Tomorrow

In his mind's eye, Sirius can see tomorrow coming. His blood stands on end and his hair is enveloped in a frission of the senses that make him stumble back onto his bed. With one hand he finds himself reaching for his wand out of habitual protection, but his eyes blink and his nose twitches. There will be no use for magic after tomorrow, and there is little point practising tonight.

Creating a webbed dome of suspicion, Sirius moves towards the door and creaks it open. He can hear James' drowsy grumblings somewhere behind, and Sirius is glad for the lack of consciousness, for otherwise he would be flush against the door and no mistake, being told for the sixth hundredth time that this is a BAD IDEA. Sirius sniffs, his breath stinging his nostrils and tripping its way down the back of his throat. He is no stranger to bad ideas. He laughs in the face of ideas of a bad nature. He tries laughing now and finds a gurgle embedded in his spine.

Foolhardy. That's the word James used. Sirius remembers this as he makes his daunted way down the spiral staircase and rolls his eyes at the mere memory. Sirius spends his life hidden by a shield of foolhardiness. It is his weapon of choice in the battle of life, and he's always felt rather proud of choosing a line of defence rather than attack. It would never have been expected of him as a child, but then nothing else he has since done would have been, either. He has adopted foolhardy as his closest ally, and holds it to his chest now as his heart concertinas and makes him dizzy.

The air down here is cold, despite the earlier presence of a hollering fire. Sirius puffs out a breath and watches it film, break, dissolve, until it disappears, leaving no sign he has ever been.

Sirius doesn't need to look in order to see; his heightened skin feels the spark which keeps him going through the cuttings and embankments of his existence, and he crosses to the sofa, on which lies his longing, curled up and slumbering. Sirius tingles in his lips, then his nose, and then his tongue is charred with the remnants of sense. He doesn't care that he might be aiming wrongly, or that for once in his life he could end up admitting that James Potter was right all along. He cares only that blood is being drawn from his lips and sweat is caressing his forehead as he quicksands down to his knees, emitting a sweeping sigh to accompany the movement.

Sirius stares at Remus, whose expressive eyes are cloaked in their lids, tucked away for safekeeping, sheltered from the desirous stares and disbelieving wonder of Sirius Black. Remus' gentle, quirky lips are enticingly lain side by side, keeping each other company. His cheeks are a small plot of rouge contrast to the overall area of his face, and in between sits his nose, definite and proud, dusted with tiny freckles, the summer spots which now, during winter, are faded and unnoticed by most. Sirius knows they are there even before he traces them with his sharpened gaze, because he memorises them every June.

Sirius looks at Remus' hands, stained and scarred in the embers of light, and at the long, slim, regal fingers, tightly wound in the edge of his duvet. While the face is serene, Sirius can tell by these other parts that Remus has failed to find relaxation, even in sleep. Sirius wishes he could uncurl Remus' fingers and fit them into his own, lace them together so that when they squeeze from dreams, they will not be alone. They should never be alone.

It's like sitting in front of an advent calendar, trying to resist opening all the squares at once. Every part of Remus contains sweets and chocolate and beauty. Sirius rests his chin on the edge of the sofa, imagining the tastes and sensations behind those closed doors. He wants to experience everything, but Remus hasn't offered anything. Only by shuffling forwards, closer and closer, can Sirius find himself breathing the same air, swallowing Remus' soft snuffling snores and smell the oxidising aroma of teenage and inexperience and unknown eroticism.

Fuzzy in Sirius' mind comes the memory of wrapping Remus in the gift paper of his arms, adding the glitter of a kiss and the ribbon of promises. I'll never leave you. You'll never be alone. Padfoot will always help you. We'll always be safe together. A liturgy of nevers and alwayses, folded in with blinding adoration, Sirius feeling Remus' heartbeat through their shirts, shivering in the limelight of transformation. He will mean every word until they day he dies.

And this is no different. A wave of ohmygod threatens to submerge the foolhardy and wash up frightening debris on the pebbled shore of Sirius' mind. He can't help thinking of what Remus deserves, which is someone so much better, with less of a self-destructive streak. Perhaps this ought to push Sirius back to the shore and launch him off into the distance, but then Remus' breath catches as he stirs, grasping the duvet and biting his lip. Sirius stares, hypnotised, and wonders how he can ever walk away from this young man. It isn't possible, he's anchored to the spot, feeling his stomach pitch and sway as he leans in and strokes Remus' hair from his forehead.

It pierces sadness into Sirius' skin that recently Remus has found necessity in sleeping in the common room, away from the others. He wants to be the one to help. He lusts for nothing more than to slide his arms around Remus in bed and hold him with a porcelain embrace; for Remus to know he has someone who will kiss him when he shudders and screams at times other than the full moon's taunting governance.

Inhaling the smoky hollows of whatmighthappen, Sirius closes his eyes and with gentle imperceptions draws Remus' face in his mind's eye, forming it with delicious precision. He feels the silken strands beneath his fingertips and in the next flash, feels his mouth swell with the proximity which benevolently nods its approval.

Then Sirius drops his head and touches Remus' lips with his own, buzzing with a stinging moan at sticky nectar contact. Remus moves beneath, his body silently acquiescent in its bequeathing parabola, and Sirius prizes his way inside, his tongue gliding along the smooth ridges. He feels entirely intoxicated, his thoughts cloudy and his very essence searing with what he had never expected to happen.

Remus makes a sexy sound which shocks Sirius' groin into arousal, and forces him to pull back. His beloved is still asleep, caught up in dreaming reality, unaware of the truth that causes him to reach down under the duvet. Sirius jerks back, landing awkwardly on his backside, and watches in piqued fascination as Remus' hand moves slowly and drowsily, part of a picture Sirius cannot see. He wants to stay, but a flicker in his mind reminds him that he is the one intruding, and that he has pushed too far already.

On his feet and heading for the stairs, Sirius is lost in the misty rain of possibilities and awe, trying to accept that Remus will never be his. He knows he is the epitome of cowardice, resorting to secret night-time kisses to maintain his fantasies, but it keeps him alive during the day, leaves him buoyed by maybeoneday.

...tomorrow is on its way, heralded by a lump in Sirius' throat...