It is 1976 and that which has been brewing since the dawn of their little group is toppling over and spilling blood red on the marble counter, contrasting the rolling Scottish hills to the left and the green light leaving the tip of a wand to the right. Fate plucks an eyelash and blows.
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moooooooooonbeam
pads.
want to come make sensual eye contact with me and james over ogden’s old tmrw at the hog’s head pete has girlfriend duties i’ll even let you do a shot off my neck if you ask nicely
enticing! i’ll pass on the neck shots you’re ticklish and i’m revolted x
har dee har. we’ll come collect you from comc
Firewhiskey works as an amnesiac for the truly determined; Remus sketches increasingly detailed pieces of Sirius’ jugular in place of what he imagines a thestral would look like, and Sirius does indeed make sensual eye contact with both him and James as he licks a stripe off the wrist that has kept Remus perpetually in the shower for the past year, all translucent skin that a half-hearted grip would bruise, Remus could hold both of them in a single hand, and Sirius’ eyelids are low and his tongue is a flicker in between blinks and so neither of them mention the red-pink splotches blooming on Sirius’ collarbone the next day.
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stop having chemsex in my sweaters pavlov james lit a joint last night and i got a semi
they’re real magnets moons i honestly don’t remember if i had any game before i got into your closet
p.s dearborn asked me if the sweater was yours before touching that dangly piece in my throat with his tongue. that ring a bell?
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WHY DOES MY JACKET SMELL LIKE DEARBORN’S GOD AWFUL AFTERSHAVE
uvula. and i’d think your doggy senses would’ve caught a smidge of lockjaw in there too
slag
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there are like five breadcrumbs stuck in your eyelashes how are you not going absolutely insane
After class, Sirius is cornered into the hind of a tapestry, nose to Turkic nose, Remus whispering “why are you looking at my eyelashes” and all Sirius can do is nod, though it doesn’t make sense, though he actually has something to saybut all he can think about is the rub of their noses at the motion and Padfoot somewhere deep in his gut chanting claim claim claim. Sirius says, “Remus,” and it sounds an awful lot like Please, and Remus reaches out and runs a hand through his hair, fingers reaching deep, a pensieve, and it feels an awful lot likeI don’t know how, and he’s turning around, dropping a lit match into Sirius’ mouth and walking away.
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remus,
Sirius is not sorry. Sirius cannot lie to Remus. Sirius is not sorry and Sirius cannot lie to Remus and hm, it’s quite the conundrum, a giggle bubbles up his throat, Sirius has been lying to himselfsince he was a mound of sand on the ground next to the mountain peak that was his mother but still taller than Regulus, much taller than he ever actually was as he laid on his stomach, shirtless, with the window open so the cool breath of the wind kissed the lashings on his back, age eight. Sirius has been lying to himself since the beginning of fourth year, finally bursting wide open, blood and guts, when Remus walked into their train compartment sporting a shaggy and horrifically southern mullet signed Hope Lupin that suited him so unbearably much it made Sirius want to puke, but instead made Sirius start dragging his tongue across the inside of so-and-so’s cheek. Siriushas wanted Remus and wanted so badly not to want Remus that he almost hopes this will push Remus away from him forever, but it won’t, and he doesn’t want that, not really. He thinks about the hours spent under Remus’ bed skiving off and reading his muggle books, hands gentle on the pages like they’ve never been on anything else. Sorry about the blood in your mouth, he thinks, I wish it was mine, he thinks. He rips the paper apart with his teeth.
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There are no words. Sirius is small in the corner of Remus’ eye as he paces, desperate for some kind of release, he’s thought about punching him, about kicking his teeth in, he’s thought about biting him and wanted to peel his own skin off for it so now he paces. Sirius is shrinking further down and so Remus stops before he turns from a speck to nothing, turning towards him, pained. His voice is clear albeit not his own when he says, “Apologize.” Sirius’ voice is barely above a whisper albeit so unwaveringly his own when he says, “No.” And then lips are meeting lips, terrible and vile and yes and yes and yes yes yes, Sirius lets out a choked sob and Remus swallows it, Sirius’ hands waver around his face and Remus clasps his own over them and drags them into his hair, teeth clacking together and teeth getting caught on skin until they are out of the fog and Sirius is repeating “not you, not you, never you, that’s what i’ll apologize for, never you,” over and over like a mantra, and Remus is rubbing the back of his neck and whispering back, “I know.”
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Much like anything with the two of them, it does not start off slow; it starts like the rumble of the ground when a volcano is seconds from bleeding out, like skin splitting, like begging, please, please, I need you inside me, and being split open with a knife, both of them seeking to be the destruction of the other, they do not crash and burn but they are always on the verge of it, that is how they like it best. It is terribly dramatic, the way they love, but it is just that— love, indubitably.
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lycanthropy is no disease compared to your swotiness. greenhouse five in half an hour i snagged us some hufflepuff joints i’m smoking them either way but if i believed you would actually bid dear sluggy adieu for once i’d talk about how much i miss your mouth here
s
Remus walks out of class ten minutes in and kisses Sirius stupid, smoke and whines pouring into his mouth in spurts with every bite to the pillow of Sirius’ bottom lip. They lie on the damp floors, both bitten red, earth smeared and jittery until Sirius banishes Remus back to class for thinking too loudly about wanting Sirius to banish him back to class.
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borrowing the notes I took for YOU to copy over for myself fear not old swot they are in one piece and not ‘drenched’ in tea again. though i cannot be held responsible for any doodles and/or marriage officiations in the margins
mrs. sirius lupin
Remus will pretend to care very, very deeply about the state of the notes for which he was not even awake to take, but for now he drenches in the acidic sizzle of fear and anticipation and need to live long enough to rid Sirius of his Noble and Moste Ancient burden, the jeer in his voice and the stones lined up in his throat as he swallows down a hand-me-down insult. Remus cannot promise him forever, he cannot promise him tomorrow, but he can wrap his heart up in tissue paper and promise him today, promise him now, and his hand is already plunging into his ribcage.
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keats would slip you the tongue if he heard you were leaving dog-eared copies of ode to a nightingale splayed over dusty and blood ridden suicide notes on your lovers’ bedside table written in footprints with the scarlet spunk filling the soles of your shoes take the map with you on your next trip to the astronomy tower sirius fucking black i am a shakespearean tragedy to the bone i would jump if you jumped and i would praise myself for it
re
Sirius gets the last line tattooed, Remus’ scratchy scrawl inked like nails dragging across skin into a desert spot on his nape, a Number 12 library special, beside a sketch of the Leo constellation he had drawn himself. The two keep mirrors tolerable and keep Sirius himself in a mid-air arabesque, perpetually ready to run up stairs and connect white dots in the sky until his vision crinkles at the edges like the cherry of a cigarette, perpetually meant to snake an arm around the poster of a beautiful boys bed and let the glinting of his honey curls in the dark light him up instead.
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some poetic shite about how the afternoon sun is your friend with the way it swoops down the curves and juts of your crooked nose kisses your scars golden and splays on your blond tipped eyelashes as they flutter and turns them into the butterflies etc etc point is i didn’t want to wake you ptrns me if you want something from tea s
Remus wakes up with the moon lodged in his windpipe, a coughing fit blowing the note back and forth in his frail grip. He lets his heart squeeze and, to compensate, thinks about how much of a cocksure git Sirius is that he’d think the mere fact of him writing to Remus would be enough for him to conjure a patronus, promptly falling back asleep and waking up to hands crossed featherlight over his chest. He lets his heart squeeze once more and, to compensate, in an act of blasphemy, curses Sirius out for being right. He lets himself be held, small in Sirius’ grip like he is nowhere else, the eight inches between them nothing and less in the pink hue of six a.m, and Remus lets himself wallow in the gut-wrenching serenity of belonging. He swivels around, drops a kiss on Sirius’ cheekbone, grabs a tissue from his desks and scribbles, tongue in cheek, heart in throat.
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you are the blood clot knitting my veins together like tea leaves and fate lines across my sweaty palms you are the doom written in the bottom of my cup you are the hand that reaches into the pit of my being and comes up black blue and plum purple and most of all you are the fucking rash on my arse that i am painstakingly aware of as i sit as i stand and as i keep on fucking living despite it all i will not be rid of you because i do not think i can be i’ll save you potatoes from brekky don’t have nightmares without me here
i am twisted beyond recognition i wrote this in bone marrow so i cannot tell if it spells i love you like i wanted it to
re
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you are my unbecoming, you charlatan. i think you’ve fit into the hollows of my ribs and the places where my elbows creak enough times to know what that means. s
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Indubitably. If Sirius focuses really hard on that sweet pressure on his lungs when Remus looks at him, hash green gaze peaking through spiderweb eyelashes, when Remus groans his name, when he smokes, when he smiles, stupid and crooked and acidic, bile up his throat, he knows, it is, it is. Indubitably.
i love you. if that wasn’t already clear. self martyring fuckoff werewolf i love you so horribly it’s the closest to death i’ve ever been
This one Remus wants to burn to a crisp and let dissolve on his tongue, molding into his molars for him to tongue at obsessively. He lets this fill a crippled piece torn off of his Charms assignment with ink, adding i love you so terribly it makes me think like a tossup french philosopher, setting the paper between his teeth and pointing at his mouth, his Incendio wordless and his lungs ash grey, then thinking better of it and fiddling for the spare tobacco in his drawer.