Midnight Conversation #4

You ask me to enter
But then you make me crawl
And I can’t be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
-U2, "One"

June, 1977

It was just before midnight when Sirius returned to the dorm. Peter, as he had suspected, was already asleep, but he was rather surprised to hear James snoring as well. The two seemed to be having some sort of unconscious competition. It was, Sirius reflected, as he leaned tiredly against the doorframe, about the only thing at which Peter had any hope of trumping James. He listened for a few moments, not because he enjoyed the sound at all--though it was preferable to silence--but because it was comfortingly familiar, as little these past few months had been. When he had had his fill he turned to look at the bed between James’ and Peter’s. Behind its crimson curtains a wand was still lit, though whether the bed’s occupant was asleep or awake, Sirius could not discern. He saw no silhouette, heard neither the rustle of papers nor the squeak of the mattress.

Before mid-March it would not have mattered; he would have been behind those curtains in a heartbeat and either kissing Remus awake or plucking the book from his hands. But he had forfeited the right to do any such thing, had forfeited it so decisively it dizzied him to think about it.

He understood perfectly that he had done something hideous and unforgivable. He understood, with a kind of detached insight that had come to him only after long talks with Albus Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and James, why he had done that hideous thing. When he thought about it too deeply he felt ill and ashamed. Other times, everything that had led him to that fateful, near-tragic night in the Shrieking Shack seemed a blur, punctured by rare moments of stinging clarity.

He remembered the row with his parents after their discovery of his secret. What had actually been said had grown indistinct with time, but he remembered the raised voices, and his own answering bark. He remembered the door slamming, then cracked pavement beneath his running feet, grey buildings falling away behind him, chilling air in his throat, snapping teeth and hot breath at his heels. There had been split and peeling vinyl against his cheek, streetlights streaming past and hurting his eyes with their brightness, tinny radios playing Muggle tunes, and the nameless faces of the strangers who’d given him rides. Then there was Birmingham: coffee and toasties with Peter. Peter warning him about James. (“I--I think he might be--” “What, Wormtail? He might be what?” “Jealous. Of you and--and Moony. And maybe angry. Because you don’t spend as much…I don’t know…”) One night on a sofa, and then out in the cold again. Frozen earth, ice-covered rivers, thorn bushes, snow up to a dog’s chest. Yellow grass, sharp as needles with frost. Other dogs. Foxes, badgers, ravens. Hunters. Frigid nights bedded down in musty stables, gazing through the slats at the remote and waxing moon, wanting someone and afraid to call out. Remus. Stomach twisting with emptiness. Hands hurting. Feet, too. Blood. Remus. Falling, finally, and being caught--not by Remus, but James. Clinging blindly and finding, to his surprise, something he had thought he had lost long ago--(“I’m your brother. Me.”) Then darkness for a mercifully long time.

He had been ill, with a fever so high and cuts so badly infected that James’ parents, on discovering his presence, had summoned a Healer despite the fact that it was Christmas Eve and they had a houseful of relatives to entertain. He learned that only later. First there had been a span of time involving bitter-tasting potions, anxious murmurs, and occasionally a cool, soothing hand on his brow. (James assured him he had shouted all manner of blackmail-worthy titbits during his delirium, but as James had yet to make good his threat Sirius chose not to worry.) He had woken, finally, in a comfortable bed, to the aroma of vegetable soup, and the sound of James’ mother humming Christmas carols as she changed the bandages on his hands and feet. He had tried explaining to her that she shouldn’t fuss over him, that he could take care of himself, and his parents would not thank her for what she’d done, and then found himself fighting back tears as he realised he would never have what his friends had, and that despite all his protests, he did want it badly.

Once he had begun to heal physically, he managed to enjoy what remained of the holiday. The Potters had not allowed him to wallow in guilt and self-pity (which he had felt rather uncharacteristically inclined to do) but had plied him with good food and butterbeer, given him a room, and told him he could stay as long as he needed. At their insistence he had sent an owl to his cousin Andromeda, letting her know he was safe and inviting her and her husband and young daughter to visit him in Windermere when he was feeling a bit stronger. He had also sent an owl to Peter, telling him where he was and that he’d see him after New Years. To Remus he’d sent only his present: a stack of vintage Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle comics, a warm flannel robe to replace the one that had grown threadbare over the years, and a card in which he’d written Happy Christmas, Moonbeam. Remember, no French boys.

He had spent the next few days sprawled on the rug before the Potters’ beautiful fireplace, practically inhaling Mrs Potter’s delicious cooking, ignoring James’ quips about strays, and winning forever the adoration of James’ ten-year-old cousin Charlotte by permitting her to trounce him at wizard chess. His own cousin and her family had come by for tea three days after Christmas and he’d spent a pleasant afternoon dandling one-year-old Nymphadora on his knee while discussing his options with Meda and Ted. The day after New Years, he and James had taken the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley, there to replace all the things Sirius had left behind at Grimmauld Place, including his beloved Nimbus 1500. There as well they had met Peter and Remus and from there things had resumed their downward spiral.

It had been a mistake, Sirius reflected with his newfound insight, not to owl Remus as soon as he’d arrived at the Potters’. He need not have divulged every gory detail, but he should at least have alerted his boyfriend to the fact that his holiday was proceeding rather less than swimmingly. Had he done so there might have been less awkwardness when James explained to Remus why it was probably not a good idea to gush about his fantastic holiday in France just yet.

What Remus had said to him when they were finally alone together--that it had been pointless not to owl him because now he would never be able to look back on his holiday and think of anything except Sirius suffering--had been completely understandable (if not completely fair), and deeply irritating. Remus ought to have known how Sirius would take an accusation like that.

Sirius shook himself. No, Remus bore no guilt for what had followed. He might have chosen his words better, but ultimately Remus was the one who had suffered for everyone’s mistakes, suffered senselessly.

Sirius shivered. Despite the onset of June, it was still cold in the dorms and he was tired. It was quite late, and he’d been occupied all week with revision for exams and his new extracurricular activities. He ought to go to bed, he knew, though he doubted he’d get to sleep easily; there was far too much on his mind. Still, lying awake in a comfortable bed, under a down-filled duvet seemed a lot smarter than standing in a freezing doorway all night.

But first, a shower. He reeked of hospital and his muscles ached. And a shower would warm him.

He crossed to his own four-poster, stowed his schoolbag, and changed quickly into his flannel pyjamas and bathrobe. Looking up as he knotted his sash, he found his gaze drawn back to Remus’ lighted curtains. It was the only light in the room, the only source of warmth.

Feeling mindless as a moth, Sirius walked barefoot to the closed curtains, and lifted a hand to part them.

He stopped himself.

What was he doing?

Remus was almost certainly feigning sleep, which meant he was aware of Sirius’ presence and had no desire to talk to him or even look at him. And who, Sirius thought emptily, could blame him?

Leave it, he told himself. Just forget it. Let him play his game. He has the right. You, on the other hand, have no right to do anything except turn away. Speaking of hands, you have your own, and your fantasies if you’re that lonely.

James would have told him to leave it: C’mon, mate. You’ll only make it worse trying to push him. Give it time. Poor James, caught in the middle: loving Sirius as a brother, knowing Remus was right.

Peter would have told him to leave it, too, in his own crap manner: Remember that fight you had with that girl, the one before--before Sylviana? Maddin. Remember? That was pretty bad. But--you got over her. You said you wouldn’t, but you did. You moved on. You just need to--to move on.

But I don’t want to move on, Sirius thought, beginning to shake. I was able to move on after Mads and Syl and all the rest because I was moving toward you. I liked how it was when I was with you. I didn’t feel like I was drowning in my own fucking skin. I can’t move on. I’m trapped here, Moony. I’m locked in. I can’t go back to who I was before you, and I can’t move forward.

I love you.

An interesting, complicating discovery, that. If only he had contrived to figure it out before the Prank (James’ word)… But that was just one if of too many:

If his mother, father, aunt Elladora, cousin Bellatrix and her husband had not sent him letters informing him of their disgust and his disinheritance the day he’d returned to Hogwarts; If his younger brother Regulus had not chosen to regale all who cared to hear with the story of Sirius’ fall from grace; If Severus Snape and his gang of Slytherins had been able to resist the temptation to thrust every damning bit of information they were given back into Sirius’ face; If there hadn’t been a deluge of post-holidays homework; If his Quidditch team hadn’t been playing so poorly; If he hadn’t assumed Remus would be thrilled to get a flat with him and then taken it so badly when the other boy told him he wasn’t ready; If sex had not deteriorated to something he and Remus did when they had too much energy and no one else was around; If Snape had not been so damned curious about where Remus went each month and if he hadn’t needled Sirius that one too-warm March night, and if Sirius had only managed to hold his temper and keep his mouth shut…

Too many ifs, and he supposed the last one was the only one that really mattered. It really is my fault. I admit it. No problem assigning guilt. I’d undo it if I could. But do you want to hear the truly fucked up part, Moony? If it hadn’t happened, I’d never have figured out how much I love you.

It’s so fucked up. You don’t know, Moony. I’m sorry, I know you suffered, I’m not belittling what you went through, but you don’t know what it’s like holding the person you love while he’s bleeding to death and it’s your fault. You didn’t see how pale you were, or your hands-- I couldn’t remember the words to the healing spell. I couldn’t remember two damn words. If Wormtail hadn’t found Pomfrey-- You don’t know what it was like asking how you were and being told simply ‘breathing.’ You don’t know--

He didn’t know because he wouldn’t listen. Either because he did not trust himself or because he did not trust Sirius, in the months since the Prank Remus had not allowed Sirius to catch him alone.

It occurred to Sirius that there was nothing stopping him from telling Remus now. His hand was still raised to part the curtains. If the other boy was awake, he’d have no choice but to listen. If he didn’t like what he heard, Remus was free to admit his ruse and tell Sirius to fuck off. If he really was asleep and Sirius managed not to wake him, well, nothing gained and nothing lost. He didn’t really expect forgiveness, knew he didn’t deserve it, but if could just make Moony see that he was loved--albeit by the biggest wanker in Britain, if not the world... Then he could throw himself off the nearest tower and be done with it all.

“Moony,” he whispered tentatively, just in case he was completely mistaken. There was no answer. He glanced back over his shoulder. Peter’s bed was closest; Sirius still heard the snores, punctuated by an occasional snort. James had to be asleep still as well. Were he not, he’d have stopped Sirius before this, taken him firmly by the shoulders and guided him down to the common room to play chess or Exploding Snap until this mad desire to unburden his conscience went away.

Wondering which of them would shortly be in greater need of a rescue, himself or Remus, Sirius shrugged, took in a fortifying gulp of air, and shouldered past the heavy curtains.

Remus was either a good faker, or else he really was asleep. The duvet was drawn up to his chest, and his hand rested limply on the open book at his side. His face was turned away from Sirius, but Sirius glimpsed the shadows the lowered lashes cast over his cheek. He saw as well the silver hairs at Remus' temple and felt his legs turn to ice.

"Moony," he whispered again; the word snagged on the lump in his throat, came out ragged. "Hsst, Moony, are you awake?"

The boy in the bed sighed deeply, but did not otherwise stir. His breathing appeared even. Sirius watched the rise and fall of his chest and remembered how it had been in the Shrieking Shack when Remus had not been breathing and his blood had been gushing out, hot and seemingly unstoppable, all over Sirius' hands.

I'm sorry seemed so inadequate, and anyway, he had said it so many times.

I love you could cure nothing.

"I didn't mean it," Sirius said. "I swear, Moony. I swear it, I swear. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I swear. Are you awake? I'll--move all your bookmarks." Nothing. "Fine, I won't. I just wanted--"

What, exactly?

He clutched the curtains and shook his head helplessly. "I just want to tell you how sorry I am and that I love you. And I know it doesn't help, and I know you probably don't want to be loved by a first-class git like me, but-- You are. You just are. There are two people in this world that I really love. I love James, and I love you. James is my brother, and you're my-- I don't know." He twisted the heavy fabric in his hands, smoothed it flat, then wrung it again. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I don't deserve it. I'm not trying to be humble, here. I really don't deserve it. Although," he went on quickly, "I'm trying to be a better person. Not to get you to forgive me or anything. I just realised what a complete ass I've been and I'm trying to-- I've been working with Pomfrey. In the hospital. Learning healing spells and stuff. That's where I just got back from. It's hard work, but-- Not that you'd ever let me-- I just want--"

--You. I want you and I'll do anything, any damn thing in the world to get you back--

"--I don't know what I want." He swallowed. "I just love you. And I'm not just saying it. I mean, it's not just something that I feel right now. It is, but it's not--I'm not going to--I've never--"

Dark clouds were gathering in his brain. He couldn't look at Remus' face anymore, so his gaze roved over the duvet. Where, he wondered distractedly, was the cloak he had once given Remus, because Padfoot had rolled on it and he'd thought the dog's scent would help calm the wolf? Had Remus kept it or thrown it away? And whatever had happened to the sock puppet, whatever its name was, that he'd given Remus to take to France? His gaze wandered back to the pale, slender hand. He took in the scars, the gnawed fingernails, the delicate bones almost visible beneath the skin, and realised that if he did not get out of there now, he would be ill.

He tore away from the bed, leaving Remus to his ruse or his oblivion, and hurried to the bathroom. By the time the door was closed, the lights on, and the shower running, his entire body was shaking and he had to sit on the toilet seat and grip his elbows for a full minute before he was able to raise his head and open his eyes. When the tremors had passed, he rose, stripped numbly, and got under the water, which did not warm him.

The water was loud against the porcelain and there was such a roaring in his ears that he did not hear the door open and close, only realised he was not alone when Remus said, quite calmly, "I'd have killed you if you'd moved my bookmarks."

Sirius jumped, slipped, and grabbed the shower door for support. Pushing his fringe from his eyes with the back of his hand, he opened the door a crack and squinted through the steam.

Remus stood in the middle of the room, in his bathrobe, with his arms crossed over his chest, and his mouth set in a thin, neutral line.

Aware of his nudity, and struggling to keep his voice even, "You might have said something, then," Sirius said.

"If I didn't say anything, it was because I didn't want to talk to you. Which anyone else would have realised."

"Yeah," said Sirius. "Yeah, you're probably right." Amazing, it was, that he could sound so intelligible. Because certainly his brain had taken a holiday. He was trying to think, without success. There had to be a plausible explanation for Remus’ presence, but he couldn’t find it. He couldn't be here. They were not alone in a room, talking to each other. Sirius was dreaming. With luck he'd fallen asleep in the shower and would presently drown. "If you didn't want to talk to me," he heard himself say reasonably, "why are you here?"

Remus stared, and Sirius thought, He has beautiful eyes. Did I tell him he has beautiful eyes? Oh, please let me slip and die right now. Should probably let go of this door, then... Remus opened his mouth, but said nothing. His arms unfolded slowly and his hands went to the sash of his robe. Sirius continued to tell his hands to let go--until Remus' robe slid from his shoulders and to the floor and the space between them began to close. Then he clung to the door rather desperately because if he did not he knew he would fall and probably die and it was beginning to seem important that he live.

Remus took him by the wrists and forced him away from the door. Sirius felt cold porcelain against his back and shivers laced his body. Then Remus was on him, kissing him with a violence that would have sent them both sprawling were the wall not holding them up.

For a few moments, Sirius basked in the hope that had sprung from some forgotten reserve. Remus was kissing him. That had to be a good thing. Remus' hands were all over him, first on his arms, then his hips, then his chest, pawing hungrily, then tracing his collarbone, fingering his nipples. He felt the other boy's arousal against his own, heard the sharp inhalation as he reached between their slippery bodies to return, hesitantly, the caresses. All of these were excellent signs.

So he was stunned when Remus looked at him and he saw that the dark eyes were cold and hard as onyx shards. Then Remus bent to suck one nipple between his teeth and bite down lightly and his stomach clenched because suddenly he understood what was happening. He was not forgiven. When this was over, they would not dry each other playfully, then race each other to bed, tripping and trading kisses along the way. In the morning, they would use polite tones and act as though this had never happened. It might happen again the next night or the next, with the same emptiness. This was not forgiveness; it was revenge. Remus was taking what Sirius had given him--forced upon him, really--and using it to hurt him because he deserved to be hurt and it did not matter. And because it did not matter, Sirius sighed and allowed himself to be used.

Afterward, Remus left him without a word. Sirius waited a few moments, letting the water rinse him as much as it could; then he uncurled his body and, breathing jerkily, climbed to his feet. He turned off the water, dried himself with his towel, then began to dress slowly. He wanted to give Remus enough time to get into bed, think about what he'd done, and change his mind. But when after five minutes Remus had not returned and Sirius had begun to shiver with cold, he gave up, threw on his robe, and opened the bathroom door.

Remus was not waiting for him outside. Nor was there any sign that anyone besides Sirius was awake in the dorm.

There comes a point, he told himself, when you just ache so much that new attacks bounce off you. Wondering when he would reach that point, Sirius stumbled to his bed and crawled under the duvet. He closed his eyes, and waited to dissolve.

So.

The curtains rustled gently and the bed dipped as someone sat down beside him. Remus said, "Sirius," and touched his shoulder, and Sirius thought, Please don't let me cry now, but he was already crying, with no memory of having started.

"I'm sorry," Remus said. "I thought I could do it. I thought-- Sirius, are you--? No, please, don't."

But he was, into his pillow, quietly, helplessly releasing all he'd been holding back since December.

"I'm sorry," Remus said desperately. Then, "May I--?" When it became clear that no response was forthcoming, he lifted the duvet and slid in alongside Sirius.

Sirius choked at the abrupt warmth at his back. Sobs raked his throat; he had to press his face against his pillow to muffle them. He was coming apart. Fortunately, Remus realised this and wrapped his arms around him, hitching him closer and holding him together. Sirius felt the other boy’s heart hammering against his back. He tried to concentrate on that, on the idea of two. He clutched a fold of the sheet to prove he was not fantasising in some Muggle stable, or locked in a dream born of fever.

"I thought I could hurt you," Remus was attempting to explain in a whisper that cracked and faltered. "I thought it would make me feel better. That it would help. But it didn't.” His hand fumbled, found Sirius’, and squeezed. “I’m so sorry, Padfoot. I wanted to forgive you. I missed you so much. But I was so angry. I thought--I thought it wouldn’t be right to forgive you unless you were angry with me, too. It was wrong. Please--”

“I just hurt,” Sirius muttered. He clung to Remus’ fingers as he had to the sheet, and his wide eyes drank up the darkness as he said, “I couldn’t think for the pain. It doesn't make sense. I hate my folks. I was so angry and I knew I should have talked to you, but I didn’t want—I wanted to spare you. And then I just wanted to hurt someone. I mean, I wanted someone to hurt besides me. I didn’t want it to be you. I was so afraid it would be you. But then Snape was just there.”

“What did he say to you?” Remus asked softly, stroking the taut knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

"You said it didn't matter."

"It matters."

"He said..." The tears still fell, the wet pillowcase was beginning to irritate his skin, but he had control of his voice again, which was good because he did not want to wake James or Peter. Not that he cared what either of them thought anymore, but this outpouring was for Remus. It was to Remus that he owed this explanation, and no one else. "He said...he wanted to know if my folks made some kind of deal with the school. If--if they paid you to--let me have my way with you in return for--my silence, I guess. He said he hadn't realised people were for sale, but he supposed the Blacks were--exempt from the rules. And you--he said it looked like you needed the Knuts."

Remus was silent as he digested this new piece of information. The hand that had been holding Sirius' withdrew and Sirius thought for one sickening moment that he had lost the other boy again. But then Remus' hands were on his shoulders, turning him gently and gathering him close.

"That was a horrible thing to say," Remus murmured, stroking Sirius' damp hair.

"I should've just told him to sod off. I should've. But I wasn't thinking."

"I know," said Remus. "That's the problem. You don't think." He sounded weary, as though he had reached this conclusion many times before and was finally accepting it as the only one. "And the thing is--nine out of ten things you do without thinking are so--wonderful. You’ve saved me. I’ve been thinking about all the things you’ve done for me, and I’ve realised that. But, Sirius, you're going to have to think, because the wolf can't.”

"I know," Sirius said. "I will. I promise. I know. It’s just…” There was so much to explain. He knew why he had done what he had done, but now the words simply would not come. He was exhausted. His eyes were closing, his body relaxing against Remus’. The fingers in his hair, the heartbeat against his cheek, the familiar smell (the best in the world, really, and the one the dog had dreamed he was chasing those nights in the wild) were lulling him to sleep. But he had to explain, now, so Remus wouldn’t change his mind. "I didn't want to hurt Snape," he insisted. "I didn't think-- I don't think. He was talking about you--my Moony--and I couldn't stand it. I was so angry. So I sent him-- I told him-- But I forgot it was you. I can change, Moony, I swear. There was so much blood," he gasped, overwhelmed suddenly by the memory, "and it was yours. First it was the wolf's, then it was yours. I couldn't stop it. I didn't want to hurt you and I wound up almost killing you. I'm so sorry. Moony, I'm so sorry..."

He went on, apologising again and again, until finally his voice gave out. Remus took over then, soothing him, stroking his shoulders until the tremors stopped and he simply lay there, exhausted, but borne up, held, forgiven. "Shh," Remus murmured, though Sirius was already silent. "It's not all right, yet. But it's going to be. It's going to be all right, Sirius. I won't let you go. It's going to be all right." Remus said the words again and again, and Sirius listened until he began to believe them, and then until he fell asleep.

11/10/03