Chapter Text
Tendrils of light shine through the church’s stained-glass windows, creating a kaleidoscope of colours on the stone floor. Centuries-old arches run beside wooden beams that keep the small building intact. Crumbled stone walls, the archaic smell of wooden pews hangs in the air.
Remus sits beside the altar while his father prepares for today’s service. He draws in a long inhale of quiet air before people begin to file in. From putting on his robes to retrieving the wine bottle from its cooler, Remus could recite every step that Lyall takes to prepare for the service. He will be a Minister one day, when his dad dies, leading the same church his family has for generations.
Heat grazes his skin as the sun reaches this side of the church. Even in the early morning, the July heat is warm in their sunny village. Its rays resemble the outstretched fingers of a divine being. God’s presence is all around him, and Remus feels whole.
“The tables are set out,” says Hope from the vestibule, the arched entrance to the church. She gives a tired smile towards her husband and son. “Is everything ready here?”
Remus stays seated. The tables for refreshments are held in the small building across from the churchyard, more of a glorified shed, guarded by a flight of stairs that stubbornly keep him out.
“Yes, we’re just waiting on the bread from Miranda,” Lyall replies. He’s dressed in his white robes for Communion, a dog collar hugging his neck.
Remus’ hand stays clenched around the smooth handle of his cane. Twenty-two with the mobility of a ninety-year-old, he’s not immune to feeling frustrated. At himself, at other people, at flights of stairs. Even at God for making him like this. We’re all made in the image of God, his mum would say, and his dad would nod- all of His creations are precious, son. So, he perseveres.
Members of the congregation begin to file in just after half eight. Remus sits by the altar, smiling from afar while he rests his legs.
Some days are better, when he stands in the entrance and shakes people’s hands with his dad. Some are worse, and he doesn’t make it to church at all. But most are like this, spending as much time seated as he can. He thinks it’s a small mercy that most young people moved out of the village as soon as possible, otherwise jealousy would twist inside of him like it did at school; watching people his age run and climb stairs and move effortlessly would surely bring him to his aching knees.
Some of the elderly women come and greet Remus. People take their seats on the old pews. Hues of molten multicoloured gold shine through the windows. God Himself, blessing the congregation with His light.
Remus should keep looking at the sun, or the stained-glass windows, or how his dad prepares the bread for later. Instead, his eyes wander to the congregation. He searches for what he’s been looking for for the last three Sundays: a black head of hair.
The Black family are new to town. Remus knew that before they arrived, whispers of foreigners buying up one of the expensive country houses. French, someone said, and the rumour spread like wildfire. Apparently they made a name for themselves in London, owned a series of companies.
Remus was intrigued because no one ever moves to this town, especially not families. It’s where people go to die: elderly couples who have lived here for generations, farmers who own a family plot, kids who were too ill to escape.
They came to the Sunday service the first week they arrived. People were pleased; foreign atheists might have been too much for them to handle.
Sitting on his usual vantage point by the altar, where Lyall delivered the service, Remus saw them enter. A greying man in an expensive suit and his wife in her Sunday best, a deep crimson dress. Skin like snow. Two sons, about Remus’ age, the younger one not breaking his stony-set grimace. They moved with grace, stopping to politely shake hands and introduce themselves.
But Remus wasn’t looking at the parents or the sour son. He was looking at the other son. Staring, in fact, at his silky black hair which fell to his shoulders. Scandalously unfitting for a man to have long hair, yet there he was, wearing it like a halo. His jaw danced above a sharp chin, high cheekbones and dark eyelashes. Remus knew it was over when he saw his eyes. Strikingly grey, like a pane of stained glass with the sun pouring through from the inside.
And those grey eyes met his, just for a second. In that moment, Remus was captivated.
Today, like every other Sunday this month, Remus watches out for the ink-black hair that fell to the shoulders of the most beautiful man he’s ever set eyes on. They haven’t spoken yet. Remus hasn’t made it to the refreshments shed this month, but he can watch from afar.
Five to nine arrives, five minutes until the service begins and most of the pews are littered with elderly couples and local farmers. No new faces. And then, they arrive. Skin like snow, dressed in nothing but the finest.
Remus watches, and he spots him. Sirius Black. That’s his name, according to his dad who updated him on the new arrivals to their church. Sirius Black. The name feels scorched onto his heart.
It’s pathetic, really. Not because he’s a man; Remus isn’t a hate-filled sixteen-year-old who’d pray every night for God to make him normal. No, it’s because he hasn’t spoken a word to Sirius, and yet he thinks about him every Sunday when he should be thinking about God. Every day, when he should be thinking of anything else.
Ink stains the shoulders of his navy suit. Remus watches every poised step Sirius takes up the aisle, shiny black shoes tapping against the stone floor. His dark lashes blink over his eyes like a lunar eclipse. Steep nose, high cheekbones. He looks disinterested, bored even, as his mother talks with a local. His eyebrows raise, almost imperceptibly, but flooding his face with so much emotion that Remus could drown.
The service begins. And Remus thinks about Sirius, because there’s nothing else to think about. Maybe he should start praying, because he is too far gone for his own good.
~~~
Remus spends most of the week like he’s spent most of his life: in bed. He listens to the radio on his bedside table and reads by candlelight because he likes the way the orange flame flickers onto the pages.
Even in his bored, restless state, he can’t think too much about Sirius considering they haven’t exchanged a word. He knows that the Blacks are wealthy, moved from London, originally from France, and that’s it. He doesn’t know what two adult sons his age are doing trapped somewhere like this, let alone someone of their success.
Remus sighs as he watches rain patter against the window, breaking up the heat of the last few days. He reads horrible things about ‘homosexuals’ in the newspapers, and hears even worse on the radio. The topic is too sinful to be discussed in church, but it lingers in the background of every sermon on the sanctity of the union of marriage between man and woman, Adam and Eve, equal but different.
Maybe if he were smarter, he could’ve gone to university in a progressive city, or if he were more adventurous he could’ve moved to London or America. Somewhere where people wouldn’t care who he kissed in what nightclub, or who he stared at too long in the street. Maybe such a place doesn’t exist, but there’s got to be somewhere better than here.
But he’s not adventurous or smart, and he needs the stability of two parents to provide for him when he’s in too much pain to get out of bed. He hasn’t found a boy worth throwing that all away for yet, and as pretty as Sirius is, he doubts he ever will.
~
"Your mum says you're feeling up to delivering the service today," Lyall says, coming in from the garden.
Remus eats his porridge at the table, his cane resting against the back of his chair. His joints are less creaky today, and the pain is a dull ache rather than an overwhelming thrum.
"Yes, I think so," he says. He sometimes takes over the service when he's feeling up to standing for so long.
"I've got a sermon prepared, but do you want to lead Communion and the hymns?"
Remus nods. "Ok." As his dad sits to eat the porridge Hope made them, expectancy twists in his chest like a knife. Instead of sitting in the background, he will be leading the service. He will be leading Sirius.
They arrive at the church forty minutes early as always. Hope sets the tables and cups out for refreshments, while Remus retrieves his white robes for Communion. He's tired by the time the first people filter in, old women with their usual cheery greeting. They must’ve been awake for hours. Remus wonders what time Sirius wakes up, what his hair looks like sprawled over his pillow.
Sinful thoughts, Remus shakes his head to get rid of them. He tries to focus on sunlight shining through the stained-glass windows, on the voices echoing around the space. But the image sticks, a stubborn grain of salt: Sirius’ hair sprawled like vines on a linen pillow.
Remus leaves himself plenty of time to put the white robes on. He watches himself in the sacristy’s mirror, slow limbs shrouding himself in fabric. Scars across the bridge of his nose start where the freckles stop, curly brown hair flopping too far down his forehead.
He’s never thought of himself as attractive, but he wonders if his scars or freckles catch Sirius’ attention, or if Sirius would mock him like the boys at school did. Remus opens his robes and stretches his arms above his head until his shirt rides up to reveal the dip of his waist. He wonders if that would make Sirius look twice.
“Good morning, everyone,” Remus says, raising his voice to reach all corners of the church. The congregation is quiet and full of familiar faces. He tries not to look at the family sitting in the middle on the left, dressed in their Sunday best. He thinks one look at Sirius could derail the service beyond repair.
He carries out the service as normal, going through hymns where the organ takes over from his echoing voice, and directing people to readings. Ephesians today. The armour of God.
When everyone looks down at their hymn books to sing along to the unfamiliar fifth verses, Remus’ gaze wanders to the man standing on the centre left of the church, packed in a pew between his parents. Black hair cascades to his shoulders, red lips moving in time with everyone else's. Remus’ sigh is drowned out by the organ music as he rests a hand on his waist.
Before his dad does the sermon, Remus begins the long procession of Communion. He reads from the Bible, and everyone follows along at their part. It should be a power rush, a roomful of people awaiting his every word. Remus has never felt smaller. Lost in himself, he thought the feeling of running after pretty boys’ smiles would fade as he grew older, but it has just become more resolute.
“God spoke these words, and said; I am the Lord thy God: Thou shalt have none other gods but me,” he says, beginning to read out the ten commandments.
The congregation reads from their books in a chorus. “Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law.”
Remus should be looking at his Bible so he doesn’t lose his place. When he glances up for a split second, he blanches. A pair of strikingly grey eyes are trained on him. Sirius is watching in something resembling awe, jaw tilted up to stare at Remus like angelic wings have sprouted from his back.
Once Remus has said the Prayer of Consecration, members of the congregation start to come forward to take the bread and wine. Something to focus on, at least.
People come forward to kneel on the prayer cushions, resting on the wooden panel that separates Remus from them. He recites the words he knows off by heart.
“The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life,” he says, tearing off pieces of bread. “Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on him in thy heart by faith with thanksgiving.”
As they eat the bread, he takes the chalice of red wine. The golden metal is cold beneath his fingers. “The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life,” he says. “Drink this in remembrance that Christ's Blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.”
One by one, he offers the chalice to each person, wiping between each sip. They get up from their cushions, and a new row kneels down. The line of people weaves down the aisle as organ music plays in the background.
A few minutes in, just when Remus was getting into the rhythm of reciting the words and passing the bread and wine across the line, he’s stopped short. The next people who come to kneel on the cushions have ink black hair, snow white skin and strikingly grey eyes.
Remus can’t ignore him anymore. He comes face to face with Sirius Black. And this time, Sirius is looking right at him.
It must be strength sent from God that stops Remus from collapsing under his weary feet. Sirius kneels on the prayer mat, hands clasped in front of him, resting on the wooden panel with his fingers threaded together like a bracelet. He looks up at Remus with expectation, a hint of amusement beneath the serious façade.
Remus wills his memory not to fail him as he begins speaking. “The Body of Our Lord, Jesus Christ,” he begins, tearing a piece of bread off to give to Walburga Black first. Then Regulus. Then Orion. Their names are seared into his memory from when he first asked. Finally, Sirius. He hands the piece of bread to Sirius, so close they can touch. So close their fingers brush against each other’s, just for a second.
As if it weren’t possible, Sirius looks even more beautiful up close. Remus can see every strand of black hair sweeping below his ears, the mole under his right eye, the wisps of hair on the underside of his chin.
“Feed on Him in thy heart by faith with thanksgiving,” Remus murmurs. He stops to watch Sirius eat the bread. Sirius opens his mouth and slots the bread in, pushing his finger a centimetre further than necessary over his tongue. His eyes don’t leave Remus’. His finger doesn’t leave his mouth. Until it does, but by then Remus is so flushed with heat that he’s sure his complexion is similar to the stained-glass above them.
Remus clears his throat and quickly takes the chalice to Walburga. Utterly inappropriate. He wonders whether God will make him pay for this or whether He will just have pity for Remus’ helplessly one-tracked mind. He really needs a hobby. Something that isn’t this. And Sirius, the man he’s never spoken to, really needs to stop teasing him.
He repeats the words for the wine and passes the chalice down the family. When he gets to Sirius, his stomach turns finding the grey eyes are still staring at him.
Sirius takes a gulp of wine from the chalice. His Adam’s apple bobs in his neck as the liquid slips down his throat. Remus lets out a weak breath as Sirius hands the chalice back. He can’t tell if he’s imagining things, or whether the corners of Sirius’ mouth tilt up in a smirk.
Either way, the Blacks rise from the cushions and return to their pew. Remus allows himself to breathe with Sirius’ back finally turned to him. He feels like he’s on fire. Skin burning with flames of desire, attraction, sin. A taste of Hell itself.
The next row of people kneel, and Remus tries to shake off the feeling that his soul has been set alight. He’s just lonely and bored, and Sirius is too pretty for his own good.
Remus sinks into a pew by the altar after Communion. The organ music stops, and his dad comes to the pulpit to deliver his sermon. His legs ache, his joints are sore and he hasn’t even walked home yet. He can tell today’s exhaustion will seep into tomorrow.
Lyall delivers the sermon, convicted words and long-winded metaphors about the armour of God. It’s an effort not to cast his gaze into the sea of faces where he knows whose grey eyes will be looking back, but Remus manages it. He longs for the cool feeling of the Holy Spirit gracing him instead of sin's uncomfortable heat.
After the service, Remus stands in the vestibule's arched entrance and shakes people’s hands on their way out. They congratulate him on the service, having proudly watched him grow from a shy child to following in his father’s footsteps as a Minister.
Walburga and Orion Black sweep past him, heading towards the shed for their post-service socialising. The youngest son nods politely, all the airs and graces of royalty. Remus almost wishes that Sirius would follow them to save himself the embarrassment of blushing cheeks. But the excitement that sparks inside when Sirius pauses makes every flame worth it.
The boy. The man. Sirius. He stops. Holds out a hand like the people before him, mirroring the graces of his brother.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” says the man, grey eyes inspecting Remus’ face. “I’m Sirius Black. Pleased to meet you.” His accent is posh, Southern, and tipped with French. It’s deeper than Remus expected. It’s just feminine enough that Remus knows he should shake his hand and never look at him again.
Remus falters. Only for a moment, but just long enough to make Sirius’ arched eyebrows quirk slightly, as if he knows what effect he has on him.
“Nice to meet you, Sirius,” Remus says, trying to look anywhere but his eyes, and failing miserably. He swallows and forces himself to conduct himself like a Minister should. “I’m Remus Lupin. My father’s the Minister, and I help out sometimes, as you can see.” Friendly. Welcoming. The words don’t betray his hammering heart.
“Enchanté, Remus Lupin,” Sirius smiles. The French spills off his tongue like red wine from a chalice. What Remus would give for a taste.
“I heard you’re new to the village,” Remus says, forcing the words out to override his intrusive inner dialogue. Balanced. Polite. “How are you finding it here?”
Sirius holds his gaze. “It’s nice. Quieter than I imagined. I lived in London and Paris before that. There’s rather a different atmosphere here. Not many young people about for starters.” His smile creases the corners of his mouth beautifully.
It could mean nothing, but Remus swears the words are layered with meaning, like Sirius is trying to say that rural life is stifling for people like them. Maybe if there were more people his age, Sirius wouldn’t have left his finger in his mouth so long for the Minister’s son to ogle at on God’s Sunday.
Remus nods quickly. His tongue feels like sandpaper. “No, there’s not,” he agrees. “Thank you for coming, though. I’ll see you next Sunday.”
Sirius’ expressive eyebrows arch in surprise. “Are you not coming for refreshments?”
That’s an easy one, at least. “My legs don’t agree with stairs, unfortunately,” Remus says, looking down at his cane.
Disappointment flickers across Sirius' face, but he was brought up far too well to comment on a stranger’s illness. “That is a shame,” he says. “I’ll see you next Sunday, then. If I don’t see you around beforehand.” And he has the audacity to grin.
Remus thinks this must count as a near-death experience. His head is far too hot, and his knees feel weak in a way he’s unfamiliar with. He manages a nod. Sirius’ grin sets him alight.
As Sirius follows his family to the shed, Remus is finally able to breathe. He might be chasing this high for the rest of his life.