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Strong Forces
It is far too cold to be naked outdoors on a blanket, and Sirius is still unclear how it happened, exactly, but there they are. Remus is sprawled out greedily over far more than his half of blanket-space, sound asleep and feeling no reluctance to sun the bits that never get aired. Sirius is half-dozing, his mind sharply alert and his body relaxed to the point of immobility. He watches the maple leaves fall in the biting air, watches his own breath rise up silver, then turns to watch Remus.
He knows it’s stupid to compare scars like scabby seven-year-olds and even more ludicrous to compare scars with Remus, whose body heals with supernatural speed but whose own jaws and claws are capable of inflicting scars that stay for weeks or months or years. It annoys Remus, and really, Sirius’ few prized marks are only visible to the discerning eye. But still Sirius thinks the comparisons to himself because they are part of their history carved in flesh, and whether or not Remus will ever speak of his suffering (and Sirius thinks he will not) or Sirius speak of his devotion (perhaps, perhaps), it can be read on their skin.
Gravity
As near as he can figure, the half-moon scar on his ankle from falling into Regulus’ Junior Potions Kitte for Boyes must date to at least the same year as the terrible jagged tooth marks that match neatly on the front and back of Remus’ shoulder. “Probably trying for my throat,” Remus said once, “but I turned away just in time.”
Sirius can see it all in his mind’s eye, the small boy out climbing the wolds, jacketless against the autumn chill. Before him the ripened, harvest-heavy moon, orange and huge as it cleared the horizon. And behind him the wolf, from which he can never turn far enough away from to escape.
He thinks of the governess pulling the shards of glass out and bandaging his ankle as Regulus howled; he thinks of Remus’ dark blood seeping into chalky soil. He thinks that Remus was right all along, that he should be grateful for the privileges and protections his early life provided. He has been wrong about so many things; he really should listen to Remus….
He remembers: Remus told him not to scratch, but he’d just woken up and he was not thinking. There had been blessed relief, and then Remus grabbed his wrist and forced him to look at the blood under his nails. “That’ll scar,” Remus said, angry and disappointed. He is thankful, even now he is thankful every day, that his thoughtless stupidity did not cause Remus (or even Snape) any scars; he thinks it is fitting and right that every time he looks in the mirror he can see the pox scars above his left eyebrow.
Magnetism
“Leave my scars alone,” Remus says finally, swatting away Sirius’ tracing fingers. “You’re hopeless, you are.” There is no telling when he awoke, or whether Sirius slept. They have drawn together against the cold, and the pink-tinged clouds above are limned with gold; a descent of angels or cherubs seems a real possibility.
“I can’t help it, I’m attracted,” Sirius says, kissing his way down Remus’ neck; chastely, because it is too damn cold to be licked. “You need a perverse attraction of your own to divert you from mine. I refuse,” he says, ear pressed to Remus’ ribs and both feeling and hearing his steady heartbeat, “to wear girls’ underthings, though.”
He can hear Remus smiling. “You are not attractive in knickers, do not delude yourself.”
“I could learn to appreciate you in a girdle, if you insist I leave the scars alone.”
“You idiot,” Remus says, and sits up, stretching. “Let’s go home.”
They pull cold, stiff clothes on over cold, stiff limbs, roll the hamper up in the blanket, and begin the long walk down the hill that smells of woodsmoke and frost. Sirius can hear the words echo--let’s go home--like a song in his heart.
Weak Forces
Remus asked Sirius to tell James why he was moving in (the love part, not the lust), and Sirius refused. Having refused Remus once, he is now stuck when Remus asks this of him.
“Why can’t you do it to yourself?” he says, trying to make pathetic eyes at Remus.
“I have,” Remus answers patiently, “but the holes close up in no time. It doesn’t work on me. I won’t hurt you,” he says, but Sirius thinks of blood and pain and rampant girliness. He thinks of what James will say; or rather, what he will say to James, because he hates lying and cannot comprehend telling the truth, hates denying his lover and taking any risks with his friendship. Of the two options, blood and pain seems best, so he lets Remus do it.
It doesn’t hurt the first time, just sudden heat and odd pressure. The third one is last and he’s glad, his ear is burning now. Remus casts a cooling charm, and Sirius reaches up to touch his pierced ear. There is no blood, and it is not so bad, really: odd and alien to have metal going straight through him, but already he is adjusting. Remus is looking at him with desire and possession, and Sirius thinks that this can only be a good thing.