CHAPTER ONE: FIRST SIGHT
Lyall drove him to the airport with the windows rolled up. The weather was cosmic, the wind swaying trees at an unnatural angle, howling like a pack of wolves into the night. The Welsh country was thick with fog and chill. Remus was wearing his favourite jumper— a thick and woolly gift from Hope last Christmas. He was wearing it as a farewell gesture.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its gloomy, claustrophobic shade that Lyall escaped with Remus when he was only a year old. It was in this town that he'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until he had turned 14. That was the year Remus finally put his foot down; these past three summers, Hope, his mum, vacationed with them in Wales for two weeks instead, staying at the local Inn.
It was to Forks that he now exiled himself— an action that he took with great horror. Remus detested Forks.
He loved Wales, if not Lyall. He loved the air, pristine and clear, the open fields of cattle. He loved the seaside and the scent of salt in the air.
"Remus," Lyall interrupted — something he would not miss— he paused and turned to look at his father. "You be good to your mum, don’t give her any trouble."
Lyall’s lukewarm attempt at fatherly counsel sent a spasm of anger through him, his jaw twitching violently. Lyall looked a lot like Remus, tall though not quite Remus's 6'4, the same mop of brown hair turned salt and pepper but Remus always had his mother's eyes. They were thick chestnut brown like melted chocolate, clear and warm. He looked at his father's face, with its permanent frown lines and furrowed brow and couldn’t muster anything but disdain and maybe a shred of pity. He couldn’t see what Phyllis liked about him. His step-mum (to-be) hadn’t bothered coming to his send-off but from their few encounters, seemed a decent person.
After a pause Remus simply nods,
“Yeah dad, I won’t.” and leaves it there. Afraid that his voice will betray contempt.
"Tell Hope I said hello." another order.
"I will."
"Don’t get sent home," he frowned. "I won’t be at the house so you better behave yourself — don’t ruin me and Phyllis’ trip."
Remus suppressed the urge to choke him to death. Another father might have expressed some affection, some emotion. But not Lyall, without a reason to admonish or demand something of Remus he had nothing to say.
"Alright," he urged. "I’m off then."
He turned and walked away before Remus, and something about that made him ache, an old closed up wound prodded at by clumsy, careless fingers. Remus boarded the plane.
It's a fourteen hour flight from Wales to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying doesn't bother him, he had a miraculous ability to fall asleep anywhere; the hour in the car with Hope, though, he was a little worried about.
Hope had been fairly nice about the whole thing. She seemed genuinely pleased that he was coming to live with her for the first time with any degree of permanence. She'd already gotten him registered for secondary (or high school here he guesses now) and was going to help pay for a car. Remus was rather remiss to no longer be able to walk everywhere, the Welsh town he’d grown up in was pleasantly walkable, he hated the number of highways and interstates the US harboured. Had both a moral and aesthetic objection to them but alas would have to succumb to capitalism. If you can’t beat them, join them, he’d thought bitterly.
But it was sure to be awkward with Hope. Neither of them was what anyone would call verbose; he loved her but the nature of not seeing each other for months at a time meant conversations remained disjointed. There would be an adjustment period to say the least. He thought she would have made more of a fuss about Lyall casting him out until he finished school but Hope was too grateful to have her Moon back. She had said that to him. They emailed weekly and though he’d be mortified to admit it the line had made him tear up.
When he finally landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. It was a happy commonality between Wales and Forks, the clouds and rain were at best refreshing leaving their airy scent in the air and at worst a pleasant excuse to stay inside.
Hope was waiting for him with the cruiser. This was expected. Hope is Police Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. His primary motivation behind buying a car, despite the scarcity of funds, was that he refused to be driven around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slowed down traffic like a cop. Never mind his own political opinions around the inherent insidious nature of the police force, he saw no point in pushing that issue to Hope, she was decently liberal and probably the least judgemental person he knew.
Hope’s smile was lopsided and a little self-conscious but still filled with motherly affection and his eyes watered despite himself. The hug they shared was awkward but that was expected and it hadn’t taken away from the warmth of it.
"It's good to see you, Moony," she said, smiling as she gave him a once over. "My goodness you’ve gotten even taller now! How's Lyall?"
"Ly-Dad's fine. It's good to see you, too, mum." He wasn't allowed to call him Lyall, Hope would frown and say something about respect before stroking his hair assuringly. She was terrible at telling off so he never gave her a reason to do it. He had only a few bags. All his clothes worked fine with Fork’s oppressive murk and so he didn’t have to buy any new clothes and could save for the car.
"I found a good car for you, really cheap," she announced when they were strapped in.
"What kind of car?" He was suspicious of the way she said "good car for you" as opposed to just "good car."
"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."
"Where did you find it?"
"Do you remember Billy Black down at La Push?" La Push was a small native reservation on the coast.
"I don’t think so." He had no idea.
"He used to go fishing with us during the summer, you and his son Grant would make mud pies," Hope prompted.
His memories of Forks remained as Foggy as the place itself, though the name Grant stirred fragmented recollections of tan skin, sunny smiles and the smell of the sea after a storm.
"He's in a wheelchair now," Hope continued when he didn't respond, lost in half-forgotten memory, "so he can't drive anymore, and he offered to sell me his truck for cheap."
"What year is it?" he could see from her change of expression that this was the question she was hoping he wouldn't ask.
"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine — it's only a few years old, really." Her voice was adorably sheepish, though she tried to mask it. He hoped she didn't think so little of him as to believe he would give up questioning that easily.
"When did he buy it?"
"He bought it in 1984, I think."
"Did he buy it new?"
"Well, no. I think it was new in the early sixties — or late fifties at the earliest," she admitted bashfully.
"Mum, I don't really know anything about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix it if anything went wrong, and I couldn't afford a mechanic…"
"Really, Moons, the thing runs great. They don't build them like that anymore."
"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that was the part he couldn't compromise on.
"Well, honey, I kind of already bought it for you. As a homecoming gift." Hope peeked up at him with a hopeful expression.
Wow. Free. He really was in danger of crying now.
"You didn't need to do that, mum. I was going to buy myself a car."
"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." She was looking ahead at the road when she said this, eyes as watery as he guessed and her expression wistful. Hope wasn't comfortable with expressing her emotions out loud and instead made blunt, tender statements to unsuspecting victims, he inherited that from her. So he was looking straight ahead as he responded.
"That's really nice, mum. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add that him being happy in Forks was likely an impossibility. She didn't need to suffer along with him, for her he’d play the role. And he never did look a free truck in the mouth —or engine.
"Well, now, you're welcome," she mumbled, embarrassed by his thanks.
They exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was pretty much it for conversation. They stared out the windows in silence.
It was beautiful, of course; he couldn't deny that. Everything was green: the trees, their trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a canopy of it, the ground covered with ferns. Even the air filtered down greenly through the leaves. It was too green — an alien planet. He missed open air, the trees hung high and suffocated the landscape.
Eventually they made it to Hope's. She still lived in the small, two-bedroom house that she'd bought with Lyall in the early days of their marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriage had — the early ones. There, parked on the street in front of the house that never changed, was his new — well, new to him — truck. It was a faded brick red rusted by rain, with large, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. To his intense surprise, he loved it. He didn't know if it would run, but he could see himself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never gets damaged — the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had shredded.
"Wow, Mum, I love it! Thanks!" Now his horrific day tomorrow would be just that much less dreadful. He wouldn't have to face the choice of either walking two miles in the rain to school or accepting a ride in the Chief's cruiser.
"I'm glad you like it," Hope said to the ground, embarrassed again.
It took only one trip to get all his stuff upstairs. His bedroom was west and face out over the front yard. The room was familiar; it had belonged to him since he was born. The redwood floor panels, the pastel walls, the peaked ceiling, the yellowed lace curtains around the window — these were all essential marks of his childhood. The only changes Hope had ever made were switching the green crib for a toddler (and later adult sized) bed and adding a desk as he grew. The desk now held a second-hand computer, with the phone line for the modem stapled along the floor to the nearest phone jack. The rocking chair from his infant days was still in the corner.
There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which he would have to share with Hope, he tried not to dwell on the negatives though. One of the best things about Hope is she doesn't hover. She left me alone with a kiss on his cheek she had to go on her tiptoes to reach. It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile and look pleased; a relief to stare dejectedly out the window at the sheeting rain.
Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundred and fifty-seven — now fifty-eight students; his school's population was significantly larger and one of the oldest schools in the UK, there were more than seven hundred people in his year alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together — their grandparents had been toddlers together.
He would be the new boy from across the world with an odd accent, a curiosity, a freak.
Maybe, if he looked like any old Welsh boy, he could work this to his advantage. But physically, he'd never fit in anywhere. He should be pale, sporty, blue eyed— a rugby player, perhaps. But no matter how charming or average Remus was, the immovable fact of his appearance would always divide him from the crowd.
Five years after moving away from Forks back when he was young enough to still cry for his mum and hope for Lyall’s approval, they got into a bad car crash on the way to the airport. The roads had been icy and Lyall was yelling at him for something and it wasn’t long before he’d begun wailing for his mum. It was only a moment, Lyall had turned to pinch Remus leg and he was squirming away, Lyall’s eyes left the road. In that split second a semi-truck turned too fast and broke too late. It was both exactly and nothing like the movies, everything didn’t slow to snail pace but rather his awareness sped up. All at once he was acutely aware of his own mortality, the car flipped twice and he was torn in half. The broken glass slashed across his body, the largest of which went the length of his right shoulder to his left hip and the deepest was two inches, a gash across his left cheek to his lower lip. He had been shredded, his left lung collapsed and he’d gone into cardiac arrest twice before he slipped into a medically induced coma.
His survival was ridiculous, a complete anomaly, but though they pieced his feeble flesh back together, and his scars faded into thin white lines scattered across his body nothing would let Hope’s whimpering, as her arms splayed across his barely alive frame, out of his head. Lyall had never apologised, the truck driver was drunk and had gone to prison naturally but Lyall had still turned away, had survived the crash with a broken arm and not once did he say sorry.
Now Remus was left with the event's reminder etched into his skin, he had grown used to his reflection but never the looks or the whispers. A single event had cursed him into solitude, he was as social as any other kid but the taste of pity was bitter and asphyxiating. He grew accustomed and comfortable with quiet spaces and his own company.
He dreaded the repetition of questions or worse silent judgement and loud whispering. He wasn’t entirely unattractive, besides the scars he had the same delicate features of his mother, high cheekbones, warm but not quite tan skin with full pink lips and extremely light freckles that you could only see from close up. Some people -he learned- could fetishize the violence of his scars, saw them as depth rather than damage. That his tragic past would make them more interesting.
When he finished folding his clothes into the old pine dresser, he took his bag of bathroom necessities and went to clean himself up after the day of travel.
He looked at his face in the mirror, brushing his tangled brown locks away from his eyes. Maybe it was the light, but already he looked sallower, unhealthy. His skin could be pretty — it was very clear, and browned in the sun — but it all depended on colour. He had no colour here in the blues and greens of Forks. He traced the thin white lines across his face and though faded the scars would be obvious from a few feet away.
There was no point in fixating on his appearance, physically he would never fit in.
He didn't relate well to people his age. Maybe the truth was that he didn't relate well to people, period. Even his mum, who he was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with him, never on exactly the same page, always far away. Sometimes Remus wondered if he was seeing the same things through his eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in his brain. But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.
He slept fine and dreamt of nothing. The constant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof reminded him of home and he found if he screwed his eyes shut, he could just pretend he was there. By the time he got to sleep the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle.
Thick fog was all he could see out my window in the morning, and he could feel the claustrophobia creeping up on him. You could never see the sky here; he felt like a caged animal.
Breakfast with Hope was a quiet event. She wished him good luck at school. He thanked him, knowing her hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid him, car crashes, neglectful fathers and misguided emo’s tended to seek him out. Hope left first, off to the police station. After she left, he sat at the old square oak table in one of the three mismatched chairs and examined the quaint kitchen, with its dark panelled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor.
Nothing had changed there in seventeen years. His mum had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Hope and Lyall in Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after he was born, taken by a helpful but (as the story goes) hyper nurse, followed by the procession of his school photos up to last year's. Those were embarrassing to look at — he would have to see what he could do to get Hope to put them somewhere else, at least while he was living here. His 13 year old, acne-ridden face would not go down well with breakfast every morning.
It was impossible, being in this house, not to realise that his mum had never gotten over Lyall. It made him uncomfortable. The existence of their relationship in time was surreal, they were together but he could not imagine any love between them, just the hollow space dividing them.
He didn't want to be too early to school, but he couldn't stay in the house any longer. Donning his brown puffer jacket and putting on the hood he stepped out into the rain.
It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak him through at once as he reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up. He paused to admire the (his) red Chevy and noted mentally to get Hope a gift. He hurried to the car after a fat drop of rain splashed onto his face.
Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Hope had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. It was nice. The engine started quickly, to his relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, he thought, the truck would lack character without a glaring flaw. The antique radio worked, a plus that he hadn't expected. Valleys and peaks he thought.
Finding the school wasn't difficult, though he'd never been there before. The school was, like most other things, just off the highway. It was not obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it as Forks High School, made him stop. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs, he couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? He wondered nostalgically. His old school was archaic, as old as the country itself and even its new buildings couldn’t steal its vintage feel.
He parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading front office. No one else was parked there, so he was sure it was off limits, but decided he would get directions, instead of circling around in the rain like an imbecile. Remus stepped out, little unwillingly, of the toasty truck and walked down a little stone path lined with dark hedges. He took a deep breath before opening the door, feeling his left lung flicker.
Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than he'd hoped. The office was small; a little waiting area with those padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the cork board, a hanging Mickey Mouse clock ticked loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery plaguing the outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly coloured flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was manned by a thick set, red-haired woman wearing specs. She was wearing a purple floral t-shirt, which immediately made him feel overdressed.
The red-haired woman looked up, not really seeing him. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Remus Lupin," He informed her, and saw the immediate awareness light her eyes. He was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Scarred son of the Chief's flighty ex-husband, comes home at last.
"Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. "I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school." She brought several sheets to the counter to show him.
She went through his classes for him, highlighting the best route to take on the map, and handed him a slip to have each teacher sign, which he was then to bring back at the end of the day. She smiled at Remus and hoped, like his mother, that he would like it here in Forks. He smiled back convincingly.
When he returned to his truck, other students were starting to arrive. He drove around the school, following the line of traffic. He was glad to see that most of the cars were older like his, nothing flashy. Still, he cut the engine as soon as he was in a spot, he didn’t want the engine's thunderous volume to draw attention.
Remus looked at the map trying to memorise it now; hopefully he wouldn't have to walk around with it stuck in front of his nose all day. He stuffed everything in his bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder, and sucking in a huge breath. He can do this, he lied to himself feebly.
His apprehension was illogical, no one was going to bite him. Finally, he exhaled unevenly and stepped out of the truck.
Remus kept his face pulled back into his hood as he walked to the sidewalk, crowded with teenagers. His plain brown puffer didn't stand out, he noticed with relief. Once he got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black "3" was painted on a white square on the east corner of the ugly modern structure. He felt his breathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as he approached the door. He held his breath and followed two girls' rain coats inside.
The classroom was small. The people in front of him stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. He copied. They were two girls, one short in the extreme, a porcelain-coloured blonde, the other a head taller with a thick black braid to her waist and bronze skin.
He took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, rectangular, balding man whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at Remus when he saw his name — not an encouraging response — and of course Remus flushed pink. At the very least he wasn’t forced into a painful class introduction and was sat at the back, it was harder for his new classmates to stare from there, but somehow, they managed. He kept his eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given out. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. He'd already read everything. That was comforting- and boring. He wondered if he could muster the courage to get Lyall to send his old essays or whether he should even risk bothering him. He practised different arguments with him in his head while the teacher droned on.
He noticed the bronze girl who he overheard referred to as Lily had pointedly ignored him, poking reprimanding at her partner whenever they turned to stare. He thought for a moment longingly, why couldn’t everyone be a Lily.
When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with a face right out of the corpse bride and slicked black hair leaned across the aisle to talk to him.
"You're Remus Lupin, aren't you?" He looked like the overly helpful, chess club, emo type.
"Yeah," He replied with much less enthusiasm. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at him. Besides wonderful Lily who instead poked her partner again.
"Where's your next class?" he asked.
"Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six."
There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes so he settled for open air.
"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way…" Definitely over-helpful. "I'm Eric," he added.
He smiled tentatively, he didn’t want to be encouraging. "Thanks."
They got their jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. Remus could have sworn several people behind them were walking close enough to eavesdrop. He hoped he wasn't becoming paranoid.
"So, this is a lot different than Wales, huh?" he asked.
"Very."
"It rains a lot there as well though, right?"
"Yeah, just as much."
"So, the transition won’t be too hard, what’s it like?" he wondered.
"Foggy," He kept his answers clipped.
"You look quite tan." It wasn’t a question but he answered.
"My mother is part native, I’m mixed." His tone was blunter than he meant it to be.
He studied his face worriedly, and he sighed. He shouldn’t be so defensive, he wanted to be friendly if not have friends.
They walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Eric walked Remus right to the door, though it was clearly marked.
"Well, good luck," he said as he touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have some other classes together."
He sounded hopeful. Remus tried not to grimace.
The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. The Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Varner, who he would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made him stand in front of the class and introduce himself. He stammered, blushed, and tripped over his own boots on the way to his seat. He was relieved when class finally ended to say the least.
After two classes, he started to recognize several of the faces in each. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask him questions about how he was liking Forks. He tried to be diplomatic, but mostly he just lied a lot. The map stayed in his pocket, unused.
One girl sat next to him in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked him to the cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, and therefore absurd beside his great height, but her wildly curly dark hair made up a lot of the difference between their heights. He couldn't remember her name, so he smiled and nodded as she chattered about teachers and classes and as penance for forgetting he forced himself to try to engage, more than he had with anyone else.
They sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced and he forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them. They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to him and he suddenly felt like a weird token. The boy from English, Eric, waved at him from across the room. It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying his hardest to remember names and make conversation with seven curious strangers, when he first saw them.
They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where he (or anyone) sat. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating, though they each had a tray filled with untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at him, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that caught, and held, Remus's attention.
They didn't look anything alike. Of the two boys, one was big — muscled like a pro rugby player, with dark, curly hair that fell in front of glasses. Tucked beside him was a girl, a perfect hourglass figure, but still muscular like a swimmer, golden brown skin and shoulder length locs. The other boy was not paired; he was lanky, less bulky, his hair straight, chin-length and jet black. He was more boyish than the others, who looked like they could be in college, or even teaching assistants here rather than students.
The next two girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque, black brown skin, broad shoulders and honey-blonde highlights, she had her head lazily cuddled into the others. The short girl was pixielike, a rounded figure made up of graceful lines, her eyes were large and round with thick eyeliner as her gaze flickered up to the blonde. Her hair was cropped to her cheeks in a high fashion cut and had a vague punk influence clothing wise.
And yet, they were all exactly alike. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in skin tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes — purplish, bruise-like shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost done recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, all their features, were perfect angles or curves with no disruption. But all this is not why he couldn't look away. He stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide who was the most beautiful — maybe the girl with locs, or the jet black boy.
They were all looking away — away from each other, away from the other students, away from anything in particular as far as he could tell. As he watched, the punk-ish girl rose with her tray — unopened soda, unbitten apple — and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. Remus watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than he would have thought possible. His eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.
"Who are they?" Remus asked the girl from his Spanish class, whose name he had forgotten.
As she looked up to see who he meant — though already knowing, probably, from his bewildered tone — suddenly he looked at him, the jet black one, the boyish one, the youngest, perhaps. He looked at his neighbour for just a fraction of a second, and then his gorgeous dark eyes flickered to Remus’.
He looked away quickly, more quickly than Remus could, though in a flush of embarrassment he dropped his gaze at once. In that brief flash of a glance, his face held nothing of interest — it was as if someone had called his name, and he'd looked up involuntarily, already having decided not to answer.
His neighbour giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like he did.
"That's Sirius and James Cullen, and Mary Hale. The one who left was Marlene Cullen; they all live together with Dr Cullen and her husband." She said this under her breath.
He glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other three still looked away, and yet he felt he was whispering quietly to them.
Strange, unpopular names, he thought. The kinds of names grandparents or the children of hipsters had. But maybe that was in vogue here — small town names? He finally remembered that his neighbour was called Jessica, a perfectly common name. There were two girls named Jessica in his History class back home.
"They are… very nice-looking." he struggled with the conspicuous understatement.
"Yes!" Jessica agreed with another giggle. "They're all together though — James and Mary, and Marlene and Dorcas, I mean. And they live together." Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town, he thought critically. But, if he was being honest, he had to admit that even in Wales, it would cause gossip.
"Which ones are the Cullens?" he asked. "They don't look related…"
"Oh, they're not. Dr. Cullen is really young, in her twenties or early thirties. They're all adopted. The Hales are brother and sister, twins — the blondes — and they're foster children."
"They look a little old for foster children."
"They are now, Dorcas and Mary are both eighteen, but they've been with Mr. Cullen since they were eight. He's their aunt or something like that."
"That's really good of them — for them to take care of all those kids like that, when they're so young and everything."
"Yeah, of course" she admitted reluctantly, and he got the impression that she didn't like the doctor and her husband for some reason. With the glances she was throwing at their adopted children, he would presume the reason was jealousy. Not that he could blame her fully. "I think that Mrs. Cullen can't have any kids, though," she added, as if that lessened their kindness. He lied, she likely deserved all the blame.
Throughout all this conversation, his eyes flickered again and again to the table where the strange family sat. They continued to look at the walls and not eat.
"Have they always lived in Forks?" he asked. Surely, he would have noticed them on one of his summers here.
"No," she said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a new arrival like him. "They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska."
He felt a surge of pity, and kinship. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were outsiders, clearly not accepted. Kinship that he wasn't the only newcomer here, and certainly not the most interesting by any standard.
As he examined them, the youngest, one of the Cullen’s, looked up and met his gaze, this time with evident curiosity in his expression. As he looked swiftly away, it seemed to him that his glance held some kind of unmet expectation.
"Which one is the boy with the long black hair?" he asked. He peeked at him from the corner of his eye, and still he was staring, but not gawking like the other students had — he had a slightly frustrated expression. Remus felt a little unnerved.
"That's Sirius. He's gorgeous, of course, but don't waste your time. He doesn't date. Apparently, none of the girls here are good-looking enough for him. Or boys" She sniffed, a clear case of sour grapes. He wondered when he'd turned her down.
Turning his head to hide his grin, his eyes landed on Sirius again. His face was turned away but he thought he could see the corner of his mouth lifted, as if he were smiling as well.
After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They all were noticeably graceful —even the brawnier boy. It was unsettling to watch. The one named Sirius didn't look at him again.
He sat at the table with Jessica and her friends longer than he would have if he’d been sitting alone. He was anxious not to be late for class on his first day. Lily has sat down by his right in the middle of lunch and later announcing his next class as Bio out loud she kindly offered to take him. They didn’t speak much on the way though she did apologise for her peers pestering, there was comradery in their quiet walk and Remus found there was at least one person he might try to get to know.
When they entered the classroom, Lily went to sit at a black-topped lab table exactly like the ones at his old school. She already had a neighbour. In fact, all the tables were filled but one. Next to the centre aisle, he recognized Sirius Cullen by his perfect hair, sitting next to that single open seat.
As he walked down the aisle to introduce himself to the teacher and get his slip signed, he was watching him surreptitiously. Just as Remus passed, he suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at him again, meeting his eyes with the strangest expression on his face — it was hostile, furious. He looked away quickly, shocked, going red again. The fire in his eyes struck him so viscerally he stumbled before getting to his seat.
Lily gave him a frown two seats over.
He'd noticed that his eyes were black — obsidian.
Mr. Banner signed the slip and handed him a book with no nonsense about introductions. They would get alone, he thought. But of course, he had no choice but to send Remus to the one open seat in the middle of the room. He kept his eyes down as he approached the way you would an agitated dog, still bewildered by the antagonistic stare he'd given him.
He didn't look up as he set his book on the table and took a seat, but he saw his posture change from the corner of his eye. He was leaning away, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and averting his face like he’d smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, he sniffed his hair. It smelled like sandalwood, the scent of shampoo Hope had bought. It seemed an innocent enough odour. He lifted his arm and held his face in his hand, shielding himself, and tried to pay attention to the professor.
Unfortunately, the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something he'd already studied. He took notes carefully anyway, always looking down.
Though he couldn't stop himself from peeking occasionally through the gaps of his fingers at the strange boy next to him. The whole lesson he remained sitting rigid and upright, at the very edge of his chair. He couldn’t even see him breathing. The hand on his left leg was clenched into a fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This, too, he never relaxed. He had the long sleeves of his black shirt pushed up to his elbows, and his forearm was surprisingly hard and muscular beneath h
is light skin. He wasn't nearly as slight as he'd looked next to his burly brother. He thought maybe he could see some light scars raking up his forearms, but he couldn’t be sure from that close.
The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. Was it because the day was finally coming to a close, or because he was waiting for his tight fist to loosen, for him to exhale? He never did; he continued to sit so still, if he hadn’t known better Remus would have thought he was some Greco-Roman statue. Frozen in time.
What was wrong with him? Was this his normal behaviour? He questioned his judgement on Jessica's bitterness at lunch today. Maybe she was not as resentful or mean as he'd thought. It couldn't have anything to do with him. He didn't know him.
He dared to peek up at him one more time, and regretted it. He was glaring down at him again, his bottomless black eyes full of revulsion. As he flinched away from him, shrinking against his chair, the phrase if looks could kill suddenly ran through my mind. He felt some righteous anger flood his veins, who did this guy think he was? He had barely glanced at him and he was being treated like a plague. Remus's anger began to bubble matched only by the absurd fear this boy held him in, he wanted to yell at him for his random hate for him. To ask him what was so essentially wrong with him that he couldn’t even play at politeness.
At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making him jump, and Sirius Cullen was out of his seat. Fluidly he rose — he was much taller than he'd thought — his back facing him, and he was out the door before anyone else was out of their seat.
He sat frozen in his seat, staring blankly after him. He was so rude. It wasn't fair. He began gathering up his things slowly, trying to block the anger buzzing through him, for fear people would start to stare. For some reason his temper always felt like it could overwhelm him, he hated the loss of control and was clinging to any semblance of it now.
"Hey Remus, are you okay?" Lily asked.
Thank God, someone else had noticed, his anger was real and rightful. Lily’s beautifully trimmed brows were furrowed in deep concern, her lips pressed tight. He bets she doesn’t think he smells bad.
"I’m alright, I think. What even was that?" He said the last part hushed, like Sirius would appear out of thin air.
"I have no idea, the Cullen’s usually ignore everybody but he looked fucking livid."
"Shit, I hoped he was just generally hostile."
"Hey don’t worry about it, he was probably having a shit day or something” She didn’t sound very convinced “Do you need any help finding your next class?"
"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it."
"That's my next class, too." She seemed pleased, and it almost made up for Sirius’ vehement rage.
They walked to class together and they both spoke more — she supplied most of the conversation, which made it easy for him. She'd lived in London till she was ten, so she knew how he felt about the sudden change. Now that he thought about it her accent had sounded distinctly different. It turned out she was in his English class also. She was (easily) the nicest person he'd met.
As they began to part for the separate changing rooms, she added, " Really don’t worry about Sirius, I’ll ask whether you can move to sit by me if he keeps bothering you.”
He cringed. He didn’t want Lily to think of him as in need of protection, seriously this guy wasn’t exactly physically intimidating. If you ignored his lethal stare.
"Sirius who?" He replied and Lily exhaled at his poor attempt at humour” No honestly, I’m good”
"Okay- just give me a shout if you change your mind" she said.
Remus smiled at her before walking through the boys' locker room door. She was sweet. But it wasn't enough to completely ease his irritation.
The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found him a uniform but the shorts cut a little high above his knee and to save him the embarrassment wasn’t forced to change for that lesson.
In Wales PE. stopped being mandatory after 16. Here, it was mandatory for all four years. Forks was literally his personal hell on Earth.
He watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Remembering how many injuries he had sustained— and inflicted — playing volleyball, he felt faintly nauseated. Remus wasn’t weak or anything, he just couldn’t quite measure out how much strength to put into anything. Resulting in bruising all around.
The final bell rang at last. He walked slowly to the office to return his paperwork, he’d been forced to move around too much and his hip had begun to ache. A recurring echoing pain from the car crash. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong, and colder. He wrapped his arms around myself.
When he walked into the warm office, he almost turned around and walked back out.
Sirius Cullen stood at the desk in front of him. Remus recognized again that perfect jet black hair. He didn't appear to notice the sound of his entrance. Indignantly, he stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the receptionist to be free.
He was arguing with her now in a low, attractive voice. He quickly picked up the gist of the argument. He was trying to trade from sixth-hour Biology to another time — any other time. Unbelievable. This couldn’t, better, not be about him, He was an innocent! Something must have happened before he entered the room, some text or call or anything.
It was impossible that this stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike to him. The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling the papers on the desk, swirling his hair into his eye. The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Sirius Cullen's back stiffened, and he turned slowly to glare at him — his face was absurdly handsome — with stunning, stabbing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, he felt the thrill of genuine fear, raising the hair on his arms. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled more than the freezing wind.
He turned back to the receptionist.
"Never mind, then," he said hastily in a voice like velvet. "I can see that it's impossible. Thank you so much for your help." And he turned on his heel without another look at him, and disappeared out the door.
Remus meekly approached the desk, his face white and bloodless for once instead of flushed, and handed her the signed slip.
"How did your first day go, dear?" the receptionist asked maternally.
"Fine," I lied, his voice cracking weakly. She didn't look convinced.
When he got to the truck, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed like a haven, already the closest thing to home I had in this damp mossy hell hole. He sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshield blankly. But soon it was cold enough to need the heater, so he turned the key and the engine roared to life.
He headed back to Charlie's house, brimming with anger, a plan began to form.