![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
- fic,
- hp,
- rating: r,
- remus,
- remus/sirius
R/S 3-part Fic, part 2
The first part is here. This section is now f-locked as it's hard-R to adult rating for brief, desolate boysex.
second: characterised by damage under the skin
Remus was clad in a shroud of drizzle. He pressed the back of his lean figure against the stone wall of the building in an attempt to keep his cigarette alight. Smoking was a habit he'd only recently taken to, and with a vengeance. The burning in his lungs as he inhaled was soothing; the repetition of taking in heat and exhaling it purposefully was a silent, self-destructive mantra. It suited him, just as the turbulent grey weather of this small town so often mirrored his mood.
He stood, meditating on the glow of the fag and the date. It had been three years. One day shy of forty-one moon cycles since the inconceivable day when he'd visited James and Lily's ruined house and was told that his Sirius had been the perpetrator of the horrors found there. Remus had stayed with the Order for as long as he could while scouring his and Sirius' flat for the proof that must've been there to prove his innocence. They had been drifting apart for some time, but deep within himself, Remus knew Sirius could not possibly have betrayed them all. After a year, doubt insidiously wormed its way into him. He still told anyone who would listen that it was madness to have sent Sirius to Azkaban; he might've been a bit insane at times, but given the stress the Order members were under, that could have been said of just about anyone.
A second year went by. The shadows and nightmares grew worse. It couldn't have been Sirius, not Sirius, who Remus knew adored his godson. Not Sirius, who, on the occasions when they had been intimate, fucked Remus with a tenderness born of fidelity and honesty. Remus continued to look everywhere for the missing clue, into every dark corner of their lives, replayed all conversations they'd had that he could remember. Finally, he'd buckled to the marrow. One note to Dumbledore, a few spells cast, and Remus had fled to a remote island where no one would come looking for him. Now he worked in Stornoway at their tiny library, keeping mostly to himself, content to be an eccentric.
As he flicked the spent cigarette onto the cobblestone, he stoked his feral flames of anger. They waxed and waned, however, like nearly everything in his life. Near the full moon it would become almost overpowering; most of the time he merely simmered, sensing it would burn out to ash, and him with it.
Dusk blanketed the town. Remus got takeaway fish and chips and wandered the streets waiting for dark. This close to his transformation, his body screamed for release, and he knew where to find it. After a couple of months Remus had discovered an unexpected trysting-place on the Lews Castle grounds. Up a secluded trail there was a memorial to a man who'd made his millions in the opium trade in China. There men of his persuasion gathered, desperate, horny, and usually both, to engage in meaningless sex. This was exactly what Remus sought. It wasn't safe, and he didn't care. No questions were asked, and other than agreeing on a partner, conversation was discouraged.
At the monument he found a willing man around his age. Remus only went for one type, despising himself as he did so, but his passions demanded it. He was slave to countless internal monsters, and attempted to tune them out as he and the lanky young man with black hair went about their business a short walk away in the woods. Remus wasn't gentle as he pushed into the narrow arse, but the man didn't seem to care, getting himself off with one hand while bracing himself on a nearby tree with the other. It didn't take long before Remus' release overtook him and he stood, shuddering through the aftershock, smelling the mixture of arousal and fear coming off in waves from the other man.
They pulled up their pants and parted in silence. Remus trudged down the hill in cold mist, his cock spent but his mind still raging. Making sure he was alone, he used wandless magic to light a cigarette and drew deeply on it as he made his way to his small house on the outskirts of town.
Once home he poured himself a healthy glass of scotch and tried to quiet himself, tried not to feel hopelessly abandoned. This was self-imposed exile, after all. Dumbledore had managed to communicate with him a few times; entreaties to return that he had left unanswered. With a sigh, he put on a Muggle classical piece that in the past he'd coined his brooding music. Sirius had always steered clear of him when he had it playing, but not before observing that it seemed it was supposed to be uplifting. Remus had always told him to piss off.
Another glass of scotch, another cigarette. The birdlike violin of Vaugan Williams' "The Lark Ascending" filled the room, and Remus unquestioningly heeded the siren song of despair. Alone and mourning, he stared at the wall, wishing he could extinguish the searing pain of loving Sirius Black.
second: characterised by damage under the skin
Remus was clad in a shroud of drizzle. He pressed the back of his lean figure against the stone wall of the building in an attempt to keep his cigarette alight. Smoking was a habit he'd only recently taken to, and with a vengeance. The burning in his lungs as he inhaled was soothing; the repetition of taking in heat and exhaling it purposefully was a silent, self-destructive mantra. It suited him, just as the turbulent grey weather of this small town so often mirrored his mood.
He stood, meditating on the glow of the fag and the date. It had been three years. One day shy of forty-one moon cycles since the inconceivable day when he'd visited James and Lily's ruined house and was told that his Sirius had been the perpetrator of the horrors found there. Remus had stayed with the Order for as long as he could while scouring his and Sirius' flat for the proof that must've been there to prove his innocence. They had been drifting apart for some time, but deep within himself, Remus knew Sirius could not possibly have betrayed them all. After a year, doubt insidiously wormed its way into him. He still told anyone who would listen that it was madness to have sent Sirius to Azkaban; he might've been a bit insane at times, but given the stress the Order members were under, that could have been said of just about anyone.
A second year went by. The shadows and nightmares grew worse. It couldn't have been Sirius, not Sirius, who Remus knew adored his godson. Not Sirius, who, on the occasions when they had been intimate, fucked Remus with a tenderness born of fidelity and honesty. Remus continued to look everywhere for the missing clue, into every dark corner of their lives, replayed all conversations they'd had that he could remember. Finally, he'd buckled to the marrow. One note to Dumbledore, a few spells cast, and Remus had fled to a remote island where no one would come looking for him. Now he worked in Stornoway at their tiny library, keeping mostly to himself, content to be an eccentric.
As he flicked the spent cigarette onto the cobblestone, he stoked his feral flames of anger. They waxed and waned, however, like nearly everything in his life. Near the full moon it would become almost overpowering; most of the time he merely simmered, sensing it would burn out to ash, and him with it.
Dusk blanketed the town. Remus got takeaway fish and chips and wandered the streets waiting for dark. This close to his transformation, his body screamed for release, and he knew where to find it. After a couple of months Remus had discovered an unexpected trysting-place on the Lews Castle grounds. Up a secluded trail there was a memorial to a man who'd made his millions in the opium trade in China. There men of his persuasion gathered, desperate, horny, and usually both, to engage in meaningless sex. This was exactly what Remus sought. It wasn't safe, and he didn't care. No questions were asked, and other than agreeing on a partner, conversation was discouraged.
At the monument he found a willing man around his age. Remus only went for one type, despising himself as he did so, but his passions demanded it. He was slave to countless internal monsters, and attempted to tune them out as he and the lanky young man with black hair went about their business a short walk away in the woods. Remus wasn't gentle as he pushed into the narrow arse, but the man didn't seem to care, getting himself off with one hand while bracing himself on a nearby tree with the other. It didn't take long before Remus' release overtook him and he stood, shuddering through the aftershock, smelling the mixture of arousal and fear coming off in waves from the other man.
They pulled up their pants and parted in silence. Remus trudged down the hill in cold mist, his cock spent but his mind still raging. Making sure he was alone, he used wandless magic to light a cigarette and drew deeply on it as he made his way to his small house on the outskirts of town.
Once home he poured himself a healthy glass of scotch and tried to quiet himself, tried not to feel hopelessly abandoned. This was self-imposed exile, after all. Dumbledore had managed to communicate with him a few times; entreaties to return that he had left unanswered. With a sigh, he put on a Muggle classical piece that in the past he'd coined his brooding music. Sirius had always steered clear of him when he had it playing, but not before observing that it seemed it was supposed to be uplifting. Remus had always told him to piss off.
Another glass of scotch, another cigarette. The birdlike violin of Vaugan Williams' "The Lark Ascending" filled the room, and Remus unquestioningly heeded the siren song of despair. Alone and mourning, he stared at the wall, wishing he could extinguish the searing pain of loving Sirius Black.
no subject
you do raw pain so well. [*loves*]
love that he tried to prove sirius' innocence. love his disappearing. love the way you weave the moon into his life and misery. and the music.
Alone and mourning, he stared at the wall, wishing he could extinguish the searing pain of loving Sirius Black.
really wonderful.
no subject
Thank you. Angst is my genre, I do believe. Actually had a thought last night, to do with you, and angst (not related!!), which was this: a person can write angst best when one knows fulfillment is out there, and exists, and yet knows it's not there for you.
I even wrote it down on an index card. ;)
Perhaps that's why I relate so much more to Severus than you do. Have gifty-thing to send to you, and a letter. Will post over the weekend.
(((hugs)))
Thanks for commenting. The last one will be even more desolate, I'm afraid. But hey- how better to live such angst than through a character, eh?
no subject
no subject
he'd buckled to the marrow
my fave phrase. heavily evocative, and so apt considering what the confusing, unanswered aftermath would've been like.
no subject
Ooooh. Thank you. Well, if I'm not writing parallel-time things, the least I can do is write stories with a theme. Even if they're dark. Glad that it appeals.
my fave phrase. heavily evocative, and so apt considering what the confusing, unanswered aftermath would've been like.
I'm so glad that you like that. This series has come in bits and starts, mostly from a run I took a couple of days ago, but the thematic imagery was there from the beginning. I just can't imagine what it would have been like to be Remus, to have his trust betrayed again and again… hence why I like writing from his POV.
Third part to come today, post-church service, I believe.
Oh, and and a 4-page letter going out to you today. I may well wear out my hand writing to you this week alone. :P