Three Weeks Outside Time

Chapter Four

The rain continued to fall like a soft curtain. Two more cars went by, churning more mud onto the grass that lined the road, lights and radios piercing the gloom as they passed. Remus stared at him. “Gay,” he said. “Right. You. That's rich.”

“It is, isn't it?” said Sirius. “It's true, though.”

“I don't believe it.”

He sighed. “Remus, when the hell have I ever lied to you? Or anyone?”

The dark eyes regarded him for a moment, then glanced away slightly. “All right,” the other boy said. “You don't lie. But you like to take the mickey out of people.”

“Not you,” said Sirius tiredly. Now that he'd said the words--and Remus had acknowledged them, making it impossible for him to take them back--there was nothing he could do but continue, as cautiously as possible. Really, of all people, Remus ought to understand. That he should not puzzled Sirius in the extreme. And frustrated him. “It's true,” he said again, slowly. “I just realised a few days ago, but it's true. I wouldn't tell you it was true, if it wasn't. Not this. Why the hell would I want you to think this about me, if it weren't true? You have to believe me.”

“Why?” The word came out softly, and the brown gaze flicked back to Sirius' face. “Really, I need to know why I should believe you. I know you don't lie.” He waved one hand dismissively. “You've never lied to me, as far as I know. But--I just-- I just don't see how you can possibly be--” He shook his head. “Merlin, Padfoot, you sleep with girls. I've seen you with your girlfriends. I've never seen you look at a boy the way you look at them. Never. You've been sleeping with girls since you were--fourteen.”

There'd been a slight pause before the last word, and Sirius knew what Remus had stopped himself from saying. James and Peter knew that Sirius had shagged a girl--whose name he could not for the life of him remember--the summer they'd all gone to Cornwall together. The summer they'd all been fourteen--or, in Remus' case, about to turn fourteen. They knew that, because that was what Sirius had told them. They assumed she'd been his first, because she was the first girl he'd ever bragged about having shagged. It wasn't a lie; he'd simply never taken any pains to disillusion them. Only Remus knew that something had happened an entire year before that. That, and the fact that it had been somewhat unpleasant were all he knew, and all Sirius had any intention of letting anyone know.

Aware, suddenly, that the silence between them was stretching and that Remus' eyes were reflecting greater and greater incredulity, Sirius said quickly, “I know. You don't need to remind me.”

“I think I do,” said Remus. “Vanessa Fields--”

“Who the bloody hell was she?”

“The girl from Cornwall,” said Remus, dryly. “You told me about her the first day of classes. Our fourth year. After the full moon. You told me about her and--some other things. Do you even remember?”

Sirius did. Well, he remembered that day, and some of the things he'd told Remus, and what Remus had done for him. He didn't remember talking about the girl, but he believed Remus, so he said nothing.

“Cynthia Stewart,” Remus continued. “Maddin Mayfair, Eleanor Kersey, Sylviana Naismith, Catriona Lynton-- The prettiest girls at Hogwarts. That aren't Slytherins. Or Lily Evans,” he added, with a slight shrug. “Maddin broke your heart.”

“No, she didn't.”

“Didn't she?” said Remus, his eyebrows raised, his manner just shy of open accusation. “You cried on my shoulder. Over her. I remember that, Padfoot.”

Sirius remembered it, too, with some shame. “That wasn't heartbreak,” he said. “That was frustration. And--anger, I guess.”

Remus looked unconvinced.

“Well, look,” said Sirius, and again felt anger ripple through him, “I trusted her. She snogged Maxwell in front of practically the entire school. That--hurt. I felt like an idiot. I liked her. She was a friend, almost. I mean, she was the closest I'd ever come to having a friend who was a--girl. She was a team-mate. I trusted her.”

“You felt the way Cynthia Stewart felt, when she found out you were shagging Maddin behind her back.” Remus' tone was flat.

“Yes,” said Sirius. “Well, I don't know. I guess. This isn't about that.” The truth was, he had never given much thought to Cynthia Stewart's feelings, or to any girl's. He'd hurt Cyn, he supposed. It was, however, a muted sort of awareness; he'd felt little guilt then, and he felt little, now. He hadn't intended to hurt her, after all. It was Regulus and his Slytherin friends who'd told Mackenzie he'd begun shagging Maddin. It was Mackenzie who'd announced the fact to the entire student body in the middle of a Quidditch match. It wasn't as though Cyn had loved him. None of the girls he'd dated had, though a couple of them--he'd forgotten which--had told him they did. They'd wanted him for his name, his looks, the fact that he could get them into any dance club in London. It had been about pride. Always. For him, for them. Only this time, it was different. But he couldn't exactly say that to Remus, not when the other boy was still glaring at him self-righteously. All he could say to that face was, “I know I was an asshole to Cyn. Will you forget about her? Just--forget about all of them. They never meant anything to me. I thought they did. I thought Maddin did, anyway. I was wrong.”

The little crease appeared between Remus' eyebrows again. He lifted a hand to rub it, as though to smooth it out, or as though his head were hurting him. “That's crazy. No--I believe you when you say they didn't mean anything to you. They looked good next to you. That sounds cruel. I know that some of them were using you, too. But--Sirius, that doesn't mean you're gay.”

“It's not working with Catriona,” he put in quickly. “She's the hottest girl in our year, so it should work, shouldn't it? Who wouldn't want to get into her knickers? But the last time I was with her, I--” He flushed, and concentrated, not on Remus' eyes, but on the rain that fell around his left shoulder. “It wasn't-- Neither of us came.” It was not an easy admission to make.

“Maybe you're impotent.” It was a cruel thing to say. His gaze flashing back to Remus', Sirius could tell that the other boy had intended to wound, and knew that he'd succeeded.

“I'm not impotent,” Sirius said. It came out more emphatically than he'd intended. Curiosity flickered in the level brown gaze. “I can do it--there's no problem--when I'm...alone.”

“Maybe you're with the wrong--”

“--when I'm thinking about a bloke. A bloke. One bloke. There's no problem, then.” He closed his eyes. This constant looking at Remus, and looking away, and then back was making him dizzy. And anyway, he did not want to see the look in the other boy's eyes when this particular bit of information sank in.

It took a moment. Then, “I see,” said Remus softly. “James.”

He'd whispered the name, but it too struck Sirius like a physical blow. James. Of course. Remus would think that. Anyone would, upon learning the great Sirius Black no longer fancied skirts. James and Sirius, neither without the other, at least at school. One brain in two bodies. That was what everyone said. (Well, Lily Evans liked to say there was only half a brain between them, if that.) And superficially, he supposed it was true. Merlin, he and James had even been accused of using Occlumency on the Quidditch pitch. They were like brothers--far more so than Sirius and Regulus. They finished each other's sentences, guessed each other's moods, deferred to each other and to almost no one else. And yet, he thought--and became aware, as he did, that his hands were beginning to shake--and yet it was not James Potter who, over the years, had become the collector, the protector, of his secrets. James knew about Vanessa and all his conquests after her, but not the one before. Only Remus knew--not what had happened, but that something had. Only Remus knew about Sirius' elder sister, Electra, who'd died when he was six and who was the only member of his family he'd ever really loved. Remus had discovered her birthday, quite behind Sirius' back, and each May since then, they'd observed (not celebrated) it, together. All three of them--James, Peter, and Remus--knew about the hidings and the thrashings he'd received as a child, but only Remus had ever asked about his scars, so it was only for Remus that he'd taken off his shirt and traced upon his skin, the paths they'd used to follow. It was for Remus that he'd become Padfoot, and it was Remus' touch--behind his ears, under his muzzle, between his shoulder blades--that he craved.

“Not James,” he said.

“Not James,” the other boy echoed. “All right. Who, then? Can you tell me?”

Sirius opened his eyes. Remus' face was pale, almost ashen in the rain. Despite the Impervius charm, the ends of his hair clung damply to his neck and forehead, making him appear almost febrile. His chin was high, his shoulders thrown back. His eyes, which in certain lights were rich as mahogany, looked hard as agates, now, and reflected nothing.

He could not say to that face, It's you. You're my wet dream, my fantasy, the one I want inside me in every way possible. My magic, my moonlight, every good thing I've ever done. The words writhed inside him, but he felt the lie rise behind them like a wave of nausea, and overtake them. He opened his mouth, and it was the lie that spilled out. “Just a boy,” he said numbly. “Just--just someone I met.”

“This summer?” said Remus, watching him.

“Yes.”

“In London?”

“No. After.” He swallowed. “In Alnwick.”

“When you were with Catriona?”

“Yeah.” For the first time in days, Cat's face swam before him. Beautiful Cat. Eyes like January ice, hair the colour of certain peaches. He tried to remember what they'd done, but it was all a blur. There'd been drinking. Dancing. They'd gone from club to club, flashing fake IDs, sometimes just pushing their way through because a Black and a Lynton could do whatever they damn well pleased. There'd been other people with them--Cat's friends from around Alnwick. He couldn't remember their names, or their faces. There'd been a few boys. He gave one of them Cat's features, and her surname. “A cousin,” he told Remus, and felt as though he were standing outside his body, watching while someone unseen manipulated his mouth, pulled words from it, and hurled them, like gauntlets, at the other boy's feet. “Cat had this cousin. Beautiful bloke. Grey eyes, that reddish-blond hair. A little older. Well, just a year or so. He and I--” Did what, exactly? Remus continued to watch him like a statue. “We were dancing,” Sirius went on. He remembered his cigarette, and stuck it back between his lips, though the rain had long since doused it. “Groping, I guess. I don't know. I guess we'd both been drinking. We kissed.”

He'd mumbled the last words. After them, nothing more came. The lie was out. It lay between them, on the pavement, coiled and twitching and seeping venom.

Remus' face clouded before his eyes, as though a veil had been drawn across it. He glanced at his cigarette, which, like Sirius', had gone out. He studied it thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he dropped it into the mud at his feet and, without and word, turned on his heel, and started back down the street.

Sirius stared stupidly, until Remus' outline had begun to blur in the mist. Then he shook himself and hurried after the other boy, shouting, “Oi! Remus, what the fuck? Wait!” He overtook him in little time, and stood in front of him, barring his way, his arms at his sides, his fingers splayed. “Where the fuck do you think you're going?”

“Home,” said Remus tersely. “I'm not hungry, anymore.”

“Hungry?” He'd forgotten, actually, the reason for their jaunt into town.

“And I think you should go. To Alnwick,” Remus elaborated, when Sirius said nothing. “I think you should go back to Cat. You should go right now. Before you say anything else to me. That you'll want to take back.”

“I don't want to go back to Cat. I don't want Cat.” This could not be happening. The person before him, this angry person who was ordering him back to his girlfriend, could not be his Remus. “Haven't you heard a damn thing?”

“I heard,” said the other boy. “I'm sorry. I can't help you with this. You need to figure it out on your own. Or with Cat. I mean-- Just go.” He drew his wand from his pocket. Before he could raise it, however, Sirius lunged for him, seized him by the wrist.

“Tell me why,” he demanded. Remus struggled, but Sirius was stronger, and held him fast. “Is it because I'm gay?”

“Partly.”

“Partly? You fucking hypocrite!” Frustration made him mean. He shook the other boy, hard, and shouted, “You are a werewolf! Did I stop being your friend when I figured that out? Did I tell you to get the fuck away from me?”

“Shut up!” Enflamed with anger, Remus' voice cut the air between them. He yanked his wrist free and staggered back, nearly falling into the mud, but catching himself in time. “Just shut up! Are you insane? Just be quiet! Listen. You're not letting me explain. I don't want you here, partly because you think you're gay. Partly because I'm a werewolf.” His voice shook, but he almost had it under control. He lowered it as he said, “I don't want you here for the full moon. Not because of what you said,” he added quickly, when Sirius would have protested. “I've been thinking about it since you got here, and I've decided. It wouldn't be good for anyone. My parents don't know you're an Animagus. Tomorrow night they're going to lock me in the shed. It's what they've always done, Padfoot, when I'm home for the full moon. It's not any worse than the Shrieking Shack, really. Just smaller. It's not like they have a choice.” It wasn't just Remus' voice that shook. Every particle that made up Sirius Black ached to touch him, but Remus' gaze rendered him immobile. Remus raised his wand. He said, “You can't be in the shed with me when I transform, and you can't let me out. Not without Prongs. I'm a monster. I'm stronger than you. I'll get away from you. I'll hurt people. You know I'd rather die than let that happen.”

There was a deafening bang! behind Sirius. He felt it with his body; his ears only heard Remus' words. As he watched, Remus' face flared in the approaching headlights. His eyes, Sirius saw for the first time, were red-rimmed, but still dry.

A moment later, a violently purple, triple-decker bus screeched to a halt beside the curb.

“I'll send your things to you,” Remus said. “Tomorrow, if I can get to the post.”

The Knight Bus's door opened, and a witch in a purple uniform stepped out. “Two?” she inquired, sounding tired.

“One,” said Remus.

Sirius had not noticed he'd moved, but suddenly his hand was on his arm, pushing him gently toward the waiting bus.

“Please,” Remus said quietly. “For once, just do what I tell you. Go to Cat. Or her cousin. Whoever. Figure yourself out. I can't help you, and it's because--I am gay. I've known it for a year.” His wry smile had to have taken all his remaining strength. It took all Sirius' remaining strength not to break under it. “So you see, I'll always be the bigger freak.”

He was on the bus before he was quite aware of Remus breaking contact. Then there was a door between them, and on the pavement outside, in the rain, Remus was turning and beginning to walk away.

The witch, who appeared to be the conductor, had taken him by the sleeve and was trying to tug him away from the door. “Oi, there, lad,” she grunted. “Someone Stun you? Where were you wantin' to go?”

If my true love, he should leave me
I will never find another...

“Alnwick,” he heard himself utter tonelessly. Then he was putting silver into the witch's hand, and she was prodding him, not very gently, in the direction of one of a half-dozen brass bedsteads. Then there was another tremendous bang! and Sirius was knocked flat.