Archive of Our Own

It’s dark enough that it’s difficult to split the sky and the sea into two. Instead, it’s all one shade of indigo, with the beach barely illuminated by the lamps dotted along the street. The waves against the shore leave behind blankets of foam on the sand, and the repeated crashing is loud enough to hear from your bedroom window.

You’re tucked against the windowframe, back bent against the wood and your knees to your chest. The wind tousles your shirt and scrapes against your cheeks. If you licked the air, it would taste like salt. Your chest rises and falls steadily as your eyes wander the neighbourhood.

There’s a group of kids hanging out on the beach, bodies like dark notches against the pale sand, their voices carrying with the wind. You can see directly down into your yard and your neighbour’s yard. Their TV casts flickering light across the mowed grass and the bird fountain they’d put up about a week ago. You can just barely hear the voices floating from the news channel. Nothing new. Nothing interesting.

A voice behind you calls out your name, and you look over your shoulder.

Remus lays on your bed, hair a mess and his elbow draped over his eyes. He’s just woken up from the nap he took hours ago, and you know he’ll be awake for most of the night now.

“What time is it?” he asks, voice scratchy from sleep.

You glance at your wrist watch. “Ten thirty-ish.”

Remus groans long and quietly, his arm slipping away to be replaced by both hands that dig harshly at his eyes.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

You slide away from the windowframe, butt aching from the hard press of wood.

“Figured you needed the sleep,” you answer.

The lamp on the bedside table is orange and soft, and the suncatchers you’ve hung from the ceiling cast thin shadows across the carpet. You bend to pick up pieces of dirty laundry, avoiding stepping on the abandoned game of chess.

“Maybe I did,” you hear Remus mutter, more so to himself than to you.

You smile and shake your head, glancing at his lethargic form briefly as you flitter around the room, picking things up off the floor.

A deck of cards.

Open study books.

A letter from Sirius, torn open and read three times over.

You look over the chicken-scatch writing with a pensive gaze. “You think James and Sirius will be all right this summer?” you ask, voice unusually light.

Remus hears you, and his hands have fallen to rest across his stomach, one knee propped up as he watches you carefully.

“Yeah?” he says, “the Potters have always liked Sirius. But no doubt him and James will get themselves into trouble.”

“That’s not very comforting,” you retort, placing the letter on your desk. It’s cluttered with quills and inkpots, several old potions books, and an assortment of trinkets from Zonko’s joke shop (gifts from the boys).

Remus sighs and shuffles upright, and he calls your name softly. His tone has changed, no longer sleepy. Instead, when you look at him, there’s a sharp sense of clarity in his brown eyes, an expression that says, I see through you.

He gestures for you to come to him with a flick of his hand, so you place the letter down and walk over to him. Your knees dig into the mattress as you crawl up to Remus, before sitting cross-legged in front of him.

Remus tilts his head. “What’s eating you, Sticks?”

You hate that nickname. You got it back in your first year of Hogwarts, all because you entered class with sticks in your hair—a direct result of being shoved into a bush by a group of oblivious girls rushing to their own class. You still find it difficult to believe it was an accident.

“Nothing,” you say tonelessly, hands in your lap.

“Don’t lie,” Remus scolds, brows furrowing. His hands reach for yours, tugging you closer until your knees press against his. “You’ve been distracted since the start of the holidays. Talk to me, please?”

Of course Remus would pick up on that. He, for whatever reason, always seems to be highly in tune with how you feel, reading your face and deducing things in seconds. Frankly, you find it annoying and flattering. A confusing mix.

“I just…” you push your tongue into your cheek, contemplating your words. Remus waits patiently. “I worry about Sirius. He seemed so… vague about what happened. With his family and all… it makes me think that he's downplaying things—and you know Sirius, he takes every chance he gets at being dramatic.”

Remus hums deep within his throat, though the sound is soft. His brows have pulled in, and your heart stutters at his sincere contemplation.

“Well,” he finally says, “Sirius is with James now, and I doubt he'll go back to that house, so you don't have to worry.”

It feels a little rehearsed, and maybe it is, but you can see in his earthy gaze that he's trying to be helpful, even as sleep makes his eyes puffy.

Tilting your head, you mumble. “Yeah, you're right. I'm just being silly.”

Remus shakes his head immediately, his fingers skating over your ear, even though there wasn't anything to tuck away.

“You're not being silly,” he says gently. Too gently. He leans forward to smush his lips to the side of your face, mouth dragging down to your chin, then to peck the corner of your lips.

It makes you smile, gooey and warm, and Remus watches it spread across your face with something close to pride.

“I mean it,” he whispers, “you're not silly. You've just got this huge heart that makes your head spin with too many thoughts and worries.”

“Don't go dropping poetry on me now, Lupin.”

“I'm serious.”

You giggle as Remus shoves his face into the side of your neck, blowing hot air across your skin. Goosebumps scatter down your arms and you laugh while wriggling, and he lets up, though he keeps his forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“I can honestly go back to sleep,” he murmurs, and you can feel the swell of his phonics against your skin. It makes him feel alive.

Your fingers thread through his hair. “Sleep, then.”

“No,” he shakes his head against you. “I'll try and just end up tossing and turning.”

You hum, not quite knowing what else to say. You opt to keep your fingers running through his mussed hair, hoping the physical act might communicate affection better.

Remus lifts his head, and he looks at you with eyes so soft, you wonder for a moment if he's still half-dreaming—not as awake as you think.

“You should go to sleep,” he says, hands moving to encompass yours. His thumbs massage deep circles into the backs of them.

“And what will you do?” you ask, talk of sleep making your eyes feel heavier.

“Read, maybe study.”

“Study what? It's summer holidays.”

“Anything. Holidays mean nothing to me.”

You shake your head while Remus grins in a reserved way; shy-looking but you know he's the exact opposite.

“Loony Lupin,” you mumble as you peel away from Remus, and the man gasps lightly, gripping the front of his shirt as if he were in pain.

“Cruel, wicked, heartless—”

“Go study,” you chuckle as you shimmy under the blankets (already unmade from Remus’ nap).

Remus leans over you once you're settled, elbow bent beside you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and there's a seriousness to his face. “Don't worry about anything. Everyone is okay.”

The words could make you burst with emotion; a strangled feeling caught in your throat. To find someone who could see through the schooled expressions, the jittery hands, the clouded eyes… it had once been a dream and only that.

“Thank you, Remus,” you whisper earnestly, watching how the orange light slopes around his face like milk, and when he smiles, it's more boyish.

“Good night, Sticks.” Remus presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, lips pulling away regretfully.

You watch with sleepy eyes as he moves to sit at your desk, wrists bent under your chin.

The waves crash outside and the curtains float with puffs of wind. Remus’ untamed hair falls into his eyes and you fall asleep listening to the sound of his quill scratching against parchment.