And you will swim
Wednesday came and went without Evan showing up - just like he said he wouldn’t. The pub appeared strangely empty though. Lowly illuminated, filled with the usual sunken in faces, the back room occupied with chatting writers and the smell of smoke hanging in the air. It was familiar, comforted Remus the way it always did - equipped with a glass of cheap whiskey, a brand new pack of fags resting in his jeans pocket he sat there on his favourite chair, overlooking the dingy room and condensing hue spreading on the small window pane in the progressively darkening corner where the remaining daylight usually finds its way into their shared oasis.
The dark crept in, the candles burned lower and Remus had stared - at the door that is. It opened several times over the span of the evening and with the hours ticking by, held the confirmation that the younger boy wouldn’t show up. When Remus left the pub that day, headed to the orphanage around midnight the realisation slowly crept up at him, that he hadn’t written a single word and instead been busy watching the dark wooden door in anticipation.
It took longer than usual for Monday to come around. At least it did to Remus. By the time the weekend rolled around he had unfolded the piece of paper the blonde had given to him at least a couple of dozen times. It took ages for him to make sense of the neat scribble lining the page - of the artistically drawn lines of Graphit holding space for Evan’s words - of the nearly blue grey colouring of the ink - the slopes in every cursively written paragraph - the accentuated capitals wherever a new sentence rose behind the last like a massive wave of darkened ocean eyes - every single deciphered word landing like a well placed punch to the gut. Remus found himself at a loss for words - his confidence overruled by curiosity, by the all consuming urge to understand.
Quiet, unassuming, forgettable Evan Rosier. Dressed in muted colours, tailored, neatly pressed dress shirts, ordering his glass of water on a pub counter with a heavy flush on his high sitting cheekbones. Slytherin, pureblood, a year younger than Remus. Thin, nearly frail - out of place inside the dingy pub, the dirty walls holding it together - smoking a cheap fag with the practised lungs of a troubled orphan child and the hand position of a post modern writer - Sarcastic and witty, firing comment after comment, retort on retort - brutally honest with the wide eyes of a reckless traveler. Bold, intelligent, creative, mindful Evan Roiser, who hates roses and knows about deadly herbs, who speaks french and German, who’s dirty blond hair glows in the evening sun, who’s light eyes aren’t devoid of colour, but rather filled with too many of them for the human mind to comprehend.
Remus doesn’t have any advice for him - neither for his poetry nor anything else. He would have to know the boy first - would have to unravel his infinite amount of layers and hidden secrets to even gather the chance of building up an opinion on the younger boy. He remains too complex to grasp for now, too shapeless, formless to get a hold onto.
There is nothing to add for him, no note, no paragraph of critique. There is only one response fitting the occasion. And Remus spends the better half of his Sunday with perfecting it.
The poem rests inside the small pocket on the inside of his leather jacket now. It’s the only pocket without a hole at the bottom - the holes that normally swallow his fag packages and matches until they pile on the seam of the heavy jacket. The folded piece of paper rests safely above his chest, pressed against his stack of blank sheets of paper that he stole from the orphanage office last Saturday. His black fountain pen mingles with the other writing utensils, reminding Remus with its presence, that there is no need for him to feel self conscious. He earned his place at the table of writers years ago - and though it takes him considerably long to read - even longer to write - he qualified for his place amongst his kind.
Nervously shifting on his feet Remus lights his fag in front of the pub. He has no need to stall, no reason for it actually - still he smokes the cigarette down to the tiny filter until its burns his finger and stains its sides yellow. Pressing the burned hand to his chest he opens the pub door with one hand, glancing around the room with attentive eyes. It’s filled with familiar faces, not empty, not quite full either, but the truth lies in the room ahead. He is out of his depth here, lost in a strange terrain of vulnerability. The burn on his fingers gives him something to focus on as he opens the stained cherry wood door with too much force - giving himself no option to turn around.
The room comes into view, illuminated with candle light and the air smoke hung.Three people sit around the table in the middle, two others in the corner to Remus’ right, but neither of them has honey blonde hair or eyes the colour of the morning sky.
Minutes turn into hours again - the perfect repetition of Wednesday but with an expiration date. Not a formal one though, now that he thinks of it. There was no guarantee in the younger boy’s tone, no security in his scrunched up brows and faraway gaze. Monday had always been a maybe they’d agreed on.
Remus waited another two hours, until the lanterns outside flickered to life and the noisy street quieted down - two more until the patrons in the front room began to leave, one after the other paying their tab at the counter while he nibbled on his second glass of whiskey, attentively watching the door. Maria passed him leaning at the juke box, throwing a questioning look his way, but he shook his head in a declining manner.
Five minutes later he was out the door and headed to the orphanage again, inhaling the smoke of his cigarette aggressively.
Six days later Remus contemplates his decision to never show up at the pub on a Monday ever again - discards the childish tantrum on the following day though. There could have been a million of reasons why the blonde didnt make it last week. Other than Remus, the younger boy didnt have to bore himself to death every day, didnt have to throw punches to secure himself a place at the top of the food chain inside the dirty walls of a rundown orphanage, filled with highly undereducated mean kids and the occasional group of drug addicts - no, the Rosier family bears its own challenges - a different world filled with dinner parties and ministry representatives coming over to discuss important political topics with Evan’s father - and Evan by extension, as the new heir to the incredibly influential bloodline. It’s a world, Remus always refused to learn about - detesting the concept in itself - positioning himself as far away as possible. Thats an impossibility in itself now. He is curious now - wants, no, needs to know now.
And the only way of knowing is to gather as much information as he can, so he writes to James, discards the idea of writing to Sirius - and then he heads off to the pub again, passing the kitchens and delivery entrance, paying for silence in the currency of the poor and miserable and pushes a cigarette between his own lips as he rounds the corner, slipping out of sight.
Another Monday - another day of absence and his nervousness transforms into slight worry.
Remus has an entire week to reflect, his hands stained from the words that burned under his skin until he brought them to life through his pen, pouring them onto the stained pages that he always carries inside his pockets. He had asked around the pub, had asked for a message, a note - anything. But the only thing he got in return were a bunch of confused expressions and a pitiful glance from Maria.
He has his own assumptions by now - none of them looking particularly rosy for Rosier - Ha that bloody bastard. He is mad now, carrying the folded piece of expensive paper out of obligation instead of interest - with resentment instead of curiosity. How the turn tables, how prejudice come true. But of course it does. Remus has always had a short temper - it got him out of the habit of ruminating about useless things. He can hold a grudge like it’s a hand and for the past fifteen years it’s had been nothing but an asset to him. This time he doesn't get an answer though - no supportive feedback from his peers - because Evan bloody Rosier is a ghost. At the pub the people know him, but rarely spoke to him in the past - only Maria is suspiciously quiet, when he initially asked for the younger boy’s information.
He pulls her to the side impatiently on the particular Monday, not bothering with her complaints and offers her a fag as consolation instead.
“Spill, what’s up with him, what do you know?” He starts, brushing her agitation to the side, positioning himself in a wide legged stance.
The older girl with frizzy hair and washed out clothes stuffs her hands into the pockets of her muted brown cord jacket and balances on the heels of her shoes, holding his intense stare through the cloud of exhaled smoke between them. Eventually she relents though, deflates like a hot air balloon right in front of him at the entrance of their dingy pub, “I don't know, what you want to hear from me.” Her eyes hold venom but it’s watered down, the resistance in her shoulders merely holding on to indignation at his bluntness.
Remus throws the tip of his smoke away with a careless flick of his hand, holding her dark eyes, “I want to know everything - when he normally shows up, how frequent, what he says, what he does-” He huffs out a breath of ash tainted air, running his free hand through his hair at the ridiculousness of the whole endeavour.
The concept unravels in front of his eyes, the pity in Maria’s glance only adding to its pathetic quality. Why does he even care? He has lived his entire life without any idea of the other boy’s existence - so, why on earth would he still ask futile questions on the boy, who obviously doesn't want anything to do with him? Why would he embarrass himself like this? Just because the boy in question had sworn on his honesty? What a credible source of information now, isn’t it?
Maria is still gazing up to him, a devastating bitterness knitting at her brows, but Remus only shrugs, thinking hard and fast, “You know what, never mind. Forget I asked, it doesn't matter.” He is gone, before she can respond, crossing the street with long strides, desperate to put as much distance between himself and that conversation as he can.
Another week passes by and his anger only intensifies. He nearly rips the paper inside his chest pocket to shreds a couple of dozen times that he spends staring at it in the confidence of the tiny room that harbours his sparse belongings. But there is nothing to be won, nothing to be lost - just a piece of paper stained with intense grey ink forming an artistic scribble of pure thoughts. Eventually the truth settles in him, while he skimms through the slopes and edges of Evan’s handwriting - that he cant rip it, cant throw it away like an ordinary piece of garbage - its like these radio active ones, the kind that has to be detonated in a controlled environment or returned to its makers for safe disposal.
Remus chooses the safe option then and there, hidden behind a storage closet, away from the prying eyes of his roommates - To store the poem away, like the orphanage locks up his Hogwarts trunk over the summer to keep it out of the menacing hands of the other kids. He places it inside his notebook, between the pages of his response and swears to himself that he wont open the precious book again until he can find a safe opportunity to return it to its creator.
The next Monday of the long summer break rolls around and Remus doesn't even expect the younger boy to show up anymore. Instead he orders his usual drink, retires to his respective corner of the room and avoids Maria’s inquiring looks decidedly. He writes, he creates, reads with a guy named Stan and exchanges a few ideas with Molly, when she comes to sit with him. Other than that, he tackles the previous topics, the actual pressing matters of his life - his friends, Sirius-. Throughout the writing process and his intense staring into nothingness and candle light all the same, he realises only partially that entire weeks had passed him by since he had last branched the controversial topic with his thoughts. Of course it had come up, had haunted him in his nightmares, but he also had been occupied otherwise - had rummaged and interpreted and completely gotten out of touch with his original issues. He has the room now, the space, there is nothing - no one - to distract him from the highly complicated balancing act that consist of him sorting out his thoughts.
In the end he doesn't reach a satisfying point of clarity, doesn't figure out how to properly navigate his twisted feelings, the damaged trust. He gets into fights during the summer, hangs with the gang again - steals from convenient shops and gets high and drunk with the misfits at the orphanage. He consoles himself with his approaching birthday and eventual freedom at the horizon. Just one and a half year to go and then he would have other problems to occupy himself with - his sexuality, his friends - Sirius - everything about theses teenager-issues, these coming off age thoughts - they would pale in comparison to the shrinking career options that awaited him after his graduation.
The approaching moon puts things in perspective for him - a brutal reminder of his dependency, of his ruin.
The process repeats. The gashes across his chest don't heal, keep soaking through the rudimentary bandages and ache with every single one of his movements. The pain is dull but omnipresent, a constant reminder - a ringing in his ear that never fades. Days turn into weeks - Mondays become ordinary again - disappear beneath the meaninglessness of his sorry existence. The prospects shrink on the gloomy horizon that is his future. And Remus grows tired of his own self pity. A raspiness creeps into his voice, he grows taller in height and wider in his shoulders, his cheeks grow gaunt from the malnutrition that is a staple at the orphanage and when the first of September rolls around again he collects his trunk from the office lady with a careless expression on his face.
The clothes he wears on his way to Kings Cross are still stained from the night before - he slept in them. Indifference laces his steps, the people that he pushes out of his way to the train don't hear a word of apology falling from his chapped lips. He pays little attention to his surroundings, only approaches the carriage at the very end of the train and settles down on his respective seat - his docs thrown up on the little table next to the large window, his side aching in the process of putting them up there.
Remus doesn't acknowledge the prefect badge resting on the unopened Hogwarts letter he received over the summer. He stares out of the window instead, watches the blurred crowd moving through the glass pane next to him and ignores the weight of the all to familiar object resting inside his chest pocket.
When his friends join him at the compartment a few minutes later, pooling inside one after the other, he only nods at them in acknowledgement and returns to his people-watching activity. He can’t muster the strength to feig forgives, doesn’t want to carry a conversation or worse - be faced with the possibility of hurt flashing in their eyes.
Lily comes to collect him at some point when the train starts rolling out of the station, all scrunched up eye brows and fierce determination, when she drags him away from his seat and makes him change into his school robes. At least her interruption gives him enough of a reason to refrain from picking up the conversation his roommates are having at the moment.
She even pins the discarded prefect’s badge to his chest and ignores the annoyed glance he throws at her, when she pulls him through the narrow corridors filled with chattering students on his sleeve.
Remus lets it happen, slow in his movements, indifferently staring ahead, unresponsive to Lily’s nagging questions and concerned looks. It’s all a blur to him - insignificant in the grand scheme of things - he cant bring himself to care. Some of his fire burned down over the summer and his hard fought-for chase of aspirations transformed into a sullen throb of futility. Lily doesn't get it, hence the nagging, but that doesn't mean for Remus that he has to indulge it, that he feels pressured to react to it.
They come to a stop in front of a closed compartment door, where Lily drops his sleeve and throws another inquiringly concerned glance at him. Remus shrugs it off, opening the door with unnecessary vehemence, “Let’s get this over with, Evans,” he states over his shoulder, weariness lacing his tone. The red haired girl follows him, judging by the sound of steps sounding behind him and a door falling to a close with a dull thud.
The meeting is in full motion, several heads turning to face the two Gryffindors, when they position themselves at the cord lined wall at the back of the cart. Remus can’t bring himself to care for their complaints, while Lily mutters a string of apologies, throwing angry glances at him the entire time. Staring ahead, fixating his gaze stoically on a spot on the wall across the room, Remus swallows against the sickening iron taste of blood rising in his throat, effectively tuning out the voices arguing around him.
The meeting stretches on, a presentation is held, the schedule announced and Remus couldn't be more bored if he actively tried. Lily’s name is called, alongside others and eventually, when its his turn, he wants nothing more than to just sleep cramped together in his compartment seat, with the side of his face leaning against the window. His thoughts drift abruptly to the comfortable bed awaiting him, with its convenient curtains and the promise of magic -
“Remus Lupin - Evan-“ His head turns so hard and fast to the side that a bone in his neck cracks at the impact. Suddenly on high alert, several pumps of adrenaline cursing through his bloodstream, he almost frantically searches the faces in the room for the familiar set of pale eyes, “Evan Lauren - train duty to the right”. Just when Remus’ eyes land on another blonde kid he has never seen before, his lungs deflate. For a moment - just a moment he had thought - and it could have been possible, right? It actually could have been - “Bartemious Crouch - Evan Rosier - train duty to the left”
Remus feels his eyes before he sees them - a warm sensation on the side of his exposed neck, widening out, spreading over his entire skin until he feels like he is burning up with a strange kind of fiery force from within his body.
The meeting ends somewhere at the edge of his comprehension, people clear out the cramped room, when Remus finally finds him, standing only two meters away, exposed in the open, visible for anyone who is willing to pay attention. The folded piece of paper weighs heavily inside his jacket and ironically its Remus who breaks their eye contact first.
A boy comes up to Evan then - tall, dark haired and a mean curve lining his lip, his eyes trained so intensely on the blonde, that it makes Remus uncomfortable to watch. He cant seem to move though, stands entirely petrified, holding his side through the blood pooling in his mouth and peoples’ shoulders brushing his own, throwing him slightly off balance, on their way out.
The aching pain from the open gashes across his chest mixes with the increasing kindle of fire blazing though his insides - and maybe its that, what makes his vision blurry as a short, unfamiliar boy comes to a halt next to him, keeping a healthy distance between them, his body turned towards the door - an unmistakable suggestion to get started with their patrol.
But Remus can’t follow it - Evan’s gaze keeps lingering on his face - chaining him to the carpeted floor of the train compartment - something meaningful flashing in his eyes that the younger boy tries to transmitter wordlessly over the short distance between them - the weight in his pocket drags Remus down until eventually the spell is broken, as the dark haired boy from earlier pulls Evan’s shoulder to the side, forcefully and demanding, making him avert his eyes from Remus. Their exchange is short, nearly expressionless from Evan’s side, highly animated from the dark haired boy - Bartemious Crouch, thats his name - a Slytherin, judging be the green tie around his neck.
They eventually make their way over to - Remus - the door. Evan with his gaze trained on the ground and Crouch with his eyes entirely focussed on the boy beside him - the dark haired bloke’s enthusiastic chatter is muted - blocked, drowned out - by the ringing sound that fills Remus’ ears. He watches them approach though, watches them walk past him, watches as the shoulder of the animatedly gesturing dark haired boy brushes his own. Watches as dark, irritatingly bottomless eyes find his - they’re angry slits of promised violence and Remus doesn't get to register anything of that, as his gaze falls on blonde beside him instead - and for a tiny moment he imagines that the younger boy is meeting his eyes - imagines thaw laced fields of grass, the morning sky, a misty forrest entrance, chipped ice in the sunlight - looking back at him. But they’re gone once he blinks, the two boys halfway down the corridor when he finally turns - freed from his petrification.
And when they disappear through a compartment door - blond hair, dark curls and Slytherin robes - Remus finally finds the energy in himself to face the impatiently shifting boy staring incredulously up at him. “The fuck you’re looking at?” Remus hisses at him, brushing past the shorter frame on his way down the opposite direction the others disappeared to - a fire burning inside him, fuelling his long, forceful steps and rude rebukes the entire time it takes him to patrol his side of the train - dragging the disorientated Ravenclaw with him, ignorant of the boy’s anxious glances and confused expressions.
Corrections and ideas of improvement
Rosie, Evan, Rosier! Evan Rosier, the promised response. Evan,
Where are all the halls leading
- where do we go -
streams carry
- like the current does -
dragging out travellers into the deepest parts of the sea.
And there is no ocean - but we wander the same halls, the same floors the same rooms - I sat where you sit now - there is only one year. Dividing us both with the power of a century.
And you get lost between bodies - different time zones. We don’t reside in the same sphere. Walls are built to be taken down - fences made with the intention to tear them apart - oceans made to be crossed.
You sit where I sat. Just a year before - lost at sea. Salt water tastes like heaven when you’re broken and bruised - there is a well though - a sprinkle of earth mixed within - and what are we made for if not to swim across the greatest oceans - Us, the creatures of land and man-made poetry - designed to feel, born from the hardened forest grounds - we drown in the water at some point - we are destined to run, to make it to the shore - to make it back to land, solid ground, stones and spoil beneath our feet.
You will sit where I sat, you will accept the current and refrain from the salt - and you will swim. You have somewhere to return to.
R. J. Lupin
(Its just an idea, I really don't know about the unrhyming part - it has something freeing about it - liberating - as you would say, you poncy snob. Let me know what you think, if you want to, that is)