A Character Like That

The fields that cover the flat earth just outside of London are vast and endless. Row after row of wheat grass and cornflowers, occasionally speckled with a broken fence that once marked property, stretching far and wide, for as long as Sirius can see.

He shades his eyes with his palm. He is tired, so tired that he can barely stand. His trunk sits at his feet, battered and mud-stained after passing automobiles splashed up rain showers while he was thumbing for a ride. No one picked him up; it's difficult for a dirt-caked, shaggy-haired teenager with sagging trousers and a jumper that's too big to get a ride. Who would trust a character like that?

Sirius wished someone had trusted a character like that, because then he wouldn't be here, at this field, right now and in the middle of the night no less. He would be at James's house, warm and dry and clean, hugging a mug of tea between his shaking palms.

But since he's walking, he isn't so sure he should head to James's house right now. If he goes right at the horizon, Remus's house is just over in Berkeley (though, admittedly, Berkeley really isn't that close at all) and it will just be him and Remus, because the Lupins are in France. If he goes left at the horizon, James's house is in Godric's Hollow, near Salisbury, and he'll interrupt the whole of Christmas.

He sighs, shoulders his broomstick, and starts walking to the right of the horizon.

_

Remus is lonely. He told his parents he didn't want to go to France again. Instead of staying home, they went without him, saying he was old enough to take care of himself and if he wanted to stay alone at Christmastime, it was his choice.

Sitting outside on the porch, he feels lonely and alone. His house is surrounded by the only trees for miles, in the middle of nowhere - he is safe from neighbors, so there is no prying, no tapping, and no questions. The single figure under the perfectly black sky in the middle of a field makes him feel infinitely smaller than he already is.

There is nothing to eat in the house. At least, there is nothing that would suit a Christmas feast, which includes, at the very least, some ham or roasted bird. He only has some sausages still in their wrapper sitting cold on the countertop. He desperately wants some potatoes, be they baked, fried, or mashed. He only has potato crisps. He can almost taste the cranberries washed down with white wine, lingering on the tip of his tongue. He only has some crabapples and low-fat milk.

Even the fictional feast described in his Dickenson novel is better than his inadequate meal of sausage, potato crisps, crabapples, and milk. He closes the book without marking it, feeling very put out.

The sky is a pale blue, fading to black if Remus cranes his neck back far enough. Stars like pinpricks start to wink and the moon is only just beginning. Remus trains his focus on the horizon, because there is nothing else to do but watch it fade from blue to black. He squints. There is something, something black and it contrasts sharply with the fading daylight.

Remus stands up, unshaken. There is someone black - Sirius Black.

Running out into the rows of cornflowers and wheat grass, Remus meets Sirius halfway. He pulls him into a bear hug, because he knows exactly why Sirius is here and why he is here right then and now.

Was it already that bad? asks Remus, snatching the trunk away from Sirius's weary and dirty palms. Last time you stayed for an extra three days, until right before New Year's.

Yeah, says Sirius shortly and without elaboration. Yeah, it was already that bad. He doesn't say anymore.

Well, says Remus awkwardly. Well, I suppose we ought to go inside. I don't have much, but I'm sure I can -

Sirius glances over sharply, fringe hiding his eyes. His voice is gentler, and he says, It's plenty.

Remus has a tendency of blushing brilliantly, and does so immediately.

C'mon, then, he says quickly, ushering Sirius up onto the porch. We're all out of tea bags and hot chocolate, but I do have some milk - you look parched.

Parched, says Sirius dryly. Only you would say something like that.

Heaving the trunk into the corner, Remus pulls out a chair for Sirius and goes to fetch the pitcher from the fridge. He pulls two glasses from the cupboard and fills them both the brim.

Sirius collapses into the chair, sprawled over the seat and the table. Remus sets the glass of milk in front of him, and Sirius downs half of it without a second thought.

Don't drink it too fast, warns Remus. You might heave it up if you do.

Sirius nods. Remus heads to the pantry, which, Sirius guiltily notes, is almost bare. There is a pack of crisps, which Remus tosses over and Sirius catches, ripping the top open eagerly. Hunger always animates his reflexes. Remus shuffles around some soup cans and boxes of rice, reaching for the crabapples stuffed in the back corner. He grabs them, flinching as a spider lands on his finger. He flicks it off and heaves the bag over to the table.

They're a little sour, says Remus. They'll make your lips pucker.

Sirius looks like he's about to say something, but then thinks better of it. Remus makes a face and heads to the stove. He grabs a frying pan from the hook, turns on the burner, and drops in the sausages. Ten minutes pass and the sausages begin to sizzle, filling the kitchen with a warm, spicy smell.

He grabs two chipped plates from the cupboard and divides the sausages. Four for him and six for Sirius; he sets them firmly down on the plate and starts immediately into his share, silencing any qualm Sirius might have about the uneven portions.

The room is quiet except for their chewing. Sirius looks up beneath his hair, his sausages already polished off in a manner of minutes. Hunger also tends to rob him of his manners, so fast had he stuffed the sausages in his mouth. He tinges as he watches Remus delicately cut off the end of his third sausage, stabbing it gently with his fork.

Remus glances up suddenly, feeling Sirius's eyes. He sees the scene plainly: a dirty, gaunt boy with a ripped jumper, a hungry gaze, and an empty plate. The seven crabapples are stripped to their cores and the crisp bag is satisfyingly crumpled, a few crumbs leaving greasy stains on the table. His fork clatters as he drops it on the table and pushes his plate over to Sirius.

Sirius looks down at the plate. There are still two sausages, one with the end cut off.

I shouldn't have taken so many, says Remus. You're the one who just walked all this way, and here I am, eating sausage while you sit there hungry and dirty, here, take off your jumper, I can grab you a clean one, and I have a towel over by the sink so you can wash up a bit, oh, and I have some pyjamas that will fit, I think, since you've lost so much weight -

Remus cuts himself off and blushes again. Sirius raises his eyebrows.

God, sorry, Remus apologises, I didn't mean to point that out, it's just that, well, you have, you've lost so much weight and you haven't been eating enough at all, and here I am eating sausages when I'm perfectly healthy and fit and not even the least bit hungry, I was only eating to be sociable, I should've just given it all to you -

Sirius stares at him. He sees what is near exactly what Remus sees: a gaunt boy with a jumper that is two sizes too big, with a thin face and an empty stomach.

Remus, says Sirius sharply. Remus keeps talking. Remus!

Oh, shit, says Remus, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've been talking. Talking, right, too much, haven't I? God, shit, I'm sorry, I just. Right, here, take my sausages, you haven't had enough -

Remus, says Sirius, cutting him off. His voice is gentler. Remus stares.

Everything - the food, the - the place - this time Sirius blushes. Remus knows what he means, because sometimes Remus shows just how perceptive he can be.

It's enough, Sirius says plantively, It's more than enough. His hand tap the table. Remus can tell he's afraid that he's said this, afraid that maybe now it's not okay, because the words are out in the open.

Remus covers Sirius's hand with his own, reassuring him that everything will be alright. I know, he says. I know.