Can You Hear A Story Without Words?
James and Peter had changed very little beyond the physical since Remus had seen them last. James had always been bright, boisterous and endlessly energetic, able to step into a room and fill it with his presence. Peter was more outspoken than he’d been at school, still sarcastic and pragmatic, but somehow always ending up participating in James’ antics.
But Sirius…he had changed. So much so that Remus hadn’t even recognized him that first night at Sanguini’s. He was still impulsive and reckless and carried himself with that careless elegance Remus had always been jealous of, but he was also softer. Quieter—sometimes. He seemed more aware of the people around him, of the effects of his actions. It clearly took him a bit of extra brain power to do so, but he still did it.
Perhaps he hadn’t spent enough time with them, but Remus couldn’t see much change in James or Peter at all, which made Sirius’ obvious changes all the more intriguing.
He wondered if perhaps Sirius was still unsure about the stability of their rekindled friendship, and was still tiptoeing around him. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want Sirius to walk on eggshells around him, like if he messed up once he’d just vanish again. Of course, he had every right to suspect him of it, but Remus was determined not to run again.
Maybe that was why he did what he did during the lesson. He had never coach a client that like before—he’d never even touched one of them. Remus really didn’t know what the hell possessed him to basically cocoon Sirius with his body and start whispering in his ear, but all he knew what that he wanted him to know he wasn’t going to run. That he was comfortable with him. That perhaps there was still a part of him that yearned for the days when he’d fall asleep with his head on his shoulder, or play footsie with him under the table.
Remus made himself busy after the lesson, carefully removing everyone’s cups and transferring them to boards. They had to get covered with plastic so they didn’t dry out before the sgraffito lesson next week, and it took him a while to rummage through the bins for good pieces. He was trying very hard not to think about the small thrill that went through him when he noticed how small Sirius’ hands were compared to his. Or the intoxicating smell of his shampoo, or the way their fingers slipped together as they ran along the clay.
He spent so long trying not to think about those things that he ended up thinking about them anyway, and he was lost in them long enough that when he rounded the corner to the back studio, he nearly ran headfirst into Marlene and Dorcas.
Remus jerked to a halt and blinked at the barricade before him.
“What?”
“What have you to say for yourself, Remus Lupin?”
“Eh?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb.” Dorcas grabbed him by the upper arm and dragged him further into the studio. “What was that going on between you and your friend?”
“You were practically given that clay a handjob!” Marlene accused.
Remus turned pink with indignation. “We were not! I was teaching him!”
“Is that so?” Marlene’s eyebrows flew up. “I don’t see you jerking off mud with other customers. Although I’m sure any of those twenty-six Dorcas counted would love the opportunity—”
“For fuck’s sake.” Remus grunted, ignoring them and pulling out a bucket of glaze to mix. “Sirius and I are friends. We’ve only just started getting to know each other again.”
“So you thought the best way to do that would be to give him a lesson on handling a di—“
“Marlene,” Dorcas intervened as Remus raised the glaze whisk threateningly. “I think he gets the point, honey.” She patiently pulled the whisk from his grip before he could lob it at her girlfriend, who had merely grinned at him in challenge.
“You said you two were getting to know each other again. Were you friends before?” Dorcas asked, taking over the glaze mixing.
Remus sighed and sat down on one of the stools, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Yeah,” he said. “back in high school. Us, James and Peter—the other two guys—were really close. Family, basically. We…er…had a falling out our senior year. Miscommunication. Shit happened, my—we were lied to. None of us realized the truth until I ran into him a few weeks ago. We’re trying again.”
“Sounds complicated.” Dorcas hummed.
“It was. It still sort of is. I just wish it wasn’t.”
“What do you want?”
Remus shrugged. “I want him to know I’m not going to run off again. We used to be…well, we weren’t…not really…we used to be close.”
He saw Dorcas and Marlene exchange looks. This was probably the most Remus had ever divulged to them before, but he found that he didn’t care. He was frustrated and sad, missing days that had long since passed.
He felt like it was his first day in New York again, alone in a giant city with a million people who didn’t know him. Lost, alone, without an anchor, adrift in a concrete sea.
“I dunno,” he said after a long silence. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Seems like you do.” Dorcas said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Not in your reasons—or in the ways you try to show it.” She added on pointedly, cutting Marlene another look, who now had the decency to look sheepish.
“She’s right,” she said, grimacing in apology. “sorry for ribbing ya.”
“It’s fine.” Remus waved it away. “I’m sure it looked rather insinuating. If I wasn’t so…well, another day I would’ve found it funnier.”
“It’ll be alright, Remus.” Dorcas told him with easy confidence. “Relearning each other is just a step in the process. You’ll get there. Both of you.”
“Thanks.”
There was the sound of footsteps and voices entering the main studio—the next sessions’ clients were arriving. The three of them moved back into work, and the day continued.
——
Finally. Six months of work and only two days to spare.
Remus finally let his arm fall, and finally allowed himself to take a step back.
His piece was complete at last.
The home stretch had been stressful. A few weeks had passed since Remus last saw Sirius, James and Peter for their lessons—each had completed their own mugs and were ridiculously proud of them—but Remus hadn’t been able to see them again with his deadline approaching so quickly. When he wasn’t at Mick’s, he was painstakingly working on his piece.
Hagrid had to help him install the water system in the hollow interior of the figure because when Remus tried on his own, he nearly destroyed the whole thing. He had to be extremely careful not to mess with it while he made the final touches, and they wouldn’t know for sure if it worked at all until it was hooked up to the reflective pool the MoMA was letting him use. He tried not to worry about the possibility of it failing.
Instead, Remus finished the final touches, concealing parts where the gold luster had spilled, or reinforcing the connection points and waterproofing the adhesive.
He had to move the piece out of his studio during the assembly—it was far too large to get it down the spiral stairs, and the idea of getting a crane to lower it from a window made him nauseous.
Remus was back in The Metal Crow—the ground floor and rolling shop doors meant it was easy access to move it into it’s shipping crate. Hagrid had been kind enough to erect makeshift walls out of tarp so people couldn’t see the piece. Remus hadn’t allowed anyone—not even Regulus—to see it.
And now, his piece stood before him in all its glory, everything he’d envisioned it to be. It was surreal to look at in full without his critical eye—to step back and take it all in, to see its story instead of what needed to be fixed.
He still couldn’t believe it was finished.
“Well done, Mr. Lupin.”
Remus jumped, turning to see McGonagall standing behind him. She was looking at the piece, not quite smiling, but there was a shine of pride in her eye that made his heart swell.
“Thank you.”
“Have you given it a title?”
“Not yet. I…I’m not sure how much of the story I want to tell.”
“That’s very wise. Some art requires explanation through a title, or a hint to its meaning. Other pieces require nothing but attention.”
“What do you think this one is?”
McGonagall’s sharp eyes roamed around the figure, the sheets of metal, the cleverly hidden tubing.
“I think this one speaks for itself.” She said simply. “Unless its story is important to you to tell, it could be called anything.”
Remus looked up at his piece.
“I don’t think it’s that important. Telling others, anyway.”
“Then I trust you will find something fitting.” McGonagall said. “The handlers will be by tomorrow to start packing. I’ll see you in two days at the MoMA, Mr. Lupin.”
“Thank you. Goodnight, ma’am.”
——
Remus didn’t know what to expect as he walked into the MoMA—a line of other artists waiting to present their piece to the curators, an expo of potential candidates, maybe a group of other curators hoping to get their exhibits filled.
What he did not expect was to find McGonagall talking to yet more people from his past.
Remus drew up short when he saw the unmistakable figures of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter standing in the lobby of the MoMA, talking heartily with McGonagall. Beside a few new gray hairs, they hadn’t changed a bit in the seven years that passed.
Fleamont was still effortlessly handsome with curly salt and pepper hair and the full beard that James had apparently inherited. Euphemia’s dark hair had a single stripe of white that spiraled elegantly into a knot, and they both wore the simplistic clothing of down-to-earth millionaires.
Before Remus could even decide on an emotion to apply to this new chance encounter, his arrival was noticed. Evidently, Fleamont and Euphemia already knew he was coming—likely knew the day McGonagall first gave him the opportunity—because their faces both lit up with unparalleled joy.
“Remus!” They both cried, rushing forward. He had only a second to brace himself before he was being crushed between two enthusiastic huggers. The Potters had always been know for suffocating embraces.
Just when his lungs started twitching for air, he was released.
“Oh darling, it’s so wonderful to see you!” Euphemia beamed, holding him at arm’s length to take him in. “Look at you! You’re even taller than James! Oh, I’ll bet he’s not pleased about that, he teases Peter and Sirius all the time about being the tall one. McGonagall’s been raving about you for months, my dear, we’re terribly excited to see your work. She’s given you very high praise—a rare thing from that woman, you’d best not take it for granted. How are you, darling?”
It had been a long time since Remus experienced Euphemia’s habit of jumping from subject to subject during a greeting, but all he could do was grin.
“I’m alright.” He replied. “It’s great to see you both again.”
“The boys told us they’d run into you again.” Fleamont chuckled, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Sirius kept going on and on about your ceramic work. And we’ve seen the lovely mugs they made under your instruction!”
“James gifted his to me for Mother’s Day.” Euphemia beamed. “I drink coffee from it every morning.”
“I’m terribly sorry for you.” Remus replied dryly. “His was the worst of the bunch.”
“Oh, of course it was!” Fleamont roared with laughter. “James was indignant that his surname didn’t grant him the talent naturally. But as ‘Phemia and I told him, us Potters are ironically terrible at pottery. Cruel twist of fate.”
“It seems I have a knack for introducing Mr. Lupin to old acquaintances.” McGonagall joined them, looking slightly amused. Remus winced. He’d hoped she hadn’t figured out what happened when she introduced him to Sirius. She must’ve caught his grimace too, however, because she let out a snort.
“Really, Remus, I may have glasses, but I’m not blind to the way you turned tail and ran that day.”
“Right…”
“All water under the bridge now!” Euphemia said brightly. “Remus was friends with our son when they were younger, Minerva.”
“I see. Well, with this happy reunion, shall we begin?”
“Yes, of course.” Fleamont opened the door to the gallery and let them through. It was a large space, flooded with bright morning light that poured in through a giant wall of windows. The ceiling was arched and tall and the walls slanted upwards, giving the feeling of smallness. Their footsteps echoed against the glossy tile. Remus saw that some pieces were already in the space, covered by white cloth.
His piece, already installed by the handlers, was standing in the center of the room’s reflection pool, in the middle of the space, also covered in cloth. It looked so small against the enormous room despite its impressive size. Remus breathed a sigh of relief to note that at least its dimensions seemed matched to the size of the pool, and didn’t look ridiculously small or large.
“This is the first Mr. and Mrs. Potter are seeing your piece.” McGonagall assured him as they approached. “They enjoy experiencing the first impression with the artist present.”
She tugged down the cloth, revealing the piece Remus had dedicated six months of hard work towards.
It looked even more stunning in the space. He had somehow gotten the metal sheets to accent the dark stonework of the pool, making the figure’s pale contrast even more striking. Under proper lighting and with the water features, it was as close to perfection as Remus would be able to make.
Just then, McGonagall pressed a few buttons and with a faint gurgle that turned into a spurt, water began pulling from the pool and up through the inner tubing, flowing from the broken parts of the figure’s form and pouring back down into the water below. The plink plunks echoed in the grand space—and his piece came to life.
Remus stared, feeling out of his body. So much work, sleepless nights, and somehow, he never really prepared for the moment of completion. When all he had to do was look. He had taken the worst moment of his life, a moment that defined him as a victim, a survivor, a broken man, and poured all of it into this. All of it was reflected in the broken parts, the parted lips, the falling water. But he had also given those things, the things that made him feel weak, a beauty. He’d turned those terrors into a masterpiece, he’d made something beautiful out of his pain.
And no one had to know that but him. No one else would understand that except the people he trusted. Like the Potters. He knew they would understand the meaning behind the piece. It was unavoidable, they’d been there when it happened. He just hoped they would understand his reasons for not wanting to explain it in the exhibition, or that their reactions weren’t just because they knew what it was about.
“Oh, Remus…” Euphemia’s voice was faint and thick with emotion. He glanced at her warily—at the moment, she and Fleamont weren’t his friend’s parents. Right now, they were curators, the judge, jury, and executioners of his future as an artist.
Fleamont’s hand drifted to cover his mouth, and Euphemia’s had gone over her heart.
“It’s called Carrion.” Remus said quietly. “No artist statement.”
It took him a moment to realize both of the Potters were blinking back tears.
“Well done, my lad.” Fleamont said thickly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Well done.”
“It’s stunning.” Euphemia agreed, sniffing a little. “Absolutely stunning.”
Remus just nodded. He knew there was more they wanted to say, but with McGonagall and their jobs present, they couldn’t.
Choosing Carrion as the title hadn’t taken Remus long to decide on. It just felt natural. The meaning of the word was so closely related to the state he had been in, not only physically but mentally in the months of recovery. But the way the word was spoken and spelled felt like it had some hidden beauty, in an odd way. The way it sounded felt like it ought to mean something softer and kinder. Something alive.
In the moment of time Remus had sculpted before him, he had been carrion. But the way he had portrayed it was the same as the word’s sounds—there was a beauty to it that mingled with the decay.
A stranger would look at his piece and perhaps find similar interpretation between the sculpture and the word. Remus had no issue with that. But that stranger would never know that he had once been carrion. He could display his suffering and pain and never have to deal with the pity that followed.
“Well,” Euphemia said, sounding oddly choked up. “I can only imagine…Fleamont?”
The two exchanged a look.
“Precisely.” She continued, quickly swiping under her eyes and turning to Remus. She had on her air of professional business, but there was a warmth in her eyes that she couldn’t shake. “Your piece absolutely must be in the show. Congratulations, Remus Lupin. Welcome to the MoMA.”
Fleamont clapped him on the back. “We’ll send details on the gala to you. This will undoubtedly be a centerpiece of the event. You should be very proud, Remus.”
A quiet ringing was filling his head, and he could barely speak. He’d done it. His piece was actually going to be displayed to the public in one of the most renowned museums in the world. Three years of work and rejections, and finally he was taking his first step upward.