Not twins, but -

[thrihyrne]

(8:44 a.m. Edited from last night. I just don't make that much sense at 11:50 p.m.)


- an update on the R/S story. (feels the poke from romanticalgirl. I SWEAR I took a walk before choir hoping that some debacherous [sp? existing word??] scene would come to mind, but none did). Before, we had happy!smutty!puppies and now we're doing angst. Why? Because even if it's "Essence of Black," it's still all about Remus.

Jen, I'm glad you like this! I'm now thinking that I have Remus swearing waaaaay too much. He's usually so understated. Must think about serious editing. Or less f-word. Hmmmmm.

'Nuff said. If you'd like the adult first part, go read that. Then there's

*******

Age 27

“No no no no fucking no no fucking way not on my fucking birthday where’s my bottle dammit whole world can sod off oh bloody hell.”

Remus was chanting.

He had been at a club. Muggle, of course, as most of his life had become in the two years he had been living in Halifax. After a couple of hours and several pints of Alexander Keith’s, he found himself surrendering to nihilistic self-pity, singing along with his unique valiant for truth: Sometimes I feel I’ve got to Run away I’ve got to Get away From the pain you drive into the heart of me The love we share Seems to go nowhere And I’ve lost my light for I toss and turn I can’t sleep at night…

“Tainted Love” still echoed in his head back at the flat. It hadn’t been a hit for a few years now, but it remained a dance favorite. In the relentless paradigm of irony which manifested itself as his life, Remus had adopted this particular song as his personal anthem. That it had become popular only weeks after any sense of reality had been sundered from its fragile tether to him only justified its rightness. That was his song. He was tainted. Everything had been lost; shattered as bloody truths like ash had smothered him, betrayal smeared irrevocably across his soul, unable to be purged by Scotch or tears or nights spent damning Sirius Black to the lowest circle of Hell as rain poured down on him.

He had been half yelling with the song at the part where he bared his teeth, relishing his ownership of the words (Once I ran to you Now I run from you This tainted love you’ve given I gave you all a boy could give you Take my tears and that’s not nearly all…) when he smelled - Oh god, no, son of a selkie not smelling that not-him-not-him-not-him - Sirius.

Remus had whipped around, feeling as though he’d been kicked in the chest. After a few panicked seconds, he knew Sirius wasn’t there. But he hadn’t smelled that scent in years since…

He had almost been sick. His friends and coworkers from the library had been worried, asked him what was wrong. He had begged off, saying he needed to get some air. He’d staggered outside, barely made sure the alleyway was clear, much less ensured his head was clear enough to do the spell and apparate home.

Now he was fuming.

He slammed back a shot of vodka, relishing its burn as it travelled down his throat, warming his chest. Swaying, he grasped ahold of the back of a chair near the table, trying to will away memories of Sirius. Being with Sirius. The play of firelight on his skin -

Remus moaned. “How could you have done it, how, no, you couldn’t, no, no, no, but James…” Despite the haze of alcohol, he forced his thoughts down the labyrinthine recesses of logic and (im)possibility that had, with the slice of Occam’s Razor, led Sirius Black straight to Azkaban. Remus had spent part of every day since then reconciling himself to the realities which resolutely refused to leave him, but which he could not, in his sweat-drenched nightmares and sanguine full moons, fully accept.

There was a sound, and Remus dismissed it as unnecessary and, therefore, irrelevant to the matters at hand: swearing at his former friend and lover, hating the fact that it was his birthday and he was in fucking nowhere Canada, and magnifying his misery with large quantities of poorly made American vodka. “No, no, no, no,” he mumbled, pouring himself another. “Can’t get worse.”

The sound continued. It was somebody knocking.

“Go ‘way,” he halfheartedly uttered in the vague direction of the door.

All of a sudden he sat bolt upright. “Shit. Wards.”

Then there was a crack! as someone apparated into the dining room at the same time that Remus fumbled instinctively for his wand which was in his closet.

Remus stared as a young witch manifested herself in front of him, her eyes a golden, familiar color. He was so shocked that he just sat, gaping, before he exclaimed, “Merlin’s beard, you’re a -”

“Remus John Lupin, you are under arrest by the Canadian Ministry of Magic for both the misuse of magic and for being an unregistered werewolf within Canadian Magical Borders.”

Remus shut his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose.

The other werewolf let her gaze light upon his liquor bottle, small glass, and untidy table.

“You have one hour,” she whispered.

“What?!”

Remus was now completely at a loss.

“Don’t make me take you in.” Her voice was breathy, but calming all at once. She knew. “I’ve been trying to cover for you for as long as I can, and the Ministry in Toronto doesn’t really want to have to explain to the U.K. why you’ve been living here, unregistered, for as long as you have.” She glided toward him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked up into his face.

Remus noticed the silvery strands in her sandy hair, and found that he wanted to ask her thousands of questions. Why hadn’t she come here before? Was the Canadian Ministry so progressive as to hire their kind? How long had she?…

“Just go back. When I return, you cannot be here.”

He nodded, mute.

“I’m sorry.”

He glanced at her robe, saw a name on a moon crescent badge. “Heather Monkshood.”

And then there was another crack! as she disapparated.

Remus put on a kettle for tea, then frantically tore apart the flat, deciding what he could take and what could stay. At the twelve minute mark he sat down with a mug and wrote several notes, fountain pen flying, his handwriting erratic: to his employer at the library; to two of his closer friends who had been with him this evening, to his landlord.

At forty-seven minutes, he slumped next to a box of memorabilia, afraid to open it, but equally unwilling to leave it behind without looking at the contents. So he did. Unfinished crossword puzzles Sirius had been working on before… Before. Photos from Hogwarts, youths beaming back at him; he could barely recognize himself within the white borders. Warming gloves, leather; a gift from Sirius. A Muggle bootlegged cassette tape of an INXS concert he had attended with a friend last year.

He thrust his face down and inhaled the scent which permeated through it without magic. Noir.

Shuddering, he closed it, pointed his wand, and after uttering a spell it bound itself tightly and became the size of a matchbox. He shoved it into his camel-colored leather coat, another gift, looked around what had been his home for two years, made sure he wasn’t missing anything he could not replace back on The Island, then walked out the door.

“Happy bloody birthday, Lupin,” he said under his breath.

*******

And if you weren't angst-ed out enough, here's the first half of part 3.



*******

Age 35

Sirius sat sucking on a quill, his attentions focused on the Daily Prophet crossword in front of him.

Remus watched him surreptitiously, raising his eyes from his book at occasional intervals to force himself to believe that he was seeing him there. Honest to Merlin it was siriusblackpadfoot sitting there, just sitting there, in that chair, in front of the fire, always cold, always withdrawn, always untouchable…

He was not drawn to writing poetry. Of any kind. But he doodled some phrases, inking in images that came to him on a scrap of parchment.

black velvet midnight blue-

what dreams may come? Nightmares…


ALEMBIC. He has been distilled to his essence


“Moony.”

“Hmmmm?”

A huffing sigh.

“Do you mind not doing that?”

“Doing what?” Doing what? Acknowledging that you’re here, that you’re sitting in a chair in MY sitting room, that you are escaped, that you are no longer a shadowy shape-shifter, you’re merely an assumed murderer on the run, a -

“You keep glancing up at me. Like I’m going to disappear. Makes a chap nervous.”

The carefully folded, origami paper-thin reserve around Remus Lupin began to come undone.

“Sirius, you did disappear. I’m a practical man. Never forget that.” He took a cautious, but deep intake of breath, hoping to sense some of Sirius’ emotions in the air.

Nothing.

“Remus, would you mind terribly if I had the house for a bit? Just for an hour or two…”

Remus had taken off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes so hard that he saw red sparks. He tried to stay calm.

“You want me to leave?”

Sirius’ pale sunken eyes looked balefully at him.

“I’m just not used to… not comfortable…”

Remus tried to be as emotionless as possible, and failed. With grand aplomb. “You spent twelve years in Azkaban for a murder you didn’t commit. Then you spent a year on the run. Literally. Now you’re telling me that you BLOODY WANT TO BE ALONE??!”

Sirius stared at him.

“What should I say, Sirius?” Remus fumed. “This is my house. You are someone for whom I care a very. A very. Great. Deal.” Another intake through the nose, but he couldn’t smell anything off of Sirius. “And you just haven’t had enough solitude. You want to chase me out of my own house. As shabby as it is.”

Long fingers cradled his forehead, his thumbs running through his greying hair. “Fine. I’ll go. Not like you’d actually want to spend time outside, enjoying the blue sky, the sound of birds, anything, oh bloody hell.”

A new mantra.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know what it was like, I just don’t, and you’re gone, and then you’re back and you're always so distant and then… nevermind. Just don’t let anything catch on fire.”

Remus stalked through the sitting room, grabbed a threadbare coat off the hook, and left, the door thundering closed behind him.

Moments later, he was back. He ignored Sirius and went into the kitchen. After a few slight crashing noises of wood against wood, he reappeared, a bottle of Scotch and a glass in his hand. “Oh.” Grating in his voice. “Your beloved motorcycle is in the shed out back. Courtesy of Dumbledore; thought it would improve your outlook. I’m sure that it won’t require any conversation.”

Then he was gone again.

Sirius stared, unfocused, at the newspaper in his lap, then dropped it to the floor. He knew he shouldn't, but he went to the table to see what Remus had been writing. After a few minutes, he walked back over to the fireplace, transformed into Padfoot, and slept.


*******



I'm afraid that the less-fantasy-more-reality tone of "A House Divided" has crept into this story. Not to worry: there will be at least one other raunchy/erotic/resolved puppies bit to come. But I'd like for them to earn it. Because god knows that anyone else in their 30's has earned it, and then some.

Whoops. On a soapbox. My bad.

If anyone else is worried at how I go back and forth between emotionally standoffish Dwarvish/Elvish relations and Remus/Sirius slash and tricksy Twins... well, I don't know. It just happens.

Full body massage tomorrow. Half-day at work. I see a major nap in my future, after being turned into jelly.

Comments

[llembas.livejournal.com]

Oh OH! I love it! I love the angstiness of it. I love all of part 2. And what you've written so far in part 3 is great. Quite insightful I think. It makes sense that Sirius would feel uncomfortable being around people after so many years alone.

*sighs happily*

[thrihyrne.livejournal.com]

Jen! You're back!! :D :D I hope you're feeling better.

So glad that you think the third part is insightful (I really do think that Sirius would have to take some serious adjusting time, no matter who he was around) and that you like the awful Remus birthday. More to come... eventually. ;)

[helveticat.livejournal.com]

These are groovy. I like listening to them talk. Sounds incongruous, but you know what I mean.

If anyone else is worried at how I go back and forth between emotionally standoffish Dwarvish/Elvish relations and Remus/Sirius slash and tricksy Twins... well, I don't know. It just happens.

We're not worried. Tornadic writing is the best. =)

[thrihyrne.livejournal.com]

I like listening to them talk. Sounds incongruous, but you know what I mean.

Yes, I do. :)

Tornadic writing

Cool phrase! Or "nomadic writing." Perhaps that's what it is. I keep wandering back and forth between fandoms.