred the tea. It’s been so long.

"’

Just a few years ago this man had been a murderer. A traitor. When he had first learned of James and Lily’s deaths, of Harry’s scarring, then of Peter’s death, he had known he should hate him. Sirius murdered them, murdered James and Lily and Peter and all those muggles. He should have hated him. Remus couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of Sirius and hate, and it drove him mad. As he had lain in bed he had pictured Sirius excitedly telling Voldemort he could hand him James, Lily, and Harry Potter. He had pictured him blowing up Peter into little pieces, nothing left but a finger, and those muggles, too, the poor, innocent, ignorant muggles. He had pictured Sirius laughing, laughing as Remus had made him laugh if he touched in the right places or said the right words, laughing as he was dragged away to Azkaban. He had pictured all of this and still could not hate Sirius. Instead, he hated himself, made himself sick with his love, told himself it was the wolf that was hanging on, and learned to miss Sirius and hate himself and tell himself he hated Sirius.

Eventually he had grown to hate Sirius. If he hadn’t, he would have killed himself. No, a year ago he had hated Sirius. A few months ago, even, he had hated Sirius. Hated him with a hatred Remus knew was almost fake, wasn’t as deep as it should have been, didn’t fully cover the longing he felt, and couldn’t begin to smother the dreams that reminded Remus of his true feelings. But, he had told himself, I hate him. I hate him because I should. I hate him because any normal person would. I hate him because I have to.

Sirius had always said Remus thought too much and was too logical. When Remus remembered this, he could hear the boy’s voice in his head, see his gray eyes sparkle, hear his laughter, smell his familiar scent, feel the warmth of his hand, and the explosion of memory had driven the man onto the couch, doubled over with a pain that he couldn’t feel, one that gnawed away on his insides but never touched his flesh, and he had sobbed into the maroon sofa cushions and thought how much he hated Sirius and how much he made himself sick because he didn’t hate Sirius.

Now everything had turned upside-down once again. Sirius was no murderer, no traitor, and never had been. Now he was again the painfully loyal man Remus had never stopped loving. Their first touch after nearly thirteen years had driven chills up Remus’ spine, and if the others hadn’t been there he would have made love to the frail man right there in the shack as they once had. Then he had doubted nothing, intoxicated by Sirius’ scent and feel and the ways he had changed and the ways he had stayed exactly the same.

It was now that he doubted. After that first touch Remus’ ever-logical brain had begun to doubt and worry and ‘what if...’ and consider the consequences of the long separation. For thirteen years Remus had pretended to hate. How did he know that Azkaban hadn’t ripped Sirius apart, destroying all feelings he had once had? How did he know that Sirius didn’t hate him? With real hate, not the pseudo-hatred that Remus had grown so accustomed to. How did he know that Sirius hadn’t forgotten how to love while caged up in the metal prison of his own mind?

He didn’t. He didn’t know, and the insecurity terrified Remus. It made his hands shake and his stomach tie itself in knots. It made him toss and turn at night, never sleeping but craving the dreams of Sirius, the young boy who loved him with a blind love that seemed so surreal but so right, because in daylight, when Remus busied himself about his small wooden shack, Sirius was someone that Remus didn’t know.

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Concentrating on the rhythmic beating of the beast’s wings, the thin man tried to calm his nerves. He held a piece of parchment in his hand, reading Dumbledore’s directions for the hundredth time. As he guided the hippogriff through the canopy of tree branches he began to shiver, and he absentmindedly pulled his overcoat closer around him. A house came into view. His stomach tightened. Buckbeak landed, and he tensely climbed off, giving him a pat on the head as he walked slowly to the door.

Like Remus, Sirius had been forced to fake hatred. He’s the traitor, they had told him. We know you love him, and we know this is hard, but Remus is the one. Inside he’s a dark beast, and he’s no longer loyal to us. Let him go, Sirius, Lily had pleaded. Let him go. He’s not on our side anymore. James had stood silently next to her, eyes downcast because he knew his wife was right, that Remus couldn’t be trusted, but because he also knew that Sirius could do no such thing. Sirius had read all this in his eyes and had gone home to the apartment the two men had shared for the last time and locked himself in the bathroom with the water running. As Remus had lied, silent but not asleep, in their bed Sirius had sobbed into his knees, telling himself that he hated Remus, hated him for betraying James and Lily and Peter, hated him for lying to him. He pictured Remus sitting with Voldemort, planning and plotting and divulging the Order’s secrets. He pictured Remus looking Sirius in the face and lying, telling him he hated Voldemort and worried about Lily and James and Harry and that he loved him. He pictured Remus telling Sirius that he loved him and lying, but he still couldn’t hate him. Not Remus.

The next day he had left, taking with him the little clothes and possessions he needed and leaving the rest for Remus. He had left the rest because of what Remus was, because of how hard it was for Remus to hold a job, and because it would be near impossible for him to get by without Sirius’ salary. He had left the rest because the lie of hatred had been fresh and new and hadn’t penetrated deep enough yet.

That Night, the night Sirius had buried in his mind for years until the dementors had finally ripped it out and woven it into his every thought, That Night he had found out the truth. He no longer had to pretend to hate the man he loved so deeply. That Night he had found a new feeling, a deep strong deadly hot burning hatred. A real hatred. The first few eternities in his stone cell he had mulled this hatred, stirred and poked at it in his mind, keeping it alive. I am innocent, he had begun to chant to himself. I am innocent and he was the traitor. Later he added Remus. I am innocent and Remus is innocent and he was the traitor. But he couldn’t think of Remus too much, not with the dementors around. If he lost the boy’s smell, taste, feel, laugh, he knew, knew he would go mad, and so he pushed Remus deep down, not forgetting but not remembering.

After nearly thirteen years he had lain, weak and panting on the floor of the shack, flooded with old sights and smells, and all of a sudden Remus was there, and Sirius knew when their eyes had met that Remus understood, that he was there to protect him as Remus always had been even though Sirius had always been taller and more outspoken. That night they had touched again, and Sirius would have made love to him right there if the kids hadn’t been there, if Harry hadn’t been there, looking too much like James out of the corner of Sirius’ eye, but they had been there, and Sirius had settled for a tight hug.

Now the fears came, the doubts and the dark thoughts. For nearly thirteen years Remus had thought him the traitor, the murderer. Could he ever forgive him? There are so many things, Sirius thought as he stood, frozen on Remus’ doorstep, so many things I need to be forgiven of. Can he? Can he forgive me for thinking he was disloyal? Can he forgive me for thinking that the beast inside him could have ever led him to evil? Can he forgive me for leaving him without an explanation? Can he forgive me for convincing them to switch, causing their deaths? Can he forgive me for standing here, thinking, staring at his door, when I should be pounding on it and laughing and calling to him?

Sirius raised his hand to knock. At that instant the door opened.

Brown eyes met his gray ones, then glanced down. Sirius couldn’t stop staring, his gaze having slid from the door to Remus. In the younger man’s dark eyes Sirius could make out fear, nervousness, insecurity, and just beyond that the pain, grief, and still deeper, at the core of his downcast eyes, the mixed hatred of Sirius and of himself. Sirius could see that the man had tried to hate him, but could not read if he had succeeded. Sirius assumed he had. Sirius assumed that Remus had hated him for thirteen long years, and that the hatred would be hard to let go of, if Remus ever could. Sirius ran a shaking hand through his windswept raven hair as he cleared his throat.

At the sound from Sirius’ rough throat Remus looked up, gathering the courage to meet the man’s eyes. "Come on in," he said quietly, then turned, leading the way into his small home.

Business as usual, Sirius thought. With a backward glance at the hippogriff he followed. He studied Remus’ back, the way he walked, the steps he took, noting any changes and committing them to memory. He knew that people can change drastically in just once instant, and after thirteen years he would have to learn Remus all over again. If Remus would give him the chance.

Once inside, he shut the door behind him, then stooped self-consciously to remove his muddy, worn shoes.

"Do you, uh, have anything stronger?" the shivering man asked from the hallway. Sirius’ eyes were filled with pain as he glanced around Remus’ small shack. All he could think was that he himself had done this to Remus. Sirius was the one who had forced him to hide here in the woods, made him lie restless -- from the look of the disturbed blanket and pillow on the maroon couch -- at night, made his hair gray and his shoulders slump and his feet scrape the ground slightly as he walked. Curious, Sirius took a step into the neat, tidy living room. Something lay on the mantle above the fire, and Sirius looked over his shoulder before crossing the room. It was a picture frame, face down, covered with dust. There were fingerprints pressed into the gray covering it had accumulated, some less faded than others. Carefully Sirius lifted the edge of the frame. He caught a glimpse of teenage versions of himself and Remus and turned his head away from the picture as he lowered it back down.

At Sirius’ request Remus had frowned, though he told himself he should have expected it. Sirius had always loved his firewhiskey, an attraction Remus could never explain. He searched the kitchen cupboards, noting with an anxious ping that Sirius was exploring his house. "Just a few old bottles of butterbeer," he called after Sirius, hoping to bring him back into the kitchen. It worked, and Sirius returned, leaning in the doorway. Remus continued to look through the cupboards. His hand found a bottle of wine, and he pulled it out, holding it up for Sirius to see as he closed the cupboard doors. "And some wine." Images of an anniversary spent under the stars with a bottle of Merlot and a box of chocolates flooded the minds of the two men. Both could almost taste the wine, the chocolate Sirius had given Remus, who insisted upon sharing, those distinct flavors mixed with the old tastes of the other boy. Each man could recall his position on the blanket, the way the stars had twinkled, the way the stars had twinkled in the other boy’s eyes, how the night had grown cold, as many September nights do, and how they had kept each other warm. Both faces flushed.

Remus busied himself with the wine he knew Sirius wanted. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Not yet. You have to wait. Take care of him. He might hate you; he might not want you anymore. Remus knew that the reasons could be infinite, but in the end Sirius may not be coming back to him at all, but long dead, murdered by his imprisonment, and Remus unconsciously decided to wait to discuss things. He couldn’t handle the pain of losing Sirius again. Not yet, he told himself, though he knew deep down that it would still hurt just as much in an hour or a day or a week. Losing Sirius again would kill him, no matter what excuses the man could find or when he gave them.

Sirius twirled a stray thread of his overcoat in between two fingers, searching his mind desperately for a way to make the situation more comfortable. I, he thought, just want things to be normal. Back to the way they used to be. Sirius wanted this more he even knew, and the only way he could find to make things good again would be to pretend. Avoid the touchy subjects, smile, laugh. Act normal, he’ll act normal, and everything can be normal again. He didn’t stop to question his reasoning, but walked slowly to the small wooden table and sat down. Remus silently set a glass of wine in front of him, then turned again to pour himself a little. When they were younger Remus had hated the bitter taste, but as he grew he learned to appreciate it, especially the lightheaded, warm feeling it gave him. Almost as warm as Sirius’ arms. Almost as intoxicating as Sirius’ laugh. Almost.

"Thanks. So," Sirius searched for a conversation topic as Remus sat down in the chair across from him, "how’ve you been? How was teaching? I always knew you’d be a professor." He gave a nervous laugh, one that came out too loud and too quickly. It was so easy to slip into the memories, but to pretend in front of the man whose eyes held the same pain as Sirius’ was a different, much harder matter. I have to try, Sirius told himself over and over. I have to.

Remus stared at him, brow furrowed. As a boy Sirius had always turned to humor and games when he was nervous or uncomfortable. Surely he was now, as Remus was, but the graying man couldn’t begin to comprehend how Sirius could play after all he had gone through. "It was alright. Decent salary, nice kids, you know." He gazed at his old friend, frightened by his empty grin. Now that they were finally alone, he had time to take in the drastic changes in Sirius’ appearance, and he worried about his sanity and the extent of the depression Remus could see he was hiding. You can talk to me, Sirius, he pleaded silently. Please do. Don’t hide behind this mask. "The bedroom’s all set up for you when you want to sleep. I’m sure you’re tired from traveling."

Sirius took a casual sip of the wine as he watched Remus. At the same time he was thankful that Remus allowed him to playact and angry at him for letting him pretend nothing was different when so much obviously was. Though he knew it was wrong, he didn’t know how else to act. "Nah, it’s actually almost fun," he lied. "Traveling, that is. Always wanted to. I’m not tired."

The dark circles under his sunken eyes and the way he held himself -- as if it took enormous effort to simply hold his slim frame up straight -- clearly indicated otherwise, and Sirius’ lie hit Remus in the pit of his stomach. He leaned back in his chair, sighing as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Sirius, don’t do this. Don’t pretend."

"But I-" His dark eyes pleaded with Remus. Don’t shatter this mask. I need it. You don’t want to see what I’m hiding.

"

"

"

"

"

"No, you were telling the truth." Remus gave a quiet, strained chuckle.

There was a silence as Sirius planned what to say next, distracted by the beautiful sound of Remus’ laugh, no matter how nervous it had sounded. It had been thirteen years since he had heard him laugh. No, more than thirteen. Remus hadn’t laughed since before the war began. "I’m too tired to be hungry, but I haven’t eaten in a couple days."

"I should fix you something," Remus said as he started to stand. He could tell, from the way the overcoat hung heavy on Sirius’ shoulders and big around his chest, that he hadn’t had a decent meal in years.

"No, ‘m too tired." He watched Remus sit back down, catching the worried look in his eyes. "Thanks anyway," he added.

Remus nodded, careful to keep his face stoic. "The bedroom’s all set."

"We should talk," Sirius said softly, though the thought terrified him.

"Get some rest first." Not yet, Remus told himself. Not until he’s rested, had time to think.

"I’m really-"

"Bedroom’s last door down the hall on the right. Bathroom’s right across from it. We can talk after you’ve slept and eaten."

"Remus, really, I’m a grown man," he protested, though he appreciated the man’s concern. Remus gave him a stern look, telling Sirius that he knew he was right, that Sirius knew he was too tired to talk, that Sirius needed his rest, with his dark brown eyes. Sirius sighed, his gray eyes showing that he understood, that Remus was right, as always. The dark-haired man downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, shivered from exhaustion, then stood. Looking down at Remus memories overtook him, and Sirius gave in for a minute before fighting back, reminding himself that that was then and this is now, things are different, and you have to deal with what’s left after all these years. "Thanks, Moony." The words had slipped off his tongue before he even knew he was speaking, and he winced as he cursed himself. Don’t call him that, he thought. He hated you. He might still. It’s your fault. Everything is. You’re just making it worse. Those days are long gone. "Remus," he corrected.

"Night." Sirius’ words echoed in his ears, the sound of his old nickname bringing memories and pains and almost tears. He looked down at his hands, wanting badly to embrace Sirius, to hold him and kiss him and tell him it would be okay, to whisper that he still loved him and never stopped, to, at the very least, smile and call him Padfoot, but knowing he couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself. "Sirius."

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