American Pie

It wasn’t Tuesday. 

It wasn’t Tuesday, so Marlene McKinnon wasn’t supposed to be knocking on the front door with her weekly supply of chicken feed. Marlene certainly wasn’t supposed to be knocking with increased severity at the ass-crack of dawn, threatening to tip kitchen pans off their hooks and the portrait of Grandma Annie off the wall. 

It was Saturday, actually, and when the knocking became frantic, Remus couldn’t press his pillow any harder against his ear in hopes that whoever it was would go away. So, begrudgingly, he pried the patchwork quilt off his body and rose from his ground-level mattress. 

Remus searched his floor for a pair of jeans, kicking away empty cans of Bud Light and various articles of clothing as he went. When he found what he was looking for, he shoved the pair over his flannel boxers, not bothering to zip up the fly before kicking open his bedroom door and making his way across the house. As he entered the living room, floating dust was illuminated by soft rays of the early-morning sunlight, peering through the cracks in brown curtains. Remus yanked them open, revealing a tantalizing summer sun that blanketed the vast farmland just outside the window. 

Well, I know that you're in love with him
'Cause I saw you dancin' in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues

“Dammit, Mick,” Remus grumbled, hurrying over to the stereo to pop out the abandoned mixtape. He flicked his eyes to where Mickey was sprawled out on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, mouth wide open. Rolling his eyes, he threw the tape across the room. It hit the sleeping girl on the foot, which earned him a hefty twitch, followed by the girl in question rolling off the cushions and landing in a heap on the floor. “Gonna blow up this house one day.” In response, Mickey’s dark eyebrows furrowed and she smacked her lips. 

Wiping a tired hand over his face, brows raised and eyes half closed, Remus took pause when the knocking came to a sudden stop. You didn’t have to tell him twice, so he was halfway back to the comfort of his make-shift bed when the knocking returned, this time with a clear increase in vigor.

Groaning, Remus turned on his heel and back towards the front door. He snatched a pair of brown work boots off the floor, hopping on one foot as he shoved them on his un-socked feet. Jesus Christ, Remus thought. If they kept that knocking up, Lyall would be the one to answer the door, and Remus was sure no one wanted that. Frankly, the visitor should be a bit more patient. And grateful that it’s Remus’ bedroom that’s closest to the entrance. Lyall would spare no time grabbing his favorite semi-automatic and greeting the sleep-ruiner with the tip of a freshly-loaded barrel instead of the irritable brow raise Remus was preparing to offer. 

Almost tripping over a jar of—beetles?—Remus let out a small yelp. “Fucking—Mick!” Remus whisper-yelled at the girl, whose jaw was still concerningly detached from the rest of her head. When he reached the threshold, he lifted an arm to sniff beneath his shoulder, silently noting that he needed to take a shower. Shrugging, Remus pulled open the door and stopped the culprit mid-knock, knuckle still raised before his face. 

The first thing Remus did upon seeing the intruder was laugh. The other boy reeled his head back in offense, drawing his eyebrows together and dropping his fist. Remus couldn’t help it—he was wearing a suit. It was the end of June, in the middle of East-bum-fuck Texas, and this douche was wearing a black suit. He even had a tie. Oh god, it was too much. Remus had to bite his cheek to keep any semblance of his well-taught manners intact, but it was proving to be a very difficult affair. He took one look at the douche’s polished leather shoes and tweed trousers and let another laugh slip out. He smelt like leather, too. Was he wearing cologne? Remus suddenly grappled with the urge to wipe a hand over the suit’s untainted material and see how much grime rubbed off. 

The other boy was roaming his critical eyes over Remus’ stained, white wife beater, unzipped jeans, and unlaced boots. The douche curled his lip in apparent distaste, which only made Remus snort harder. “You lost or something?” Remus grumbled, wiping a hand over his tear-filled eyes. 

The boy whipped his neck to the left, causing some of his shoulder-length, black curls to fall out of place. He seemed just as confused as Remus was. Remus followed his gaze to where one of the early-riser cows was standing against the white picket fence of her enclosure, staring at the two of them with beady, unblinking eyes. She was looking for food, no doubt. Tough luck, Remus thought. She’d have to wait until later, when Remus got around to restocking the hay bales. That is, if the unnaturally-pompous douche decided to leave and go back to whatever business conference he’d been dismissed from. Like the cow had heard Remus’ thoughts, she huffed a breath out of her nose, then dismissively turned her head away. 

Re-focusing his attention to Remus, the boy pursed his pouty lips and sighed. “No,” he said. 

Remus raised his brows for what felt like the umpteenth time since waking up that morning. “No?” He shifted on his feet, leaning one arm on the doorframe. “Well, hell— you’re the most sophisticated Texan I’ve ever seen. Whereabouts are you from, then?” 

The douche cleared his throat and pursed his lips before saying, “Not from Texas. London.” Remus wasn’t sure his eyebrows could raise any further before disappearing behind his hairline entirely. He heard it then— the posh accent that weaved its way through the boy’s words, accentuating each vowel and causing the clipped phrases to drip with superiority. The closest Remus had ever gotten to hearing an English accent was when he accidentally clicked to a British channel on the T.V.— some movie called Tom Jones— before quickly returning to his regularly scheduled southern comedy program. Even then, though, it lacked the air of elegance that the boy seemed to radiate, high class and grace surrounded him like a halo that melted into the early-morning sunrise. 

For a moment, Remus only blinked. The boy did look a bit English, if Remus did say so himself. His high cheekbones and puckered lips, paired with the delicate curls and immaculate posture, made Remus acutely aware of his own disgustingly-hunched back. Straightening out his stance, Remus clicked his tongue. “Oh, alright then.” Blowing air out from his mouth, he searched for what to say. He couldn’t very well turn the boy away— his own curiosity wouldn’t allow it, that much was sure. Remus scratched the mop on top of his head. “You, uh, got a name?” 

The boy clasped his hands in front of himself, delicate fingers wrapping around one another. “Sirius.”

Remus leaned his head forwards. “Sirius…” He prompted. 

“Sirius Black.”

“Sirius Black,” he repeated, once again roaming his eyes over the boy’s regal clothing. “Your name is Sirius Black?” 

“Um, yes?”

“That’s…fitting.”

Sirius scoffed, raising a brow. “How do you mean?” 

“Dunno. Just is,” Remus shrugged, holding back another laugh. Jesus, this guy wasn’t very self aware. 

Another scoff. “Well, don’t be shy. What’s yours, then?” 

“Remus,” he said. 

“Bless you.” 

“What?”

“Nothing.” 

Rolling his eyes, Remus mindfully omitted the rest of his name. He really didn’t have any right to laugh. The other boy flung a hand around in the air in a prompting gesture, and Remus sighed. “Lupin,” he mumbled, kicking a little pebble off the threshold and feeling childish immediately afterwards. Sometimes he had to fight off the urge to strangle his dad for burdening him with his weird-as-fuck last name. And first, for that matter. The boys at school certainly didn’t waste that opportunity. That is, until Remus grew a foot over the summer and learned how to throw a punch. His first detention slip is still hung on his wall from when he clocked Jack Collier right in the nose in 8th grade. It’s plastered next to the hickory baseball bat Lyall gave him for his 13th birthday.

Sirius cocked his head. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

Remus sighed, again, entirely too tired to be having this conversation. There was something terribly degrading about getting made fun of by an Englishman at seven in the morning. On your own doorstep. “Remus Lupin. You gonna keep stinking up my doorway with your perfume or are you gonna tell me what the hell you want?”

The other boy made no move to do the latter, instead opting to let out a low whistle, shoving his hands in his pockets with a smug grin. Remus wanted to punch it off his face. “Remus Lupin— and I thought my parents hated me. Someone must’ve slipped whilst they were writing your name on your birth certificate.”

It was clear that the slightly agitated, severely posh demeanor of the boy in front of him was long gone. Remus didn’t like it. Remus wanted the posh boy back; he was more fun to laugh at. Now, he just felt like he was being ridiculed by a British version of Foghorn Leghorn. Traitorously, his own lips began to tilt up in time with Sirius'. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled. They both looked at one another a moment longer, until Remus cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “Alright, seriously. Why’s there a British douche on my front steps, knocking on my door like the devil’s on his ass, and insulting my name like he has any room to do so, all before my own roosters’ve cracked an eye open?” 

“English.” 

“Huh?”

“It’s— well, I’m English. If you want to get specific,” Sirius said, tilting his head this way and that. Remus did not want to get specific. His expression must’ve revealed his annoyance, because Sirius’ smile withdrew before he tilted his chin down “Actually, um, I am kind of lost.” As if that wasn’t already fucking obvious. “I was in this man’s truck. He was taking me from the airport, you see. I, uh, didn’t have a ride.” Pausing, he scratched his neck, bottom lip between his teeth in thought. “Well, anyway, I didn’t have a ride, so I asked the man to give me one. I wanted to find some place to stay. Only, I fell asleep pretty much as soon as I got in the car.” When Remus widened his eyes in concern, because who the hell falls asleep in a strange man’s pickup truck, Sirius shrugged. “Was a long plane ride,” he explained. Taking a moment to smirk at Remus’ scoff, he continued. “So, yeah, I fell asleep. Then when I woke up, we were definitely out of the city. Don’t know which city,” he asserted, noting the way Remus’ mouth opened in question. “It was all open roads and trees, so I asked if he knew where the nearest hotel was.” 

Remus almost lifted a palm to his forehead. The nearest hotel to where they currently were had to have been about a hundred miles away, maybe in Austin or San Marcos. He supposed the closest thing would have been the self-titled “The Motel,” run by a few cracked-off, pot-bellied, 50 year olds looking to charge $20 dollars for a single. Remus had never stayed, but had seen it in passing. Or, more accurately, seen the onslaught of drunken teenagers piling out of the foul cesspools they advertise as rooms. “Okay,” Remus prompted slowly, smiling a bit. “What, he didn’t want to show you?”

Sighing, Sirius said, “Well, no. I can’t lie, I thought you people were a bit nicer here.” When Remus raised an unimpressed eyebrow, Sirius raised both hands in defence. “Just what I’ve seen on the telly. Anyway, no. He kicked me out of his truck.”

“So… what? You need a place to stay?” 

“Oh! No, I couldn’t ask—”

“Hold on, guy. I wasn’t saying you could hole up here.”

Sirius sputtered a bit, a rosy flush creeping up his neck. He swallowed. “Right, sorry. No, yeah, I just… Do you know? Where I could stay? I didn’t exactly catch any, um, road signs, so.” 

Remus smiled. This was fun. He snapped a finger and clicked his tongue. “You know what, I think I know a place.”

The other boy’s face lit up. “Really? That’d be great.”

“Yeah, it’s just down the road.”

Sirius clapped both hands in front of his torso. “Brilliant. What’s it called, then?”

“The Motel.” 

“Sorry?”

“The Motel.”

“Right, but what’s the name?”

Remus bit his lip and sent Sirius a pointed glare. “The Motel.”

Sirius looked at Remus incredulously, mouth agape. “Are you messing with me?” He laughed, delirious, dragging both hands over his face and tilting his head back. “What’s the fucking name? I just need to sit down,” he whined, dangerously close to falling on his back.

Another laugh forced itself out of Remus’ throat. It couldn’t be helped, this entire situation was fucking funny. As soon as he did so, though, the sound of an above-head window latch being opened pierced through the strange bubble he and Sirius had created— one in which a posh English boy, by the name of Sirius Black, had flounced about on Remus’ walkway for the past five minutes— violently shoving Remus back into reality. Remus knew that his parents’ bedroom was positioned at the front of the house on the second floor, and that the aforementioned window sat right beside their bed. Before he thought too much about it, Remus reached forward, grabbing Sirius’ stupid blazer in his two hands, and shoved him to the side. He fell into a bush (that Remus’ had definitely acknowledged was there before pushing him in) with a groan, just before Lyall’s curious head popped out of the window, peering down at Remus with fire in his eyes.  

“Remus, who’s at the door?” He yelled, with the heavy, telltale country twang only present right after his father rolled out of bed. 

Craning his neck up and shielding his eyes with the palm of his hand, Remus yelled, “Marlene McKinnon, dad!”

“McKinnon? The hell’s that?”

Remus pegged this as one of the rare moments he was thankful for the long list of chores his mom assigned him to, often unbeknownst to his lazy-fuck father. “Chicken feed, dad!”

His father contemplated this for a minute, turning his neck to the side, assessing. “Well, tell him to shut the fuck up! Rooster’s not even awake!” 

Scoffing, Remus nodded. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll tell him!” Lyall seemed to accept this, curtly nodding his head before clearing his throat, coughing up a loogie, and spitting it out the window to land right before Remus’ boots. 

In no time at all, the window was slammed shut, and Remus looked down to where Sirius was splayed out in the blackberry bush. He winced, offering a hand. Sirius took it, and Remus pulled him to his feet. “Sorry. If he saw you, I think he’d assume Carter’s after him.” 

Brushing some leaves off his suit, Sirius furrowed his brows. “Carter?”

“Jimmy. President.” 

He used his thumb to wipe a bit of blackberry juice from his nose “Right.” Sirius sniffed the juice on his finger.

“Blackberry.”

“What?”

“It’s a blackberry bush,” Remus offered, a laugh playing on his lips. It was like talking to someone from another planet. He gestured to the juice on the other boy’s thumb. “Try it. It’s good. We plant ‘em every spring.” 

Sirius seemed to think this was the most preposterous idea to ever be suggested, for he only scoffed and wiped the juice off on a leaf that was previously stuck to his lapel.

Remus wasn’t sure what possessed him to do so, and he was sure Lyall would eventually have his head for it, but he found himself opening the door wider and taking a backwards step inside. When Sirius raised an inquisitive brow, Remus coughed into his shoulder. “Well, you must be hungry. Our hen popped out a few extra yesterday morning, so…” This didn’t seem to do much to quell the other boy’s confusion, though, because he just looked at Remus like he was a particularly interesting puzzle he’d yet to encounter or solve. Remus laughed, gesturing to the entrance hall with a quick tilt of his head. “Come on. I’ll fix you something.” If there was one thing his mother had taught him, it was to never let a guest walk away with an empty belly. 

Sirius stepped carefully over the threshold, placing one leather shoe in front of the other as though something might come out and grab it at any given moment. 

Remus ran his hand along the rose-covered wallpaper, which must have been white at some point, but had now absorbed the smoke from countless packs of Camels and turned a grimy cream color. A few odd items lay atop the hallway’s crown moulding: two or three of Lyall’s jack knives, the keys to their Ford pickup, and Remus’ work gloves, among others. When Remus turned his head, he noticed Sirius looking at each miscellaneous item with a questioning stare. “Mind the beatles,” Remus warned, pointedly stepping over the jar he had almost tripped on on the way out. Sirius followed suit.

When they entered the living room, Mickey was sitting up on the couch. Her hair was tousled into a bun on the top of her head, and she looked at the two of them with an unimpressed glare. She had put the mixtape back into the stereo, it seemed. 

I started singin', "Bye, bye, Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die

Remus looked at the girl, his lips pressed together, eyes pleading as she raked her gaze over Sirius. When Mickey’s eyes met his, she smirked and placed her hands in her lap. “Mick—” Remus urged, both palms extended in front of him. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth, ready to shout. Before she could alert Remus’ parents, he grabbed a caseless pillow off the floor and threw it right at her face. Her head jerked back and she fell off the couch with a defeated oomph. 

Letting out a sigh of relief, Remus tiptoed over to where she lay on the floor and peeled off the pillow. Mickey’s mouth was thrown open, eyes closed. 

“Did you just… knock that child out? With a pillow?” 

Pushing off the floor and turning to Sirius, Remus shrugged. “Our pillows aren’t very soft.” When Sirius’ eyes grew comically wide, Remus snorted. “Nah, she’s just asleep, she’s fine. If she wants to be a fuckin’ snitch, she can deal with it.” 

Sirius looked sceptical. “...Right.” 

He yawned, hand over his mouth, and kicked off his boots. “Pull out a chair,” he said, gesturing to the four wooden ones that sat around their circular kitchen table. Remus heard the screech of the legs being pulled back as he washed his hands in the sink. The yellow ruffle curtains that framed the kitchen window were still drawn, and the now-prominent sunlight filtered through them and illuminated the metal tap and basin. Walking over to the fridge, Remus repressed a shiver. The black and white tiles were unrelentingly cold on his feet, and he didn’t want to leave the douche unattended to grab a pair of socks from his room. 

He took a few eggs, milk, some bacon, and a carton of orange juice and plopped them on the counter, ready to get to work. When he chanced a look at Sirius, the other boy was watching Remus with a sort-of fascination, like he too didn’t understand how he was there. Remus noticed his shoes were still on. “You can take those off, if you want,” Remus offered between cracking eggs into a plastic bowl. Sirius nodded, and Remus poured in a bit of milk. He snatched the salt and pepper off the kitchen table, holding back another laugh at the way Sirius stared at the porcelain-cat shakers. 

Soon, the smell of sizzling bacon and scrambled eggs wafted throughout the kitchen. Bacon grease popped in the cast iron skillet, threatening to burn Remus’ skin as he stirred the eggs alongside the strips of pork. Across the room, he heard Sirius’ stomach rumble. The mixtape had switched over to another song, and Remus hummed along to the smooth, laid-back voice of Glenn Frey. 

Well, I'm runnin' down the road tryna loosen my load
I got seven women on my mind
Four that wanna own me, two that wanna stone me
One says she's a friend of mine

Remus took three porcelain plates out of the cupboard, electing to give Sirius the one with a chip on it, because he was still a douche. He used a wooden spatula to divvy out the eggs, and his fingers to place a piece of bacon on each of the plates. Licking off the grease, he grabbed the O.J. and poured a hefty amount into two mugs and one plastic cup. 

“Eat up,” he said, placing the two plates of food in front of an apprehensive-looking Sirius. Remus then made his way to where Mickey was still out cold and placed another dish and cup on the floor next to her feet. When he took his own spot at the table, he scooted the un-chipped plate in front of himself and dug in. 

Between greedy forkfuls of eggs, Remus did a double take at Sirius, who was staring at his own food like it was going to come back alive and eat him instead. Downing a bit of juice, Remus garbled, “Some’fing wrong with the food?” He swallowed, eyeing the fork that was held in a death grip between the other boy’s knuckles. 

“No!” Sirius assured, tearing his gaze away from his plate and towards Remus. “No,” he said, quieter. “I’m just… really hungry.”

“Um… yeah? That’s why I made you food.” 

Sirius nodded, eyes drawn back to the eggs. “Right.”

Remus picked apart a piece of bacon and popped it into his mouth. “You gonna eat it or stare at it ‘till it gets cold?”

With a tilt of his head and a clearing of his throat, Sirius speared a bit of egg and placed it carefully in his mouth. Remus watched with increasing fascination as he himself continued to shovel his own breakfast down his throat, hardly stopping to breath. Sirius gave Remus a sidelong glance as he chewed, still apprehensive, then forked more eggs and began properly eating. 

Watching Sirius eat was a bit like watching a persian cat attempt to roll around in mud with the pigs— stepping in, one toe pad at a time, with an unimpressed countenance plastered on its face, as if it couldn’t believe the mud had affronted him so. Remus, admittedly, let out an amused huff when Sirius’ pinky popped out as he sipped his juice, lips pursed around the rim of the mug. 

Sirius placed the O.J. back on the table and licked his lips. “Um, do you have a knife I could use?” Sirius asked. Unlike Remus’, Sirius’ elbows were very pointedly not resting atop the table. 

Remus wiped his mouth on a forearm. “For what?”

“Well, to cut the bacon.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry?”

“Just eat it!” Remus exclaimed. He waved the rest of his strip in the air in front of Sirius’ face. “Pick it up. Won’t kill you, y’know.” 

Sirius looked to his own bacon, then back at Remus. Remus raised his eyebrows, nodding his head slowly, as if he was instructing a child. Wasn’t far from the truth, Remus thought. Hesitantly, Sirius wrapped his thumb and forefinger around the end of the strip, like he couldn’t fathom not using utensils to eat. Soon enough, though, he got the hang of it and bit off a chunk, chewing thoughtfully. 

They resumed their eating. Or, more accurately, Remus resumed watching Sirius finish his meal, as Remus himself had cleared his plate about 5 minutes ago. 

“That your sister?” Sirius asked, tilting his head and setting down his mug. 

Following his gaze to where Mick still hadn’t woken up, foot now in her plate of food, Remus snorted. “Nah, just Mickey. She used to live with Terry down the road.” He stretched his arms above his head, looking at the girl fondly. 

“Why’s she with you now, then?” 

Remus sighed. “Terry was… Well, he was a terrible guy. Awful drunk. Lyall— that’s my dad— sometimes met up with him at the bar. He used to beat her. Mickey.” 

At this, Sirius stopped chewing. He again glanced over Mick’s sleeping figure, a tired glint in his eyes. “Ah,” he said, a bit softly. 

Remus cleared his throat. “Yeah. She’s younger, obviously, but I’d seen her around a few times. Quiet girl, didn’t say much of anything. I work over at this corner store downtown, and she’d usually come in to buy groceries. I knew Terry was her dad, and sometimes she’d show up to the store with bruises on her face. Wouldn’t talk about it at all, but when I’d withheld her bread until she gave me a straight answer, said she’d just taken a nasty spill.” Sirius was looking down at his lap. His breathing was even, and he didn’t say anything to acknowledge he was listening. Still, Remus went on. “Anyway, one time I was scrubbing the pickup out on the road, and I heard a whole lot of shouting coming from Terry’s house.” Sirius’ eyes closed. “There’s a lotta people like Terry down here. They tell you to look the other way, that it’s none of your business. But I— I couldn’t let it keep happening. I knew she was lying about the spill, and I just couldn’t.” Remus took a deep breath. “So, yeah. She lives with us now.”

Sirius finally looked up, food abandoned. “Um, where’s Terry then?”

Itching his ear, Remus clicked his tongue. “Ah. Still rotting in a cell out in the county jail, I’d wager.”

“For child abuse,” Sirius stated.

“No, actually. Like I said, lotta people like Terry down here. Man like him wouldn’t’ve gotten far on domestic charges. No, he’s in on arson.” 

Sirius reared his head back, eyebrows shooting up. “Arson?”

“Yeah, but he was framed.”

“Framed? How do you know?” 

Smirking, Remus said, “Well, I framed him.” Sirius’ mouth fell open, looking at Remus with a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“Wh–” He shook his head and laughed. “No, I’m not going to ask.” Pushing his plate away, Sirius gave Mickey one more sidelong glance before looking back up at Remus. 

A bit sheepishly, Remus stood up, grabbing both of their plates and heading to the sink. He didn’t bother scrubbing them down; Mickey knew that Remus never did the dishes after making a meal, and that he would inevitably make her do it later. Before he turned on the tap to give the plates a preliminary soak, because he wasn’t a complete waste of space, he grabbed the rest of Sirius’ bacon and threw it in his mouth.

Before he made his way back to the table, he realized that his fly was still undone. Internally cringing, he zipped up and sat back down. “Feel better?” He asked, propping an elbow on the wood.

Sirius tucked a curl behind his ear. “Yeah, loads. Thanks.”

Shaking his head, Remus brushed it off. “No worries. Least I can do.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the quiet track flowing out of the stereo. It was another Eagles song, so it must’ve been the tape Remus gave Mick for her 13th birthday last fall. Remus rested a leg on the opposite knee, bobbing his foot up and down and tapping a finger on the table. Every few seconds, Sirius glanced over at him, only to return his eyes to the floor when Remus glanced back. 

“Do you—”

“I can—”

They both snorted. Sirius yawned, placing a polite hand over his mouth as he did so. Remus followed the motion with his eyes, swallowing a lump in his throat. “You tired?” 

“What? Oh, yeah.”

“Long plane ride?” 

Sirius chuckled. “Yeah, long plane ride.” Suddenly, he pushed himself to his feet and dusted off the front of his suit pants. “Sorry, um. I guess I’ll be going then.” Sirius looked around as if someone was going to jump out from behind a corner and tell him this was all an elaborate prank. Clearing his throat, he gave Remus a curt nod. “Well, thanks. For the— yeah. Bye.” 

Remus could only watch as the other boy turned on his heel and stiffly walked towards the front door. He felt as though letting Sirius walk away was the wrong thing to do, like doing so would leave too many questions unanswered. Without giving it a second thought, Remus abruptly stood. “Sirius!” He yelled, with a bit more volume than necessary. He winced. Mickey would sleep through anything, but he had probably just woken his parents. 

Sirius immediately swiveled towards Remus, eyes alight. “Yes?” He asked, arms by his side. 

Well, Remus hadn’t thought very far ahead. Scratching behind his tilted neck, he sighed. “Um. Just— if you need to… rest a bit, I have a, uh, barn.”

Sirius furrowed his brows. “A… barn?”

Cringing, Remus said, “Yeah. I’d let you take a spare room, but I’m pretty sure my dad would blow your head off as soon as he saw you.” Sirius’ eyes widened, and Remus chuckled awkwardly. “Kidding.” He wasn’t kidding. 

Sirius swallowed. “Right.” He rocked back on his heels, assessing, looking at Remus sceptically. “I am quite tired.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a… bed? Or would I have to sleep on the, um, hay bales?” 

Remus couldn’t help but let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, there’s a mattress up in the loft. It’s all yours, if you want it. No hay bales, promise.” 

“Cool,” Sirius said, drawing out the word. 

“Cool. Hold on, though— I’ll be right back.” He left a startled Sirius in the hallway to run to his room. Well, he didn’t run. It was a light speed walk, if anything. 

Remus searched his drawers for some clean clothes, throwing various unsuitable articles of clothing behind him as he continued his frantic hunt. When he finally found a somewhat-sanitary pair of flannel pants and an inside-out t-shirt, he ran (speed-walked) back to where Sirius was still standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room. Remus presented the clothes, holding them out with a small smile. “Didn’t want you to dirty your suit, sir.” 

“Oh, piss off.” Sirius rolled his eyes before grabbing the pants and shirt out of Remus’ hands. 

Snorting, Remus did a bit of a bow. “Bathroom’s over there,” he offered, pointing a thumb to the door to the right of the kitchen. “Feel free to go change. Or, you know, you could always change in the barn. I’m sure the horses wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re putting me in a horse barn—”

“No, Jesus,” Remus laughed. "Just go change.”

Sirius squinted his eyes before walking to the bathroom. “Okay.” 

It took the other boy an entire 10 minutes to finish changing, and when he pushed the door open, Remus couldn’t help but double over in laughter. Remus looked back up at Sirius, then proceeded to snort into his hand. Sirius sported a black t-shirt with the bold-lettered words, “Everything’s Bigger in Texas” plastered across the front. A large arrow was situated beneath the text, pointing down suggestively. Remus’ friend Mary had bought it for him as a joke in 8th grade, following his aforementioned growth spurt. He had forgotten about it entirely. Despite the fact that it was over 3 years old, the hem of the shirt fell far below Sirius’ wasteline, the sleeves touching the joint between his forearm and bicep. The flannel pants dragged along the floor as Sirius walked towards Remus, suit folded neatly under an arm. The sight was so starkly different from what Remus had become accustomed to in the last hour that his continuous and uproarious laughter couldn’t be helped. 

“You dog. What the hell is this?” Sirius asked, laughing between words and gesturing to his chest. 

“I didn’t pick it on purpose. Swear.” Sirius raised his eyebrows, clearly not believing him. Remus tutted. “What’s done is done. Come on, then,” he said, turning on his heel. 

Remus grabbed his and Sirius’ shoes from the kitchen before handing over the Oxfords and shoving the boots onto his still un-socked feet. 

They walked outside, passing the chicken pen on the way to the barn. It seemed the rooster was finally up. With each step, the grass painted their shoes with its morning dew and mud lodged itself in the tread of Remus’ boots. Breathing in the sweet morning air, Remus allowed himself a moment of reprieve and closed his eyes. June was his favorite summer month— it wasn’t excruciatingly sticky and hot like July, or melancholy and muggy like August. In contrast to the later summer months’ oppressive mornings, June brought a breezy, carefree atmosphere that Remus certainly didn’t take advantage of. 

The soft, melodious call of a mourning dove filtered through the air, and Remus patted the mane of one of their horses in passing. Sirius turned his head back towards the enclosure as they continued their walk; the farm was quite large— a little over 100 acres— and the barn sat on the far end, away from the ranch. “How many horses do you have?” Sirius asked. They now walked on a gravel pathway, and the material crunched beneath their feet. 

“Five. Used to have six, but Ding died last fall.”

“Ding?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t think of a name, then mom dropped a pan and it came to me,” Remus said with a flourish. He heard Sirius snort from where he followed behind. 

When they reached the barn— tall, red, and overbearing— Remus pushed open the doors. His eyes immediately began to water due to the overwhelming, earthy stench of hay and sod. Sirius looked around, assessing. They didn’t keep much in the large outbuilding, mainly just spare equipment. Various shovels and rusted wheelbarrows lined the straw-covered floor, many of them not having been used recently or at all. Remus leaned against the wall, watching as Sirius carefully raked his gaze over the barn’s contents. “No one really comes out here,” Remus said. 

Whipping his head around, Sirius nodded absentmindedly, now staring at the intimidatingly-high, pointed ceiling. Remus doubted the other boy had ever stepped foot inside a barn before, and he ventured to guess he wouldn’t be able to name half the equipment it stored if asked. “Mattress’ up there.” Remus pointed to the loft that stuck out from the back wall, hanging over a few piles of hay. Again, Sirius nodded. 

Remus made to climb up the rope ladder that led to the overhang, only to come to a stop halfway through when he realized Sirius was still on the ground. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights, sir? S’just a ladder.”

Sirius shifted on his feet, looking up at Remus with wide eyes. He seemed to do that a lot, Remus noticed. It reminded him of a doe. “Well, I’ve just— I haven’t—”

Hopping off the ladder and onto the ground, Remus dusted his hands. “What, you’ve never climbed a ladder?” He scoffed, looking at Sirius with amusement. 

 Sirius shook his head, and Remus huffed another laugh. “I can’t… I don’t know how to climb.” 

“Jesus. You’ve never had a treehouse?”

“Uh, no,” he admitted, coughing a bit. 

“Your dad’s never had you help with chores? Climb to the roof and stuff?”

Sirius looked at his feet. “No.” 

Something in the way Sirius eyebrows rested low on his face, his mouth turned down, made Remus take pause. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I’ll help. It’s fun.” 

Looking up, Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Fun? It’s climbing a bunch of rope tied together with a few dingy knots. It’s a death trap.” 

Remus looked at him for a moment. “You really need to get out of the house more.” 

Sirius scoffed, his eyes dancing with humor. “You don’t even know,” he muttered. 

“Huh?”

“You gonna show me, or what?”

Crossing the distance between himself and the rope ladder, Remus put one foot on the first wrung. “Well, you just put one foot in front of the other—” he explained, drawing out each word. “—and climb.” Remus smirked at the unimpressed expression that pulled at Sirius’ eyebrows and drew down the corners of his lips. 

Suddenly, Sirius pushed forward and shoved Remus away. He mounted the ladder, gulping as he gripped the rope with an iron-right fist. “Right…” he mumbled. Sure enough, he began his upward descent, one tentative foot at a time. However, when he reached the middle of the ladder, one of his shoes got caught on the extra-long fabric of his pants, threatening to send him to the ground. 

Remus reached out to grab Sirius’ foot in an attempt to steady his balance. “I got you,” he said. Sirius nodded, exhaled a somewhat-shaky breath, and finished climbing. Remus swiftly followed suit, dusting his hands off on his jeans and looking around. The overhang was built to house fertilizer, chemicals, or otherwise toxic substances that Hope didn’t want stray animals sinking their teeth into with easy access on the ground. However, when Remus got old enough to have friends sleep over, he found that the seclusion and privacy of the barn was a much more tempting space to hold hang outs than the thin-walled main house. Thus, the mattress loft was born. 

The floor consisted of rickety wood that was likely due for a hefty break, as it hadn’t been replaced since the original owners built the barn. Probably in seventeen-something, Remus ventured to guess. A mattress, laden with dust and possible mites, lined the corner of the space. One beige blanket stretched over the makeshift bed, with more holes than Remus remembered from the last time he’d used it. Signs pointed to bed bugs. Tough luck for Sirius, he supposed. 

There wasn’t much else. Actually, there wasn’t anything else that took up space on the loft, but it’d have to do. There was no way Sirius could hole up in the main house; Lyall would smell his superiority complex from a mile away. There was also no way Remus could let him leave, his conscience wouldn’t allow it. The boy was clearly out of sorts— another glance chanced in Sirius' direction refuted the claim. His eyes were sunken in as he glanced around, cataloging his surroundings. Deep, purple bags hung low beneath his bottom lashes, and Remus was certain they’d been there for far longer than Sirius was letting on. Remus had worked on a ranch his entire life— he knew fatigue, he understood wanting to fuck off into bed after a long day. The hazy cloud of smoke that followed Sirius like a disease was no such thing. That boy was exhausted, and not only in the physical sense; Remus was sure of it. 

So, the disgusting bed would have to do. Remus made a mental note to give him an upgrade, because apparently he’d already decided that Sirius would be staying with him for the foreseeable future. Remus had a pension for the interesting, what could he say? Crouching down beside the mattress, the wood groaned, and Remus winced. Maybe he’d have to build a new loft, too.  

Remus picked up the blanket and shook the dust out, particles shooting through the air and tickling his nose. Sirius (politely) sneezed into his elbow. Remus placed it back down, smoothing it out a bit with his hands. His knees felt like they were on fire, and he couldn’t help but let out a quiet groan as he stood back up. It was a common joke between Remus and his friends that he had the joints of a chronically-ill old man, likely due to his father’s shit genetics. He sent up a mental fuck you to all the men on Lyall’s side of the family for cursing him with frail bones. 

Sirius wasted no time crawling onto the blanket, seemingly not deterred by the bed’s squalor, content to pull the material over his chest and lean his head back onto the wall. His heavy-lidded eyes blinked slowly; Sirius was clearly making a valiant attempt to stay awake. Remus stood there for a moment, looking over the strange boy. He absentmindedly picked at the hem of his tank top. “Sorry about the blanket.”

“It’s okay.”

“I can get you a new one, if you want.” 

“No, that’s fine.”

Remus nodded in response, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. His head was almost touching. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he rolled back onto his ankles. When the wood groaned beneath him, he regained proper footing. “Um, okay. Have a good… nap.” Cringing, Remus shut his eyes. 

Sirius pulled the blanket a bit higher and huffed a laugh. “Thanks.” 

Nodding again, Remus turned to leave. As he made his way down the ladder, the only sounds that could be heard were that of the rope straining the creaking wood, his own quiet breaths, and the loudest of them all: Sirius’ presence. Just knowing that the other boy was laying down a few feet from himself, Remus’ palms were sweating. He hadn’t ever done something like this before— something so reckless. Sirius was a stranger. Sirius was an English, suit-wearing, sleep-disrupting stranger, and Remus couldn’t find it in himself to turn him away. His presence threatened to shatter the windows with its tenor, demolish the entire barn with its magnitude. Remus was going to let him. God knew why, but he was going to let him. 

Interrupting the overwhelming noise, Sirius whispered, “Remus?”

Remus hopped off the ladder and swiveled around. His ears were newly-tuned to be hyper attentive, so he didn’t have to strain much to hear Sirius’ breath of a mumble. “Yes?” Remus exhaled. 

“I didn’t know where to go,” Sirius uttered. “Thank you,” he said, much quieter and much more sincere than the thanks he’d offered for the blanket.

They couldn’t see each other, but Remus nodded. “That’s alright.” 

When he exited the barn, the sun was streaming down on his face. It was still morning. The day had just started, and Remus didn’t know how everything had already changed. 

Hope eagerly placed a plate of steaming-hot biscuits and gravy down in front of Remus. The smell alone had Remus’ stomach rumbling. He was extremely hungry— though he often was— after unloading the cows’ hay for a good portion of his day. He had angry, raised scratches snaking up both of his arms from the job. Nothing he wasn’t used to, but he certainly didn’t look forward to the sting that awaited him during his shower after dinner. 

Mickey turned her head and smirked at him as she dug her fork into a biscuit, cutting it into bite-sized pieces with a jagged steak knife. The plate screeched as the knife dragged along the delicate porcelain. Rolling his eyes, Remus grabbed the pepper shaker and shook a hefty amount onto his gravy. Mickey was supposed to help him with the hay, but she had earned herself a free day with a single quivering lip and faux claims of feeling nauseous. The last time Lyall had ignored her protests and forced her to work anyway, she’d thrown up all over the chicken pen. Remus had to clean it up.

Now, though, Remus regretted ever urging his father to listen to the girl any time she cried stomach bug. His arms held a noticeably-intense ache as he reached across the table to grab the pitcher of sweet tea. He sent Mickey another withering look, but she only smiled softly and pushed a few locks of hair out of her face to meet the ponytail that slung across her left shoulder. She had made a quick and speedy recovery, just in time to avoid the Pepto-Bismol and indulge in her favorite hot meal. 

Hope was at the sink, washing the dishes she used to cook that evening. It was a habit of hers— she had once told Remus that she couldn’t properly enjoy her food until the kitchen was spotless. Remus had understood, to a certain degree, so now they all waited for her to be done so they could start eating. Hope took her rubber gloves off for a moment, then proceeded to right the wooden cross which hung to the left of the sink window. It had previously lay askew, and she pulled her gloves back on as soon as she fixed it. 

Remus heard rather than saw his father entering the kitchen. The stomp of his heavy leather work boots echoed throughout the open floor plan, and Remus heaved a sigh. He was going to be in one of his moods. As Lyall plopped down into his seat opposite Remus and next to Mickey, he scooted his chair in with a painful screech. She and Remus stopped their silent conversation as they watched Lyall fork a biscuit and rip a piece off with his mouth. He chewed obscenely, his breaths of exertion intermingling with the soft sounds of Hope scrubbing a pot a few feet away. 

Glancing at Hope’s untouched plate and respective chair, then back up at his father, Remus cleared his throat. Lyall didn’t look up from where he was scooping a bit of gravy up with his spoon. “Yes?” He said. 

“You aren’t going to wait?” 

His father plopped the spoon into his mouth, teeth scraping the metal as he did so. Remus knew he didn’t have to elaborate, just as he knew that Lyall was conscious of his own disrespect. It would seem as though the man didn’t deem Remus’ question worthy of an answer, for he instead opted to shrug and continue shovelling gravy down his throat. Remus and Mickey gave one another a sidelong glance. 

A few minutes later, Hope sat down. She seemed to have disregarded her husband’s blatant insolence— Remus’ mother had always held an astounding air of self-restraint, a trait that was surely absent from his own genetic makeup. Sometimes, Remus found himself wondering how his mother hadn’t left his father, but he was grateful that she hadn’t. As much as he liked to poke fun at the fact that his parents didn’t seem to like one another, they were still his parents, and he still held that naive desire to maintain some semblance of domestic normality in his life. Hope and Lyall usually got along fine— her quiet tranquility mixed with his straightforward messiness seemed to cancel each other out. Remus’ parents were definitely not well-suited to the untrained eye, but Remus knew better. Against all odds, they loved one another, and he supposed that’s all that mattered. 

Even if his father was a major cunt after work. 

Hope smiled at Remus and Mickey before cutting into her food, the two of them following suit. She took a polite bite before addressing her husband. “Work?” Remus’ mother inquired, gazing thoughtfully at Lyall. The man only shrugged. That seemed to be his gesture of choice that evening.. “How was work, Lyall?” Hope said again, this time with more vigour. If there was one thing about Hope Lupin, it was that she wouldn’t tolerate being ignored. Lyall knew this, so Remus wondered what he thought he’d achieve in doing so. 

A quiet conversation ensued, in which Lyall made a record-low number of bitchy remarks about his coworkers, and Hope managed to offer a whopping three smiles to the man before she decided that that was enough and went back to her typical air of neutrality. Maybe it would shape up to be a normal dinner, after all. 

However, when Remus made to shake more pepper on his gravy, the lid popped off and the contents, in their entirety, spilled over the food. “Fuck!” Remus yelped, practically flinging the shaker across the tablecloth in surprise. He made desperate attempts to scoop off the pepper, to little avail. When he heard the clink of a fork against a plate and an exhausted sigh, he dragged his gaze away from his poor gravy and up to his father. 

Lyall rubbed a hand on his forehead, eyes snapping shut. “Remus, please. You waste so much food. Can’t you—”

Scoffing, Remus interrupted. “Yes, because I just dumped all the pepper on my plate intentionally. So sorry.” Out of the corner of his eye, Remus saw Mickey glance at Hope, who’s eyebrows drew up in a silent plea. She didn't like conflict, especially between Lyall and Remus. 

One of Lyall’s eyes twitched, and Remus couldn’t help but laugh. He leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying the clear irritation that danced on his father’s face. Just as Lyall sat up a bit straighter and opened his mouth, surely to spew more utter bullshit, Mickey swayed forward and knocked her glass of sweet tea right onto Lyall’s plate. A small hand immediately flew up to her mouth in a show of mock dismay, brows titling up in tandem. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She squealed, looking right at Lyall. “I really didn’t mean to waste my tea, your biscuits, and all your gravy!” Mickey exclaimed, shaking her head a bit. 

“Mickey!” Lyall yelled, eyes widening in shock. 

“I’m just so clumsy,” Mickey said. Her hand was still hovering over her mouth, and from Remus’ position to her left, he could see the smile that tugged on her lips from behind. 

Lyall looked down at his plate, both hands suspended in the air. “Oh, Jesus—” 

“Lyall!” Hope protested, sending a pointed glare to her husband and then to the metal cross that hung above the couch in the living room. 

Grimacing, Lyall squinted his eyes at Mickey. “Don’t make me throw you out, girl.” 

“Dad,” Remus said, glaring daggers at the man, because absolutely not. He wouldn’t stand for his father throwing around threats like that, even if they were superficial and born out of his momentary annoyance. Mickey only shrugged, plopping the last bit of biscuit into her mouth. Remus noticed the small frown that was now present on her face, though. Fucking Lyall. 

Remus shook his head, content to pretend Lyall was not sitting opposite him and quietly huffing at his ruined dinner. 

After they’d all finished, Remus covertly grabbed a bowl of leftovers and snuck to the front door. He held the bowl in one hand, a glass of tea in the other. Before he could make it out, though, Mickey stopped him with a palm on his forearm. He turned his neck to face the girl. 

In this lighting, standing before him, he realized how young she was. She was 13, yes, but sometimes Remus forgot the fact. Her rounded cheeks and widened eyes provided her with an air of adolescence that so starkly contrasted the fierce girl Remus had grown to love. She’d been through so much for her age, and something about the way she stood before him, curious gaze roaming over the dishes in his arms, reminded Remus that she’d only been on this Earth for little more than two handfuls of years. She was dealt such a shitty hand. It wasn’t fair. It certainly wasn’t fair for her to be ripped out of the arms of her own father— abusive and evil, yes, but her own blood nonetheless— and plopped into a home where the husband ignored his wife, made snide comments at his own child, and threatened to throw her back out on her feet. Remus vowed, then and there, to make sure she never felt like she wasn’t welcome ever again. 

“Rem,” Mickey said, hand still on his arm. 

“Yes?”

Her eyes flitted down to the leftover biscuits and gravy. With the awkward angle he was holding the food, it was dangerously close to tumbling out of the bowl. He shifted his stance, and Mickey inclined her head a bit. “Are those for—”

“Shh!” Remus exclaimed, eyes going wide. Rolling his eyes, he said, “But yes.” 

Mickey hummed, retracting her hand. “What’s his name?” 

He smirked. “Sirius Black.” Rearing her head back, Mickey gave Remus an amused glare. Scoffing, he said, “I know.” He leaned forward as if to tell her a secret. “He’s from England,” he whispered, and Mickey's eyes lit up. 

“Really?” She asked. 

“Really.” Suddenly serious, Remus cleared his throat. “You can’t tell them. Especially not Lyall. You know that, right? They’ll kick him out.”

Mickey rolled her eyes, as if what Remus had asked was the most obvious thing in the world. She walked away, and Remus smiled as he pushed himself past the door. 

When he made it to the barn, he threw the entrance open with care— trying to avoid any noisy creeks. It was eerily quiet inside; the low hum of crickets filtered in through the cracks of the door and windows. He tiptoed over to the ladder, as he wasn’t sure if Sirius was still asleep. He hadn’t come to find Remus all day. 

He had to hold the cup with his mouth as he climbed up to the loft, and more than a few times he feared for the fate of the food as he clumsily placed one foot over the other. When he mounted the overhang, Sirius was laying on his side. One leg was draped over the blanket, the other completely covered. He was out cold. 

Crouching, Remus carefully placed the cup and bowl next to the mattress for when Sirius inevitably woke. As he stood back up, he couldn’t help but notice the way the boy’s silky black hair sprawled across the bed, surrounding his head like some kind of halo. Sirius’ chest rose and fell with each thorough breath, as if each one was making up for lost time. 

Remus hummed, taking one last look at the sleeping boy, then promptly left the barn and headed back to the ranch.