“Hey”
Remus looks up.
“Hello Padfoot”
Sirius is looking at him intently, smoking. Remus smiles, and while Sirius sits down beside him, he stares, transfixed. It’s difficult not to. He pumps out the smoke with that elegancy of his, seeming nearly aristocratic. All the years he spent trying to worsen his manners don’t matter, a Black will always be a Black. The smoke creates bizarre figures around him, which quickly disappear in the cold, early November air. His hair, shoulder-length, shakes with the wind and makes his beautiful jawline pop out. Remus asks himself once more how can someone be so beautiful.
Remus closes the book he’s been reading, leaving a finger between the pages. The Picture of Dorian Gray, at Sirius’ suggestion. And Sirius, of course, notices.
“Bet you’re fascinated by Wilde.”
“To be honest, I don’t see what the fuss is all about, Pads. He’s an arrogant arsehole, just like you.”
Sirius barks out a laugh. He always does everything just like that, loud and clear, wanting to be heard.
“I know a liar when I see one, Lupin.”
He’s right. That doesn’t mean Remus is gonna tell him that.
“How can all art be useless? No one believes that, not even a prat like you.”
“You’ve not understood anything, have you?” Sirius looks amused. Remus doesn’t respond. It’s his turn to talk, he knows that much, but he’s busy admiring the boy he has at hands reach. Fuck. He can’t even argue without losing himself.
So they stay silent, looking at the lake. It’s not awkward, anyway. After so many years, they’ve learned to enjoy how the wind blows through the golden leaves of the Forbidden Forest, even the distant barks of Fang. However, the silence doesn’t last. It’s impossible with Sirius. He moves and Remus sees, feels, how his mood changes. He’s in motion, as the sea and the rivers and the moon. Sirius is like a tempest.
“Oscar Wilde says, and I quote, that all art is quite useless. But I do not believe that.” Sirius looks at him, trying to find the words to explain himself correctly. “Honestly, I would save the artist y’know? If I had to choose between a doctor, a scientist and an artist, I would save the artist.”
Remus, intrigued, looks at him. It’s not usual to see him like this, talking earnestly about something in this way. Sirius always has some witty comparison, some stupid joke to make James laugh. That’s why Remus sits silently, listening, trying to remember each one of his gestures. Oblivious to this, Sirus continues talking passionately, as if he were a hurricane, as he does everything.
“I think the artist could, I don’t know, create something —a book, a song, a painting— something— that inspires someone to study medicine, and then, that someone could discover the cure of cancer.”
“I actually think that Wilde would agree with you. He devoted all his life to his art, after all.”
Sirius shrugs, and smiles.
“You still don’t get it. Wilde also said that the purest ideas are those which you do not agree with. Maybe he didn’t even believe that art is useless. I don’t know, but even if he did so… what the hell, who am I to contradict the fucking Oscar Wilde.”
“The fucking Sirius Black.” Sirius looks at him, arching an eyebrow. “I mean… you antagonize everyone. Starting with Snape, you continue with John Lennon and end with Dumbledore. Look, I think you’re the only person I know who has the guts to fight Dumbledore.”
“He gave me detention, Moony.”
“You turned his office into a pool.”
“Oh, c’mon! It was May, and really hot.”
“You are aware of the lake’s existence, are you not?”
“And the possibility of the Squid vomiting when seeing Dumbledore in speedos.” Remus tries, unsuccessfully, not to laugh. He sees how Sirius rolls his second fag. There’s something hypnotic in seeing how he puts the tobacco in the paper, with the mischievous grin of the last joke still on his lips. Remus blushes, thinking about what those lips could do.
“How many have you smoked already?” he decides to lecture him. It’s easier than kissing him. Not that kissing him is difficult, he thinks. They are shoulder to shoulder, as if they were trying to find some heat in the darkening evening. Sirius turns at him, with his gray eyes brighter than ever, and Remus swallows hard. He is close, so close…
“Shut up, Lupin. You’re not my mom.”
“Thank god, you’d hate me.” Joking. That’s safe territory. When they’re joking, Sirius’ tongue can’t unsettle him. Joking is nearly as safe as having James with them.
But James happens to be with Lily.
“I couldn’t hate you if I tried, mate.” Suddenly, Sirius looks tired. “I wouldn’t know how to do it.”
So close.
“But you antagonize me.”
“I antagonize everyone, you said it yourself. Merlin, Money, I antagonize Lennon. And I fucking adore Lennon.”
“The best Beatle is George Harrison.”
“Right now, I do not give a shit about The Beatles, Moony. We were having quite a nice conversation, weren’t we? Tell me, what do you think about art?”
“Art’s not useless. It’s inevitable. There’s art in absolutely everything, Sirius. Even in the moon, if you look carefully.”
“Even in me?”
Remus looks at him. Black family’s black sheep. Damned blood, pure blood. His hair blowing in the wind, nearly melting in it. The Forbidden Forest in the background, and those eyes, which are the beginning and the end of all beauty. Friedrich painting his Wanderer above the sea of fog, the symphony that Beethoven was never able to write, Burns, Becquér, and Edgar Allan Poe. Sirius Black embodies Romanticism's fragile courage.
“Especially in you.”
He says it whispering, not nearly a breath, without being conscious of what he’s doing. It doesn’t matter. He sees those eyes closer, and when he feels Sirius’ breath on his lips, he realizes that he’s not looking at a Greek statue. He realizes that this is terribly, wonderfully real.
They kiss, while the orange leaves dance all around them, as flames of fire fighting the wind. That’s exactly how Remus feels, on fire. Sirius tastes like oak, butterbeer and smoke.
Ashes— dust and shadow.
When they part, Remus feels the base of his stomach and the tip of his hands tickling. His mouth tastes like tobacco.
“You’ll die of lung cancer, Padfoot.”
“Just like George Harrison.”
Sirius smiles, and that smile promises mischief and laughter, howls at the moon and an everlasting Beatles concert when they arrive at the dorms.
Wilde was utterly wrong. All art is not useless. At least, it knows how to kiss.