the musings of rainfall
Remus had only ever tried to write a book once. He’d been fourteen at the time, therefore it was filled with the musings of someone who thought they knew themselves and thought they understood the world on a deeper level - he didn’t of course, but every teenager thinks that at some point. Whenever he reads it, he can’t help but still find a piece of himself hidden within the words; a part of him where he wasn’t sure if it was forgotten, lost or if it had evolved into a newer part of himself.
It was about someone who had ‘moss growing from their skull, leaching at their brain: flowers with roots that tickled the base of their mind: mushrooms infecting their head and their vision.
They never wished for, never asked for anything from anybody.
Yet, that might have been a lie they told themself to help sleep at night: it was impossible to tell what was fact and what was fictitious, for it was difficult to lie, when they weren’t sure what made something true. If it was belief then was anything really a lie? but if it was reality, then how could they be sure their reality was what others saw as well?
The moss made them sick, possibly dizzy - maybe that was the flowers.
Were they dying?
It was possible after all. How could death be any different to being alive?
Plagued by death didn’t seem to sit right on their tongue; it wasn’t as if they feared death, for what was there to fear about something impossible to ever truly comprehend?
No, being plagued by death didn’t seem to be the right way to state it.
Plagued by life didn’t seem right either; they didn’t hate being alive, it was that being alive was heavy, and thick; it was an exhausting thing to ask someone to do, and they weren’t sure it was kind to ask someone to live.
To be plagued, seemed more appropriate.
There was nothing specifically that plagued them, but at the same time, everything decided to cling to them like rain in a storm, or perhaps like the stars to the sky.
If life was death and death was life, then what did it mean to breathe? What did it mean to cry? What did it mean to suffer and to smile and to dream and to fear and to wonder?
Infected minds lead to… something… they’d forgotten what.
Perhaps infected minds led to living minds.’
There was a reason he stuck to poetry, but this story had been difficult for him to delete from his old laptop. It was the window into a moment of his life where he felt impossibly alone and wrongfully surrounded by loved ones. He also forgot about it a mere ten minutes after writing it, which was why it was unfinished.
He’d hoped the infected mind would find a way peeling back the moss to make way for the flowers.
Remus had found his way of doing so, long ago.
-----
“Write another poem for me.”
Tilting his head, Remus watched as Sirius’ eyes widened at his own words. “I mean, it’s just,” he began, stumbling over his thoughts. “Your poetry, it’s beautiful, and I’d really like it if you’d write more poems for my music,” he explained, trying to run his fingers through his hair, shuddering in the rain.
Remus sighed, smiling at the man as he took a step towards him. “I know a café just ‘round the corner,” he said, gesturing in it’s direction. “We can talk more there if you’d like.” He chuckled, glancing up at the rain. “I like a bit of rain, but...” he trailed off, shivering himself.
With a nod, Sirius picked up his guitar. “Show me the way,” he grinned, and Remus wished he brought his umbrella with him when he left his apartment. He’d glanced at it, as it was propped by the door, but thought he’d be able to avoid any rain - he was rather wrong about that.
He pulled the sleeves of his jumper over his hands, as if that would help keep him warm. Remus didn’t tend to have the best ideas when he was nervous.
Just as they left the park, he felt a small tug at his arm and turned to face Sirius, who had lifted his guitar case above his head, and was gesturing for Remus to hide beneath it with him. This left Remus with a split second decision between looking like an idiot for choosing to stay in the rain, or huddling with a rather handsome guitarist and making a fool of himself in some way or another. The soft pattering of the rain but the harsh tones of the wind left Remus with no choice but to hide alongside Sirius.
The streets had quickly been abandoned by those with a shred of sanity (which Remus felt he could safely assume neither he nor Sirius had), and was filled with small puddles, guiding leaves down the roads, and birds deciding to bask in the showers. The only people left on the streets were those who didn’t live close by or didn’t know the neighbourhood well enough to know where to take shelter.
It must have looked rather odd to anyone else, to see two men quickly walking through the rain with a guitar over their heads - or perhaps it was the lack of talking that would have looked odd.
Remus turned to look at Sirius, who appeared to be indulging in the sound the rain made as it bounced off his case, and the feeling of the rain as it danced across his skin. A smile was pushing its way onto his face, as much as Sirius tried to suppress it. Remus couldn’t help but wonder why he’d try to suppress his love of rain.
The urge to lie down in the rain and let it wash over him was an urge Remus failed to ignore every time the skies opened and the rain began to fall as if from a waterfall.
It was only when he heard Sirius cough, his cheeks flushed pink, that Remus realised he’d been staring. He snapped his eyes to his feet and watched the puddles of water multiply beneath him instead.
Remus guided them around the corner, relief fluttering through his body when he saw the lights on at the café. Picking up the pace, Remus held the door open for Sirius who smiled, softly thanking him as he brushed the rain off his guitar case and squeezed it from his hair. Tilting his head forward, Remus shook a hand through his hair, trying to get out as much water as he could, but it was a losing battle.
The café was empty besides Marlene, as expected - it was approaching their closing time. There was a soft glow from the fireplace - it wasn't actually a fire, just a heater - and the warm smell of coffee and tea and pastries made Remus shiver.
“Remus, why the fuck were you out in the rain?” Marlene asked, barely containing her laughter.
Remus rolled his eyes as he took his jumper off. “For laughs,” he replied, holding his jumper at arms length as it dripped. “Sorry for being drenched though, we got caught in it” he cringed, knowing Marlene would be the one who had to mop it up.
She shook her head. “I’d rather you came in here than tried to walk to the other side of town,” she insisted, walking from behind the counter and taking his jumper from him. “I’ll put this on the radiator for you,” she offered, turning to look at Sirius. “We haven’t met yet, but does anything of yours need drying?”
Sirius glanced down, his leather jacket in his hand. He shook his head. “My jacket should be okay after a minute or two,” he said, glancing at Remus as if to check he’d given the right answer. “Your name’s Remus?” he asked, as Marlene wandered behind the counter.
Remus’ eyes widened. “God, I never told you, did I?” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Remus, Remus Lupin,” he said, offering Sirius a hand.
“Pretty name,” Sirius smiled.
“Honestly Lupin,” Marlene tutted from the counter. “You meet a guy and you forget to tell him your name?”
Remus felt a warmth spread across his face. “It started raining,” he mumbled, but Sirius grinned.
“Wasn’t raining yesterday, was it?” he asked, and Remus buried his face in his hands. “Thank you for the radiator offer by the way, I’m Sirius,” he introduced.
Marlene raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you weren’t,” she replied, and Remus bit the inside of his cheek to try and stop himself from laughing, but he couldn’t help it.
“You know, I didn’t have this problem until I met you,” Sirius directed at Remus, raising an eyebrow as Remus shrugged.
“It’s not my fault your name is an adjective,” Remus retorted, smiling.
Sirius rolled his eyes. “Says the man whose name is wolf wolf,” he replied, making Remus snort.
“Fair enough,” Remus shrugged, folding his arms with a shiver. “His name’s Sirius,” he explained, to a baffled Marlene.
She shook her head, muttering something about parents and the oddest of names as she left them by the fireplace.
Sirius chuckled, turning his eyes toward the interior of the café. "This place is nice, it's very -" he paused, rotating his hand as he tried to think of a word. "Homey?" he said, sounding unsure.
Remus tried to suppress a laugh. "Not a word, but I know what you mean," he replied, and Sirius' cheeks turned pink. "I've known Marlene since secondary school, and when she opened the place, she would call me every other minute to ask about how to decorate," he admitted, closing his eyes as he felt his face heat up.
"My brother, Regulus, did the same thing," Sirius replied, grinning. "He opened up a law firm and kept messaging me to ask if it was inviting enough or if it was too cold and distant." He glanced at Remus. "You're shivering."
Remus felt heat rush to his cheeks. "It's fine, I'll warm eventually," he assured, though Sirius didn't look convinced.
"Sit by the heater, don't want you catching a cold," Sirius replied, with a small smile.
Remus nodded, unsure what else to say. He had to admit, the warmth rolling off the heater relaxed his muscles, making him smile. "So…" Remus trailed off.
"So," Sirius copied, with a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Why do you want me to write you more poetry?" Remus asked, cutting straight to the point.
Sirius took a sharp inhale of breath. "Well aren't you blunt," he muttered with a chuckle, his eyes fixed on Marlene as she entered.
"Your cardigan really doesn’t go with my flat decor Remus,” Marlene said, glaring at Remus who shrugged.
“Dorcas is the one who bought it for me,” Remus replied, his eyes not leaving Sirius who seemed to be avoiding answering his question, and meeting his gaze. “How is she?”
Marlene grinned. “Absolutely wonderful Remus,” she sighed, bringing a hand to her ear. Remus had seen Dorcas tuck Marlene’s hair behind it on multiple occasions. “Tea?” she asked, heading back to the counter.
“Thanks Marls,” he smiled, feeling the ripples from the heater. “Fuck thats hot,” he mumbled, shfiting on his seat as Sirius chuckled. “What?” Remus asked, fighting a smile.
“You’re -” Sirius shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he grinned, leaning back into the armchair, allowing it to swallow him bit by bit. “I could fall asleep if I’m honest.”
Remus laughed. “Best not,” he said, sinking into his own armchair. “Do I get an answer?” he enquired, glancing over at Sirius who froze for a moment.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m shite with words,” he began, sitting up straighter. “It’s a bit of a problem actually, but that’s besides the point.” He flexed his hand, taking a breath. “I love the expression music allows me, how I can say so much with so little.”
“But…” Remus said, allowing for Sirius to add the answer for him.
“But,” Sirius smiled. “I love how little you can say with so many words, the feelings they can invoke with the pronunciation of a phrase, the manipulation of what we know to be grammatically correct to allow for a greater understanding of what we feel.” Sirius paused, and Remus held his breath, wondering if Sirius knew that it didn’t sound to Remus as if he was bad with words at all. “To combine the manipulation of word and sound could create something beautiful.”
Remus couldn’t help but stare. In fact, he was quite certain his face was flushed a faint pink, perhaps even a dark rose instead. Opening his mouth to try and find a phrase - any phrase - he fell flat, instead simply stuttering. “Well I - um - do you, what is it - can I - why exactly,” he tried to say, before he pulled at the sleeves of his shirt. “Why me exactly?”
Sirius tilted his head, smirking. “Because you manage to observe things others find it hard to see.”
“I don’t know how much more I see than others,” Remus muttered, furrowing his eyebrows.
“No,” Sirius said, chuckling. “Not more, other,” he stressed.
Remus blinked, beyond confused. “So you want to write songs together?”
Sirius grinned. “I suppose so, yes,” he said. “If you want to,” he added quickly, snapping his head back in the direction of the heater.
“I don’t share my poetry often,” Remus admitted, pulling his bag closer to him, thoughts about sharing his notebook with Sirius flooding through his mind.
“You don’t have to show me anything you’ve written before,” Sirius insisted, and Remus found the gesture quite sweet, even if Sirius had misunderstood what he meant, just a little.
Remus didn’t let people read his poetry, he didn’t read his poetry to others, and he was not someone who opened up to people. It had taken him nine years to feel comfortable with explaining to Lily why red-set scars across his shoulders and his face. Whilst that might not be too out of the ordinary for someone who had to deal with the trauma behind the event and live with the trauma of having such scars through secondary school, it took him longer to tell Lily he was bisexual. She knew already, and he knew she did, but he hadn’t been able to speak the words, only write them and imply them.
His poetry was where he was vulnerable, and he didn’t know if he wanted to open up to a stranger like that.