This Is Who We Are

This Is Who We Are

...(And) the constellations

Reveal themselves one star at a time.

Remus Lupin stood in his bedroom at Twelve Grimmauld Place, as the faded late October sun struggled to break through London's enduring morning fog, and bemusedly observed his naked reflection in the wardrobe mirror before he went about getting dressed for the day.

His clothing lay waiting, neatly pressed, spread out on the bed. He dressed in layers: pants and socks and trousers and belt and shirt and cardigan and robe, threadbare yes, patched in some places, but impeccably clean, in muted colours so as not to stand out too much. He wore the weary professor look like a second skin; and though shabby, his clothes were carefully tailored, always, to conceal.

To himself, Remus was strikingly aloof about his own body. He was pale, wiry, and almost sickly; his shaggy hair was more grey than light brown these days, the fringe hanging into his clear brown eyes; the fine lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth were starting to furrow deeper into his face. And of course there were the scars-- always the scars--a permanent diary of his past written in sharp relief on his skin.

Alone, he could be detached, even clinical about it. Yet the idea of letting anyone else see it--notably Sirius--was completely abhorrent to him. He knew that it was irrational, to be so disturbed about Sirius seeing him like this. He knew it didn't make any sense.

Remus, being generally a practical man, was grateful for what he could have. Especially now, since Sirius and he had decided to become (Fuck-mates? Sex partners? He couldn't quite bring himself to say lovers) that night in early October. He knew Sirius only wanted escape. As for himself--Remus only wanted someone to remind him he wasn't alone. So if Sirius found deliverance in pushing Remus against the kitchen (or bedroom, or drawing room) wall and thrusting into his yielding body and mouth; and if Remus found what he wanted in breathing Sirius' sharp, electric bitter-salt musk and feeling Sirius' long bony fingers twining in his hair and clutching desperately at him, well--

But he was also intensely mindful of his secrets; he was tired of revealing them (especially as it always seemed to be to Sirius) and, knowing Sirius was already half-mad cooped up in Grimmauld Place as he was, Remus wasn't entirely sure that Sirius could bear any more of them now.

If he were honest with himself, he wasn't sure if he could bear Sirius bearing them.

Sirius knew of the full-moon scars up to Azkaban of course, had witnessed many of them and healed many others in those heady, carefree years; and Remus knew he suspected of the scars that followed over the past fourteen years of being apart. Merlin knew Sirius could feel those scars under his hands as they roamed over his body, scars raised and puckered, the criss-crossing pen strokes of blood-borne memory--

But he'd never seen these new ones, no, not really. Remus hadn't allowed that since he'd returned to him in June, and he didn't want to. They would only speak of pain, of loneliness and supposed betrayal, and could only remind Sirius of what he didn't have; remind both of them, really, of who they were.

It would also underscore what they were not.

And so, whether in the sallow lamplight of the kitchen, or the bright harsh daylight streaming through the windows of the drawing room, or even in the dark of night in the bedroom (it never mattered whose, at this point they didn't share), fumbling awkwardly and hurriedly for their mutual release, Remus always wore some sort of clothing--at least his shirt. He preferred not to undress at all, really, except for the necessary items, and only then when it was absolutely required.

He preferred that Sirius stayed covered up too, though if that didn't happen, he simply closed his eyes.

Remus rationalized his modesty by telling himself it was for Sirius' benefit.

At least that was what he thought as he finished dressing for the day and fastened the robe clasp at his neck.

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Of all the things they could have done this particular night, it might not have been the wisest of choices.

Their shared history with the last Halloween night they'd been together was less than stellar.

This night though, steeped in the memory of ghosts that lingered in beaten hearts and weary souls, was probably the night they needed each other the most in their way.

Surprisingly their drink of choice this night was Butterbeer, not Firewhisky, and they were ensconced on the sofa in the drawing room, sitting stretched out at either end, feet meeting in the middle, Remus with a book and Sirius hidden behind The Daily Prophet, reminiscent of studying in the Gryffindor common room all those years ago.

Remus poked his head up from his fifth year Charms text to see James kneeling beside Sirius, dark disheveled heads behind the newspaper that had somehow transfigured to Quidditch Weekly, and he heard the knowing snickers behind the pages. Peter, who had been sitting on the floor leaning against the sofa, scuttled over towards James, leaning in to catch the joke. He shook his head knowingly. He already knew about the plan: Snivellus was going to suffer tonight.

Then he glanced over and caught Lily scowling at him from the study table, her Prefect's badge glittering in the firelight, with a flaming look to match her hair, a look that clearly warned You keep those beasts in line or I will hex you to oblivion. Remus raised his eyebrows at her in feigned innocence then ducked back into his book, smirking. As if.

He looked up again and the scene shimmered; the warmth of the common room had dissipated into the chill of the drawing room, Sirius had lowered The Prophet and was staring at him with too-bright eyes, and Remus couldn't speak past the lump in his throat. He wondered distantly, which one would break first.

"Moony..." Sirius murmured huskily, leaning forward, hand sliding up Remus' knee.

Please help me forget.

Remus could only nod tightly, still unable to speak, his thumb stroking the back of Sirius' hand.

Or remember.

They fell in bed together in Sirius' bedroom (not his childhood one, but one of the guest rooms, as far away as it could be from the Black family suites) in the fallen dark, illuminated only by the pale streetlight diffused through a small crack in the thick dark velvet curtains, casting patterns of deep silhouette and even deeper shadow from the windblown branches outside, moving yet somehow eerily still. They curled around each other on top of the covers, on their sides; Remus, in his threadbare pajama shirt and pants down around his knees, facing away and toward the wall, and Sirius, naked and pressed against his back. And--well, they were fucking, and there was really no other word for it.

Now he was grateful that Sirius wanted him this way, from behind. He wanted it this way too, blindly facing the wall, just to feel. Facing him would have been too much to bear otherwise.

Sirius clutched his shoulders and Remus gripped both his arms, holding them fast to his chest. Sirius nuzzled the back of his neck, humid breath huffing in irregular staccato bursts that might have been sobs; his sweat-slick body pushed closer, closest, hard and burning with need. The grit of dust mingled with the damp scents of salt musk, old sheets and unwashed hair; moss and smoke and stale Butterbeer all merged suspended in the heavy air between them. Remus felt the mounting desperation in each deep jagged thrust and his heart beat in time to it, his own flesh throbbing painfully in response, breath hitching in long shuddering gasps. He squeezed his eyes shut, arching his hips back in a matching rhythm, bare skin slapping in counterpoint, feeling Sirius fill him, thick and tight and close, and wanting only to hold on through the roiling sea of shared and separate memory. To keep Sirius here against him, beside him and inside him, unwilling to let go as they lurched forward together through the aching sadness to release...

Then he felt, rather than heard, Sirius' urgent whisper against his shoulder through his shirt.

"Please--Moony--let me see you..."

The breathless words sliced through Remus' yearning, grief-hazed trance, shocking him back to himself.

"Take this off--" Sirius murmured, voice strained hoarse and thick with longing. "Want--to see you--as you are..." Each phrase was punctuated by an ardent thrust.

Remus froze, all desire vapourizing in an instant, only to be replaced by ice-cold fear in his veins.

Sirius did not notice. "Need--see--please Moony..." he gasped, still lost in a lust-drenched haze, still inside him, but now holding him tenderly from behind and dropping soft light kisses on his neck.

Then to Remus' horror, Sirius' hand slipped out from his grasp and down to his waist and started to slide the shirt up his body.

His eyes widened in shock at the scrape of nails on his bare back and he stiffened at the sudden chill of air rushing against him.

"Sod off, Padfoot!" He gripped Sirius' wrist firmly, hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, and shoved it away from him.

Sirius did not let go; rather he fastened his fingers into the flimsy fabric more firmly. "Moony...?" he murmured, completely confused.

Remus yanked himself away, not even wincing at the sharp, barbed pain as Sirius slipped out.

The sharp tear of fabric cut through the room.

Remus rolled over halfway to his knees, out of his bed mate's reach to the foot of the bed, hitching up his pants, his face flushed, red-hot anger warring with embarrassment in the near-darkness.

"Fucking Merlin, Sirius, my shirt--" he hissed, rage contorting his voice to a hoarse snarl.

"Lumos!"

"NOX!"

The bedside lamp, caught between the simultaneous opposing spells, exploded in a shower of sparks.

Remus clutched the remains of his tattered shirt in his fist as he staggered from the bed. "Fuck off, Padfoot, I told you--"

"It's not like I've never seen you starkers before!" Sirius shot back indignantly, still largely confused, sitting up in the tangle of sheets. "All the time in the dorms, in the flat, it never bothered you then--"

Bitter pent-up resentment threatened to burst forth and consume him. "Yes, but you haven't seen me since..." Remus trailed off.

Neither needed to finish that sentence as the icy stark silence spoke for them both.

Sirius blinked, and then recovered. "We are men, Remus." His voice was clipped, confusion now replaced by steely anger. "We have been screwed, and we have been scarred, but we are still here. You know where I've been, so you know nothing you have to show will surprise me."

Remus only scowled in response. "You have no right," he spat, voice vibrating with barely suppressed rage.

"I have the right to fuck you but I don't have the right to see you?" Sirius' eyes blazed molten silver in the dim light of the room.

"Yes!"

"It's me, Remus, just me--"

"And that's precisely the point!"

Sirius reeled back as if slapped. Then he bowed his head, hair completely obscuring his pinched face like a dark veil, and went completely still.

"Leave," he whispered, now strangely subdued.

Remus felt instantly contrite and took a step towards the bed. "Pad--"

"Just. Get. Out."

The chill in his words drained any remaining warmth from the room.

"Fuck you too," Remus hissed. Impotent with frustration, he hobbled out, not even feeling the bones crack as he punched the stone wall in his rage, only hearing the roar of his own heart in his ears.

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It was so easy to avoid Sirius these days.

Harry's Prophecy needed guarding at the Department of Mysteries round the clock now and Remus was only too willing to pull double, even triple shifts. He told himself it was his duty; that the Order was too short of members otherwise.

He hadn't seen Sirius at Grimmauld Place for the past two weeks, not even in passing. He was only mildly surprised to realize he didn't particularly care.

Tonight he shared watch keeping duty with Tonks.

He liked Nymphadora Tonks; she was young and open and still idealistic. To her, good was good and bad was bad and there were no shades of grey, just bright, blooming color that changed on a whim. Never predictable. In a way she reminded him of Sirius as a young man, though without the vicious streak.

They sat on the cold floor on opposite sides of the hallway. Remus watched as Tonks amused herself changing faces every few minutes.

"Doesn't that get tiring there, Nymphadora?"

Tonks rolled her eyes at the use of her first name. "It's TONKS, Remus, how many bloody times do you need to be told that?" Remus grinned cheekily at her exasperated tone.

She folded her face and her hair changed from short pink spikes to long green curls. "Actually, it's not tiring at all, Remus. Practice makes perfect, you know. It's not every day you see an Auror who can change her appearance at will, yeah?"

"You must save a lot of money on makeup and hair styles."

Tonks wriggled her short perky upturned nose, and it lengthened and narrowed, forming a rather sharp point. "And plastic surgery, don't forget that."

"Plastic surgery?"

"It's a Muggle thing. They spend thousands of pounds to go under a surgeon's knife, straightening noses, enlarging boobs, smoothing wrinkles, rather silly really and none of it lasts, the boobs droop and the wrinkles come back--well I guess perhaps the noses last unless you end up in a pub fight, but you know it's all on the outside, nothing changes within where it really counts, you're still the same person but a bit blunted--"

Now Remus was curious. "Tonks?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you look like? Really?"

Tonks sighed a little sadly. "I thought I used to know. But now I have to ask myself, were my eyes sapphire blue once, or blue-green, or indigo blue only on the rims and hazel everywhere else? Was my hair jet black or coal black or did it have streaks of dark brown? It's all jumbled now, really. I know the basics but not the details."

"Are the details all that important?"

"They are to me. It's the details that make us who we are. They hold the secret to ourselves."

Remus blinked at that. "Never knew you were a philosopher, Tonks."

"I'm a Metamorphmagus, Remus," Tonks said with a wry grin. "I should know. I specialize in keeping secrets. Even from me."

Remus didn't know what to say.

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Streaks of dull red were just starting to ghost over the London skyline when Remus returned to Grimmauld Place. Stepping up to the door and letting himself in, he descended into the kitchen and steeled himself for the inevitable.

There was no one in the kitchen however, and he relaxed somewhat. Must be upstairs with Buckbeak. Then he saw the mug of half-drunk tea sitting on the table. I want tea, now. He tapped his wand against the chipped enamel kettle on the sideboard to boil the water.

He noticed the faintest waft of alcohol coming from the mug, mingled with the aroma of the tea, and it might have irritated him if it weren't for the book beside it, sitting open to page fifty-eight, "Practical Defensive Spells," with passages underlined in Sirius' sharp, deft pen strokes. At least he's keeping occupied with something other than Firewhisky and Buckbeak. The water boiled and Remus didn't bother with a clean cup, just Vanished the contents of the one on the table, muttered a quick "Scourgify," and filled that cup with boiling water, and Summoned an Earl Grey tea bag from the box sitting beside the kettle.

"Wonderful Muggle inventions, those tea bags. Ought to thank Arthur for bringing them," Sirius commented from the kitchen door, casually leaning against the door jamb with arms crossed. Remus jumped, startled at the unexpected sound. "Welcome home, Remus. Started to think you were avoiding me." There was only a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Remus busied himself with dropping the tea bag into the mug and stirring it with a Summoned spoon. "Emmeline Vance and Hestia Jones came to relieve us early so Tonks could grab a few hours' sleep before she goes to work."

"You too I daresay."

Remus shrugged and sank into the chair, fingers wrapping around his mug, and he contemplated the coiling tendrils of steam rising from it. Sirius crossed the room and pulled out a chair from the table, sitting backwards on it, arms resting on the hard wooden back, watching him carefully.

A minute of awkward silence passed. Then he spoke.

"Remus..."

Remus looked up at the tone of his voice. It was--hesitant. Apologetic.

"I shouldn't have pushed."

Remus knew this was the closest to an apology Sirius would offer. He simply nodded, accepting it for what it was, and moved on.

"Studying up on the practical defensive spells then?" Remus inclined his head towards the open book.

Sirius looked pleased, almost beaming. "Since Harry announced forming that little Defense group of his I thought it'd be useful brushing up, maybe suggest some spells if he asks for some advice."

Remus nodded again with a sense of relief. He sipped his tea for a few minutes then cracked a huge yawn. Sirius grinned.

"You look tired. Are y'knackered, Moony?"

Sirius said it matter-of-factly enough, but the smoky undertone shot an anticipatory shiver down Remus' spine.

"Not as much as I thought," he replied just as carefully, "but I still could go to bed."

Sirius' smirk matched his. "Brilliant. Upstairs, then?"

"After you, my dear Padfoot." He tilted his head towards the direction of the stairs.

Their bodies brushed together as they climbed the stairs, the light contact sending a pleasant twitch to his groin, and Remus' breathing quickened in response. But when they did get upstairs, walking into Remus' bedroom and latching the door, Remus felt himself falter. He turned from the waiting bed, away from Sirius, and found himself looking uncertainly out the window at the reddening streaks of the November sunrise against the curling smog of the city. His mind raced, torn between desire and... I don't know if I can do this, Sirius. I don't know how to get past--

Sirius' voice interrupted his thoughts with a soft "Lumos", followed by an equally low "Evanesco".

"Look at me, Moony," Sirius whispered, a world-weary murmur, the muted words holding both an unmistakable command and a halting plea.

Remus tensed and closed his eyes against the impending sunrise, against the war raging between his heart and mind, trying to defy the command but powerless, in the end, to ignore the plea. Slowly, unwillingly, he turned to face his friend and his heart caught in his throat.

Sirius stood before him completely naked in the cold room lamplight.

"This is who we are, Remus," he said quietly. "Dark of night or light of day, it doesn't change things."

Sirius only stood impassively as Remus took in the tangle of coarse black hair that fell in his eyes and streamed over his shoulders, the bony frame, the jutting collarbone, the painfully thin ribs; the sparse scattering of dark wiry hairs against the shockingly white skin on his chest, the hollow stomach and the rope-like muscles on his near-skeletal legs. The barbed Azkaban tattoos on his arms and shoulders swirled and writhed like a nest of snakes. He was flaccid as he stood in front of Remus, his palms flat against his sides. His winter-grey eyes remained steady and unflinching when Remus' eyes met his face. A face that was drawn and wasted, seam-split and ravaged--and completely unafraid. Standing in front of Remus with nothing hidden.

Sirius knew.

He knew.

Remus didn't take his eyes off Sirius as he slowly began to undress. He didn't simply Vanish his clothes, as Sirius had; rather he carefully toed off his shoes, peeled off his socks, unzipped the flies of his trousers; trousers and pants together fell to the floor and he stood in only his shirt. Sirius watched him dispassionately, his eyes still steady, watching Remus' hands shake as he unbuttoned the shirt.

Looking past Sirius, past the wall, he slowly allowed the garment to drop to the floor. That last shield relinquished, Remus finally stood unmoving in Sirius' gaze, fists clenched at his sides, flushing hotly with embarrassment.

He heard the sharp intake of breath and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body not to tremble; but he couldn't keep his lower lip from quivering slightly, at last admitting to himself the damage of what fourteen years alone had done to him. To them. This is who I am, Sirius, he thought dully over the roar of pounding blood in his ears. Torn apart and chewed up and spit out. I'm broken and grey and tired and old. I have nothing left of myself. This is all I have to give. A lifetime of scars.

Heartbeats, eons, passed in suspended silence.

Presently--too soon, not soon enough--Sirius breathed "God, Moony," and Remus, taking the leap, finally opened his eyes.

Sirius had crossed the distance between them and stood directly in front of him, hands hovering just over the scars on his chest, gazing at his face with a look akin to sad wonder.

Remus relaxed his hands and smiled faintly in spite of himself, shaking his head. "Padfoot, y'daft bastard," he whispered fondly.

Wordlessly, Sirius embraced Remus, his thin arms loosely wrapping round his waist, and he leaned his scratchy cheek against the raised scars on Remus' shoulder. Remus trembled a little against him and tentatively touched his hair. Sirius drew him in closer, even rocking him a bit; Remus shakily inhaled the other's earthy scent and felt the solid warmth begin to leach out the cold surrounding him, his friend's presence reaffirming We are still here.

"This is who we are, Moony," Sirius murmured against Remus' skin. Remus only nodded, his doubtful thoughts of how long can this last in the face of the madness around us slowly fading in Sirius' sure and steady heartbeat against him; and he found himself fully returning the embrace, finally, equally able to offer solace. They stayed there together, Sirius holding his friend close in his arms and resting his head in the crook of his neck, and Remus absently stroking his shoulders and back and brushing an occasional soft kiss against Sirius' ear.

Now, as the sun dared to peek over the cold London autumn skyline, Remus linked their fingers together and leaned his forehead against Sirius' for a moment, soft puffs of breath feathering their hair against their faces. Remus murmured something and smiled shyly against Sirius' mouth, nuzzling him lightly. It was Sirius' turn to nod now, chuckling softly as their lips met. His dry chapped lips probed gently with light pressure against Remus', asking Is this all right? and Remus willingly opened his mouth under Sirius' in a gesture of complete acceptance, Yes it is.

Sirius' spoken words echoed in the stillness as they sank together onto the yielding bed, the brightening light of the new day reflected in the deep and open gazes of clear brown and dusky silver, and its slow heat in rising from their entangled bodies. The words beat in steady rhythm to Sirius' pulse under his lips at temple and jaw and wrist, in the throbbing cadence of his own heart, and flowed in every muscle and sinew straining to meld to each other. They lingered in every moist and fevered trail of lips and teeth and tongues, along curves and hollows of ear and throat and chest and thigh. The words burrowed under searching fingers, following the path of palms over Azkaban and full-moon memory, blurring and merging the scars of separate history. They floated on the rise and fall of shared and panting breaths and glided on the salty taste of sweat-sheened skin. The words arched with every moaning thrust and sang in Sirius' wordless cry. And when Remus found his own release, the words swept him over and washed him under, ringing in the space of silence and wrapping him in their hushed embrace.

This is who we are.