The details
What the bloody hell? What in the ever frozen circles of torturous bloody hell? – A summary of the same two questions that keep repeating in Remus’ head for the span of the last few minutes. Ridiculous – Is the answer, his weary brain responds in a humourless chorus, smoothing over the sharp edges of his increasing rage with a tired tone.
The scowl on his face appears comfortable to stay, etched into his facial expression and Remus can’t find anything in himself to do something against it. He knows he is walking too fast, knows that the upcoming conversation will only add fuel to his already fuming emotional state – but Remus can’t bring himself to care either. He needs answers now. Plausible ones, that is, if Evan bloody Rosier is even capable of supplying him with them.
It wasn’t as if Remus had kept tabs on the younger boy, but the usual rumour here and there had been enough to establish a rather dull picture of the blonde in his mind. Speaking of dull – the hair? This sandlike, muted dark blonde, that needs the sunlight to even gather a handful of golden streaks to lazily reflect in the warm metal colour. His clothes – the same. Always the same. The same material, the same three colours, the same tailored cut. There is nothing exciting to find in his watered-down eyes either. Light green - almost blue, almost grey, but in the end nothing of substance really.
What in the ever loving hell would bring the likes of Slytherin – pureblood – rich – Evan Rosier to Remus’ poetry club?
He has not been following him – that much Remus’ knows. Maria knows him, he heard as much from their cut-short conversation. Now that he thinks of it, Rosier had opened the door with enthusiasm as well, as if he knew what to expect behind the stained door and held sympathy for it – long ago established sympathy. Did he frequent the meetings often? And if so, why had Remus never seen him there before? – Because its a muggle pub. A muggle pub, Evan bloody Rosier seems to feel quite comfortable in.
Remus doesn't know what to think and he always wants to know, he is curious that way. Indignant he kicks pebbles from the sidewalk and can’t bring himself to care if they hit the cars parking on the street. He is careless that way - Offensive, how Sirius likes to call him in mockery, all pulled up eye brows and nods of verification. Remus shakes off the thought physically as he comes to a stop before the familiar entrance of the dingy pub.
For a short moment he wonders if the younger boy even got the hint to follow him back again for their conversation, or if he just continued down the road, disappearing to wherever he came from. Remus should have kept the book – the pretentiously engraved book with a fancy leather binding – if anything, for leverage. It is always good to have something to hold over a Slytherin – bonus points if its something of emotional value – Lily would punch his shoulder now - because sometimes she knows what he thinks, even if he doesn't voice it out loud. It’s scary most of the time, but silently he is glad of it. Their friendship in general. She is the only true friend he has at Hogwarts now, considering his conflicted emotions towards the marauders -There is nothing conflicted about Lily in comparison. Spending time with her is simple, natural, easy in a way that always seems to unnoticeably lift a heavy weight off of Remus’ chest. He thinks of her, whenever someone mentions the topic of friendship to him.
Once the list had been longer - in fact, Lily was actually the most recent addition. But still. The others have yet to reclaim their spots in his regard – whether they confronted him first or left it for him to figure out how to forgive them. Remus silently prefers the first option but he knows his friends all too well – James with the ego the size of the black lake but a heart to match it – has never met the idea of betrayal in his entire life, Peter – the silent one with a wicked sense of humour and an intense desire for harmony – would have forgiven Sirius in an instant, if he would have been in Remus’ place, even if it was just for the continuation of his friendship with the other boys, and Sirius – Sirius would have never spoken to him again, securely backed up by their friends - and probably the entire school at the rate his jaw was squaring out as of recently.
So yeah, to say it is complicated, doesn't even cover the extent of the shit-show Remus is living through at the moment in the slightest. A shit-show Evan Roiser is starring in now, apparently as well.
As if the thought of him summoned him somehow, the shorter boy appears at Remus’ side now, all downwards directed glances and pulled up shoulders. Ridiculous, Remus thinks again, dragging an annoyed hand over his face at the sight of the blonde.
“What are you doing here?” he starts bluntly, determined to get this over with, as fast as humanly possible, so that he can return to the more pressing matters that have initially brought him here; before the Slytherin had pulled up.
The younger boy stays silent though, crossing Remus’ plans with immediate effect, which only infuriates him even further.
“Listen, I don’t have all day-“ he adds with a sneer in his voice, staring at the tousled blond mob of hair of the shorter boy, who is still not meeting his eyes. The silence between them stretches and the younger boy before him seems to shrink into himself further with every second that passes them by.
A low rumble of something like pity rises in Remus’ stomach then, as he continues to watch the, now, shaking boy. Nervousness radiates in waves off of the smaller frame of the finely dressed Slytherin, papable in the air around them – and its so out of place for the usual reserved demeanour he witnessed on the shorter boy on their few shared encounters, that it makes a switch flick in Remus’ brain.
He suddenly remembers the light green eyes of the boy before him, widened with fear in a corridor when a group of sixth-year students had attacked him – the same eyes he had been faced with, when the shorter boy had muttered a cleaning-spell to get urine and toilet-muck off his fingers in second year – the same green eyes that are averted from his own now, fixated on the floor between them, widened in fright.
Remus’ insides clench slightly at the sight – of course it could be a trick, a strategically planned scheme to catch him off guard – But he has never seen that in-sincere spark in Evan Rosier, when he was honest with himself. No, in all his dullness, Rosier had always behaved passively – whether it was in the corridors with his friends or sitting squished between larger bodies in the dining hall. It doesnt appear likely to Remus, that the younger boy currently tries to outsmart him and is – to his decreasing surprise – just completely frightened. He makes his decision then, dropping his sneer and schooling his expression into neutrality.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn't mean to – I’m Remus.” He settles on, pushing his hands into the pockets of his worn, oversized leather jacket that stands in a complimentary contrast to the younger boy’s tailored clothes of carefully muted colouring.
Rosier’s eyes lift up then, suddenly crashing with Remus’ gaze, taking him entirely off-guard. Yes, they are light green, muted and washed-out of colour – but they are also so alive, brimming with a strange kind of light, that hits Remus like a bullet to the chest.
“I’m Evan.” The boy supplies in a breathless rush, holding Remus’ gaze for the first time without looking away immediately. And its unsettling to watch how his posture changes in the blink of a second – a ripple of new-found confidence pouring into his shoulders, effectively pulling them back until the blonde straightens up to his full height, reaching Remus’ chin on the same level with the top of his head.
He is taken aback with the sudden change in the shorter boy’s demeanour and can only nod in response as his gaze keeps lingering on the other boy’s eyes unmovingly.
“Yeah, I know,” he adds stupidly – a confession that doesn’t go unnoticed by the boy in front of him, who moves his hands out of his coat pockets in an obviously unconscious way.
“Oh-“ Rosier blushes now, a soft rose-coloured flush illuminating his pristine, pale skin. And Remus is uncomfortable with their exchange. “I mean, I know your name as well,“ the younger boy adds stupidly through his blushing, reaching with a restless hand into his already messed up mob of golden hair. Golden? Since when – Oh, the sunsent. There is a signet ring resting on his left hand’s middle finger, reflecting the warm light in a blinding flash that hits Remus straight to the eyes.
He bends away, shuffling his feet awkwardly in the process, finding his footing at last, when he catches the younger boy’s wide, afraid eyes again.
“Now that we established – that – could we maybe come back to the question of what you’re doing here?” Remus asks, looking down expectantly at the awkwardly staring boy.
“I write,” is the ominous answer that follows after a short pause.
“Here? Since when?” Remus pushes further, growing annoyed with the boy again.
“Since my first year, I guess.” Rosier responds eventually, holding Remus’ gaze with earnest and a severe flush dusting his high sitting cheekbones. Surprise rises in Remus and makes him cross his arms in front of his chest again, “How come, that I’ve never seen you here, then?” He inquires further, raising an accusing brow at the Slytherin.
Waiting for his answer, annoyedly nibbling at his lip piercing, Remus lets his gaze wander over the younger boy again, noticing slightly darker, pronounced brows and the hint of a slowly squaring out jaw line on his slim, oval face – a silent kind of beauty that only reveals itself over a long time of attention spent – the kind that doesn’t ask for attention – that has to be discovered by attentive eyes and a patient mind - a softness lining the edges that doesn't quite fit the dull image Remus has had in his mind about the shorter boy.
“I guess, we haven’t been around the place at the same time-“ Rosier eventually states quietly, his gaze unwaveringly directed at Remus’ own.
“You don’t come here often then, or you’re lying-“ The taller boy accuses, immediately cut short by the heated disagreement in the light green eyes facing him. It’s lights them up, makes them appear darker, more pronounced and unsettles Remus deeply with their sudden change.
“I dont lie.” Rosier’s tone is quiet but biting, incredibly at odds with the pink flush on his cheeks – And Remus can’t help but believe him there and then - He doesn’t know if its the sincerity in the younger boy’s tone or the unsettling way his wide eyes momentarily form slits at his accusation. It takes him by surprise either way, makes him move slightly backwards and leaves him at a strange loss of words.
They keep staring at each other, Remus silently contemplating his next question and Rosier blinking narrow-eyed.
“I can show you my new poem, if its the evidence that you need to stop questioning me like you’re entitled to do so,” The bite in the younger boy’s voice intensifies, while he holds Remus’ gaze unwaveringly. The statement rubs Remus the wrong way though and the taller boy immediately straightens up, using his height to tower over the boy, while taking a threatening step closer, “Oh, I’m entirely entitled to question any Slytherin that claims to frequent a muggle pub on the regular, Rosier –“
“Evan.” The retort comes shooting from the other boy.
“What?” Remus snorts indignant.
“My name is Evan.”
“Yeah, I know that, Rosier, you keep reminding me.”
“Call me Evan then.” The boy insist, his intense light-eyed stare piercing into Remus’ own.
“We’re not really at first name basis, are we now, Rosier?” He taunts, enjoying the upper hand his age and height dealt to him on every turn in this conversation so far.
“It makes you look ignorant, Remus, how you keep addressing my family, while you’re actually having a conversation with me – Evan the person, who indeed exists outside the context of my family name. Do you mean to act this way, hiding behind formalities and rude comments like that separates the both of us, while we are standing outside the place people -not muggles or wizards – just normal people go to, to be finally honest with themselves and their poetry?” It’s the longest string of words Remus has ever heard, quiet, unassuming Evan Rosier say to anyone in all the time he has known of him. And quite frankly it leaves him speechless. All the bite is gone from his expression, from the arch in his shoulders – the entire air in his lungs deflated, gone, unfound between the short distance of a metre that seperates the two of them. Opposites in every way and still gathered at this one spot the other never expected them to show up together. And doesn’t the younger boy have a point with the resentment lining his tone, when he has asked for nothing but the simple act of being recognised as a person?
“So, do you want to see it, or do you plan to stand here the entire evening?” The younger boy snaps at him, pulling him out of the petrification his latest words had driven Remus to.
“You write poems?” Remus asks into the tense silence that unfolds between them again – a reoccurring theme as it appears.
“I just said that I do, didn’t I?” Rosier scoffs.
“But you’re a Slytherin,” Remus states unintelligent, dumbfounded – at a loss for any objection for the other boy’s presence besides his own prejudice.
“Wow, you really paid attention to my school-uniform,” The younger boy says, something sour crossing his pristine face.
“I can write poetry and still be ambitious, you know – the two of those facts aren’t mutually exclusive.” He adds now, in a kind of somber tone, eying Remus from the side with a more gentle expression, obviously practised in the sort of patience the other boy never deemed possible to master.
“Do you want to see it? My poem?” He adds now, regarding Remus with wide, vulnerable eyes again, entirely unaware of the unearthing effect this statement alone has on the older boy.
“I wrote it at school before – well – everything happened. It’s out of touch, considering the circumstances now – you’ll probably hear about it anyway through the daily prophet or at school – my brother died.” His tone changes from anticipation to flatness in a microsecond and Remus doesn't know what he ought to do with the information. Quite frankly he doesn't know anything about the Rosier family apart from the fact that they’re influential and rich – and have a long standing history with the houses of Slytherin and Ravenclaw – but apart from that – nothing comes to his mind.
Remus finds himself awkwardly quiet, biting down on the ring of his lip piercing again, avoiding the other boy’s eyes with an uncomfortably growing stiffness in his shoulders.
Rosier doesn't appear affronted by this, leans against the wall next to Remus with a neutral and still thoughtful expression, holding room for the silence that settles between them.
The older boy pulls out his pack of fags then, an act born of the lack of ideas in his head, and offers it to the boy next to him, expecting him to decline. But Evan Rosier holds up to the unspoken promise of surprising Remus on every turn and accepts, taking a cigarette out of the package with the elegant fingers of a pianist.
They light their fags in the comfortable silence settling around them and suddenly – within the quiet and streaks of fading sunlight, it doesn't seem too strange for Remus to find the younger Slytherins leaning next to him against the dingy pub’s wall.
In their shared silence Remus can admit, that he has underestimated the boy – has not given credit where credit was due – has given prejudice a place where it had nothing to do in the first place. He is curious now, shaken awake by the fierceness of the other boy’s vulnerability – the honesty in his light green eyes and the earnest in his tone, when he boldly stated to Remus that he doesnt lie.
And who doesnt lie? Evan Rosier apparently.
“So, you write?” Remus asks, breathing out a swirl of smoke-drenched air into the developing night sky. It’s a peace offering – an unspoken apology that unfolds between them – widening to an uncomfortable extent in Remus’ perspective as the other boy still contemplaits it, a thoughtful expression reigning his quietly beautiful features.
“I write.” Rosier states eventually – a silent confirmation – of the unspoken apology, Remus’ question – and everything in between that remained to be unsaid.
“Are you any good?” The older boy inquires without bite now, an opening forming between them – a carefully worded one, something only a writer would understand, but Evan reacts immediately, meeting Remus’ eyes with an intriguing twinkle lining his eyes.
“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it, Remus?” It’s a question and a challenge in one – the kind of challenge Remus knows to recognise and meet in stride, “That it sure does, Evan.”
The name hangs between them, a silent attempt of acceptance – a challenge and an opening in one – simultaneously frightening and exhilarating.
And when they finish their fags and Evan holds the door for Remus - the older boy strides into the pub, looking back to find the blonde following after him with confidence lining his strides and a soft smile pulling at his lips – and in the quiet familiarity of it all, Remus finds himself asking, why he’d never payed attention to the details, that constructed Evan Rosier before.