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seven-ruins-it · 21 days

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Remus shrugs, shakes his head. There’s nothing for it. “I think you know.

Sirius, a brick wall, stares. “I really don’t.” His eyes are very grey, hardened.

“The day before summer holiday, by the lake.”

“You said you didn’t remember!” Sirius cuts in, surging forward, pointing a finger but not making contact with Remus' chest.

“Because you were practically begging me to!”

Sirius presses his mouth shut and takes a step back, arms stately crossed. “Well, we were drunk. So.”

“We all were, you didn’t catch James launching himself at me.”

His eyebrow kicks up. “I did not-”

“You leaned!” Remus insists.

“I fell into you, because, because we’d been chugging forties all night and my hand slipped because the rocks were wet-”

“And the forties made you grope my face?”

“No, that was because- I said- your sideburns were upsetting me.”

“Well, nobody told you to finger them!”

“And nobody told you to kiss me!”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“Your tongue ended up on top of mine, I think we can figure out how that one went.”

“I don’t remember how it started but I do know that right before you were huffing all up in my face, if anything snogging made it less gay.”

And there it is. The magic word. It startles a reaction out of Sirius, a minute twitch along the line of his body that could only be distinguished after years of close friendship. Alarm, the instinctive notice his nervous system sends to start running.

Fear.

It’s quickly covered up, but Remus saw, and Sirius knows it. He steps closer -again with the pointing- and pushes the finger, again, so close to Remus’ chest but not quite against. Like they're two like-poled magnets, like they didn't spend the better part of the last decade with their sides plastered to each other. Like it'd mean something to touch him right now, even in this innocuous way.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sirius says, annunciating every word like he used to after speaking classes in Year 1 and 2. It doesn't intimidate Remus, but he knows it's meant to. He's meant to back off of Sirius' crisis.

“What about when we sleep together?” Sirius scoffs, rolling his eyes and putting distance between them again, like he's idly toying with a yoyo. “You cling to me and have your face in my neck like- like-”

“Friends do that, Remus, they sleep to- in the same bed together, without it being a marriage proposal!”

“Not like that, they don’t,” Remus says, low. Sirius’ eyes flash with something indeterminable. “Not like that. And at that sleepover with all of us, when you took Mary’s lipbalm and you put it on me. There was something going on, there was a pause,”

“That’s it, you’re in a mood, I should've left earlier,” Sirius says, grabbing his schoolbag and slinging his big scarf over his shoulder as Remus finishes “-you paused! You stared! You can’t- are you denying it?” Sirius whirls around at the door.

“What do I deny? That you’re dissecting our friendship and making everything weird because you’re questioning some things about yourself?”

“Sirius, I’m gay,” Remus states. Sirius freezes, a deer in the headlights. “There’s nothing to question there.”

“Oh,” Sirius finally reacts. “Well, great. For you. But that doesn’t mean we’re in that together.”

Remus’ stomach twists itself into a knot and pulls, hard. Of course this would be his first coming out. Begging his best friend to see what he’s been denying exists. It’s dreadfully in tune.

And just like that, he's done too. Something in him shuts down and he bites out “Quite right. You should leave.”

Sirius, for his part, catches on that and seems at least a little regretful. “Remus…”

“Get out.” Sirius doesn't move. Remus sighs, put upon. If it's a standoff of wills Sirius wants, he might as well lay it all out there. The truth is all he has. “I know you knew. You've known for- what, a year? Years? And I’m sorry, but-” he takes a breath and takes a good look at his friend, where he finds an open wound, a fragility with parted lips that squeezes his heart. He doesn't want to hurt him, by God he doesn't. But the plaster on Sirius chest harbours a festering infection. What would be the friendly thing to do? Surely not British polite ignorance. He takes a step forward. “And I don't have to tell you you're- well, you're something too.”

“Remus.”

“Sirius.” He moves closer, the toes of their shoes are close to touching and Remus fixes his posture so he's not slouched into Sirius. A look, a final out. Please don't take it. “Get out.”

There's no room for future doubt on who moved first, and if Sirius tries, Remus will ask to get the hair he ripped out of his head in his wild movement to pull them together back.

Taking it back: a wolfstar oneshot (?)

“You still have these?” Sirius asks, holding up his Pokémon card deck with two fingers, like a cigarette, just like he had before either of them were old enough to smoke.

“I wasn’t about to throw them out,” Remus shrugs, shifting against his wall and wincing when he hears his Bowie poster crinkle.

“What, you think they’ll be worth anything in ten years?” Sirius says, wiggling the card over to get the sun glinting in the silver part.

“I wouldn’t sell them if they were.”

That gets him to turn with a quirked brow. After a beat, a slanted smirk grows. “You sentimental prick.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Not everything’s about money.”

“Sure, but, c’mon.” Sirius waves the cards around before sliding them in his jacket pocket. “You’ve got me still, you don’t need the bloody shiny.” Remus pushes himself off the wall and is grappling Sirius’ arm in seconds.

“That’s not funny, give them back.” Sirius, the prick, prickishly keeps his hands buried in his pockets and swerves any attempt Remus makes to get them out.

“Why?” He smoothly sidesteps another dive with an infuriating amused smile. “They were mine, I’m just taking back my loan.” Remus straightens, three feet away from his friend. His room isn’t big, they’ve swam around three circles by now.

“They were a gift, you can’t take back a gift.”

“Why not?”

“How would you feel if I took your stupid bloody radio?”

Sirius, even with his snow white complexion, blanches, smirk finally slipping off his face. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you know I would.” He delivers it in a slow, low tone to get his point across.

Sirius shuffles the cards around in his pockets nervously, narrows his eyes. “You like Queen just as much as I do.”

“Not that loudly. And don’t forget who bought you that CD.”

Sirius’ throat audibly clicks in a swallow. “Fine, have them,” he says after a moment, putting the deck on Remus’ desk with a thud. “I don’t even get why you care so much, they’re just stupid merch for a show we barely watched.”

Remus walks over and sorts the cards into a pile. “Would you quit being obtuse? I keep them because you gave them to me.”

He doesn’t need to turn to know his friend is making a face. A stupid one. “I give you things all the time.”

“It was different then. We were different people.”

Sirius cracks his neck. “We were shorter,” he says sardonically.

“Yeah, well, I happen to think there’s some value in preserving memories as they happened.” He wraps the cards up with a near-crumbling elastic and puts it back in his cardboard box of childhood memorabilia.

Sirius snorts. “Oh please, nostalgia is a lie our brains tell us because it’s always out to kill us. It’s our entire job to tell it to shut up.”

“What about our friendship makes you so eager to forget it?” Remus asks irritably, giving the box a good shove so it slides under his bed.

“That’s not the point at all, the point is that the past is the past, good or not.”

“So do you not think the past informs the present at all? You’re just a completely new person every second.”

“Yes, actually, I do,” Sirius says, self satisfied.

“Great,” Remus says, before punching Sirius in the shoulder like he’s seen James do during Quidditch.

“Ow!” His friend exclaims, reaching for the offended area. “The hell was that for?!”

“I don’t know, you should ask me from a second ago.” He bats his eyes innocently. “I’m a different person now.”

Sirius punches his shoulder and Remus’ arm immediately cramps with his nerves’ protests.

“Jesus!”

“Sorry, that was meant for you from a second ago,” he says, presumably going for impish but snarling the words.

“I was just proving a point, you did it way harder!”

“I did it just as hard as you!”

“You’re basically wearing armour with your stupid shoulder pads!” Sirius hugs his arms with raised shoulders. “I am not wearing shoulder pads, it’s just the model of all leather jackets!”

“Well, the stupid model of your stupid leather jacket has stupid shoulder pads!”

Sirius shoves him and he has to step back to catch himself, not expecting the attack. “You don’t get to call my jacket stupid when all you wear are ugly sweaters.”

Remus shoves him back, more effectively with the advantage of his height. “You’re being ridiculous!” The last word is winded because of Sirius tackling him onto his bed. They roll around grappling for the upper hand and sprinkle in petty curses.

“You unfeeling bastard,” Remus gets in before Sirius rolls them over so he’s on top.

“You went after my style, and you’re calling me the unfeeling one?” Sirius argues.

“They’re ripped out of a Muggle magazine, they’re barely even your clothes ‘cause you sure as hell aren’t original,” Remus retorts.

“You’re just jealous ‘cause you can’t show your arms,” Sirius says, making both of them freeze. Their hands are clasped together but Sirius’ loosen their grip as he sits back, shocked at himself. “Remus…” he starts, but gets interrupted by Remus throwing him back, landing him on the ground with a thud and a groan.

“Shit,” Remus says, eyes wide. He retreats into his body, still hopped up on adrenaline from the fight, his mind somewhere above him, looking at his arms frozen in front of him as a stranger’s (as a hairier iteration). He shakes himself and slides off the bed, crouching down next to his friend. “Shit,” he repeats, “Sirius, I’m so sorry, are you alright? Can you breathe?”

Sirius, worryingly, just groans again, gasping air as Remus helps him sit up and tries to teach him how to breathe again. After a minute or two, he gasps out “Fuck-” another gasp “-you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I got so angry, or, I dunno, I couldn’t think-” he chokes out with the breath he’s been holding since Sirius hit the ground. Sirius puts a hand on his shoulder, the one he hit, and shakes his head, eyes dull from the exhaustive panic.

“Don’t you start now.”

Remus can’t begin to think about laughing it off. “Are you in pain anywhere?” He checks the back of Sirius’ head and spine with medical touch he’s observed throughout his life but only ever handled on his own body. He finds no grievous injuries, at least not before Sirius swats him away.

“Get off, you tit.” He holds his wrists together and meets his eyes meaningfully. “I’m fine. Some bruises but I’m fine. Nothing to write church about, alright?”

“Okay,” Remus says, finally feeling the edges of himself again, anchored by the warm hands holding him together.

“I did deserve it, besides,” Sirius says, with a melancholic half smile that’s just as infuriating as all his smugness from before. Remus pushes his hands off and stands.

“Like hell you do,” he says. Sirius blinks. “You don’t actually believe that crap, do you?”

“Remus,” he laughs -laughs- nervously. “C’mon, you’re allowed to be angry.”

“No, I’m not just going to sit here and.” He takes a shaky breath to collect himself and promptly sits down to level their height. “I am angry. At you, for what you said.” Sirius shifts his legs to sit criss-cross. Their knees brush before Sirius pulls him further in. “But I’m bloody furious at your mum and dad for making you think me shoving you on the floor was in any way right.” Sirius winces.

“I’m alright, really,” he assures, but Remus shakes his head.

“It never should’ve happened. I’m sorry about punching you, too. I never should’ve started all that, especially with my…” The remembered chill of hair growing at an impossible rate all down his back runs through his spine. The impact of Sirius’ fist against his shoulder -the other one this time- pulls him right out of it.

“Ow!”

“Would you quit that?” Sirius demands with a look of near hurt. “People get angry, it’s got nothing to do with all that.” He leans back again. “And I’m sorry too, alright? About the cards and the… the thing I said.” Remus nods, rubbing his shoulder. Later, he knows he’ll ruminate on just how visible he is to Sirius, but right now the arm hurts more. The Quidditch has recently really bulked Sirius up, Jesus.

“I get why you said it. It’s just that… sometimes you act like we met each other yesterday. Like we mean nothing to each other except for how entertaining we can be.”

When he looks up, Sirius is frowning. “When do I do that? I don’t think that.”

“Well, it’s just I’ve noticed-” Sirius stands.

“You’re wrong. We’ve been friends for ages, if you feel like you’re being fake that’s on you, not me.”

“I’m not the one being fake here,” Remus says affrontedly.

“Oh yeah?” Sirius says.

“Yeah.” Remus pushes himself to his feet, wincing at the strain it puts on both of his injured shoulders.

“Then tell me how exactly I’ve been weirding you out so much.”

“I didn’t say that.” He frowns and takes a step towards his friend, but he steps back. The arguing is rapidly forming a pressure on his synapses, he’d never even meant to start anything and in his attempt to swerve them away from a cliff’s edge they were rapidly careening towards a roaring waterfall. “Oh my God, look, it’s things like that, alright? Flat out denial of things I can see are happening.” Sirius stares flatly. “Things we…” Remus scratches at the back of his ear, bothered. “Things we both remember,” he finishes softly, daring enough only for darting glances up at Sirius, still as the marble statue that served as their hiding place for many pranks throughout the years. He thinks they’d both quite prefer to be there right now, stifling their laughter, wedged in between cold stone slabs.

“What,” Sirius’ voice catches and he clears his throat. “What things. Remus.”

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