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It’s not a normal feeling, as in, it’s usual, but not universal. It sits in the uncanny valley of attraction. The just-not-quite of it all feels like it blooms from the chest, then settles in the stomach. And Sirius ignores it.
He thinks something went wrong, or he knows it did, but he wants to blame it on his environment and not himself. He doesn’t want to be responsible for his own feelings. He doesn’t like confronting himself. And he only feels bad about it when he remembers to.
Remus usually wears sweaters on weekends when they don’t have to be in uniform. They cover his scars and are lumpy enough to cover bandages under the sleeves. Then, of course, they cover his body too. He told Sirius once, looking at the floor, almost ashamed to confess that he gets insecure too. Sirius can’t imagine why. But that’s it’s own problem as well, then.
He watches from the floor, as Remus reads on his bed. Sirius has the horrible urge to go sit right in front of him, lean against the side of the mattress like a dog waiting for attention. Remus always reads like he has nothing better to do. Like that is the something better to do. Sirius could be something better to do, if Remus gave him a chance. He’s very fortunate that won’t happen. Remus is normal. As normal as teenage werewolves at wizard school go, at least.
Disgusted with himself, he gets up off the floor.
“Where are you going, Pads?” Peter asks. Sirius steps over the scrolls spread across the floor. Peter’s scrolls. He’s a visual learner; he needs everything out in front of him, or he’ll lose the information.
“Walk,” Sirius responds. He knows his tone is clipped. It doesn’t matter.
James wouldn’t understand if Sirius told him. Oh, James would be accepting of some of it. Then he’d tell Sirius there’s nothing wrong with him. But there is. There is and it’s obvious. It’s one thing to love the wrong person. It’s another to love wrong. And James is so overflowing with love, he’d never understand a person who just doesn’t have any. He’s just faking it. He’s ignoring it.
Lots of things can wait until later. Homework can always wait. Making the bed can wait. Brushing his teeth and taking a shower, finishing that book, buying that record. It all gets pushed to the side until push comes to shove. Sirius can only take care of himself as far as visibility goes. Feelings can wait. The ones that fester certainly can. He’s only volatile as far as anger goes.
Dinner feels like a special kind of torture. James at his side. Remus and Peter across from them. That’s how it always has been. He stabs his potatoes with more force than necessary. He gets to eat as much as he wants with his best friends on the planet and he still manages to sulk through it. Because now there’s something not so freeing about it. Now there’s secrets, so he feels like it’s all a performance until he can get over it. He only feels bad about it when he remembers to. And he’s remembering to right now, because Remus is across from him and turned away, talking to Lily. And James is staring down Lily, and Peter’s staring down James, and Sirius hates the snarling, clawing monster sloshing around in his stomach acid that screams ‘mine’ when Remus is looking away from him.
Sirius has to know how he acts so normal. And he needs to wear his skin. Remus never thinks he communicates his thoughts properly, but he does. Everyone thinks he’s cool, and Remus doesn’t even know or have to try. He isn’t like Peter, who will over explain himself. Remus says as little as possible at all times. Why, Sirius wants to ask. He wants to take his butter knife and peel back Remus’ scalp and bob for apples in Remus’ brain. Because speaking to Remus is a privilege Sirius thinks he deserves.
He finishes his plate. Then regrets it, because the food just reappears and he hates to get up from the table when the plate isn’t empty. But he has to right now because any second longer of watching Remus talk plants with Lily and he might flip the table. When he stands up, James snaps out of his Lily-induced trance to ask where he’s going.
Same answer as always, “Walk.”
It’s cold outside and Sirius doesn’t bother casting any warming charms. He’s pretty sure he deserves it. Something about bad dogs not getting treats.
He had been doing better. For a moment, there, he was able to move freely. It didn’t feel so much like wading through mud just to be around other people. Then one year he gets on the train to go back home and he doesn’t understand why he’s so eager to kick Remus’ shins the whole ride. He chalks up summer dreaming to loneliness, a basic childish need to hold on to something at night after a fight with his parents. Like a teddy bear. That isn’t love, it’s just selfish.
And then summer ended, and he got on that platform again and saw Remus. And that horrible, kid-like feeling jumped on his back and pushed him to the ground. He needed to curl up inside his rib cage, where he’d be safe. It wasn’t like Remus changed at all. His face was still just his face.
Something scratches beside him. When he turns to look, it’s just Remus with a stick in his hand, dragging on the ground. It’s dark now. New Moon.
“Misplace your wand?” Sirius asks.
Remus shakes his head, then chucks the stick, really it’s more of a branch. Sirius fights the urge to run after it.
“Just doing some community clean up,” Remus says, dryly. Sirius huffs a laugh, his breath visible in front of him. Remus makes his way over to him and leans on the wall next to him. And they stand. Shoulder to shoulder. It’s amazing how easy it is for Remus to touch him so casually. Sirius wishes he could be like that. He can be. He can do it. He can. He’s just older now. It takes him a little longer to learn new tricks.
“Cold out,” Remus offers. He never asks obvious questions to Sirius. He supposes they both know not to. How did that happen? How was James his best friend and Remus was something else. Now Remus is something else. Sirius can’t tell what.
“I like the cold.”
“No, you dont,” Remus says, “You sleep under four blankets.”
“You think I’m normal?” Sirius asks. He’s a little surprised he’s asking. And Remus knows, from his tone, how careful Sirius is not to let it break, that this is unrelated to blankets and autumn chills.
“No,” Remus says, neutrally, “Couldn’t be if you tried.”
Tentatively, Sirius takes a breath. Remus nudges Sirius’ foot with his own.
“I don’t mind, Padfoot. I like my friends not-normal.”
“You ever…” Sirius starts. He doesn’t even know how to ask. Worse, he doesn’t actually know what he’s asking for.
Remus has on his listening face. Sirius only does what he’s comfortable with.
“You know, there’s a girl,” Sirius says. Remus’ face falls, but Sirius goes on, “She says she likes me. Proper likes me, but not so proper, you know? Not in the proper way? Ugh-” Remus pulls a face- “No, not like that. She, er, she says she fancies me, but it’s not…. it’s not right. I’m not explaining this well.”
Remus shakes his head, “You’re not.”
“You know, it’s like when you like a person, but maybe you dont?”
“Who is this about?”
Sirius waves the question off, “Remus, It’s like, imagine you’re a vampire. And everyone else is a vampire, and they all drink human blood-”
“How can they drink human blood if everyone’s a vampire?”
“-What, no, it’s a metaphor, it doesn’t have to make sense.”
“Yes, it does,” Remus says, “That’s the point of them, they help things make sense.”
“Whatever, just- half the population is vampires, okay. Vampirism is normal. And you’re a vampire, and everyone drinks human blood, and maybe you wouldn't mind human blood too, but honestly pig blood tastes the same to you and everyone thinks you’re a freak, but maybe you just can’t love people right.”
Sirius does not appreciate the look on Remus’ face.
“You still don’t know what I’m talking about,” Sirius says.
“Well, Pads, I’m not going to lie to you…”
Sirius pushes off the wall, “No, it’s fine, I’m making shit up. Just ignore it.”
“Some girl wants you like pig’s blood?”
Sirius drags his hands through his hair, nails to scalp, “That's not the point. The point is it shouldn't sustain you. You should want someone within an inch of your life, right?”
“Sometimes,” Remus says.
“What do you mean sometimes?” Sirius demands.
Remus looks away, straight out ahead of him, “I just think you can like someone enough for you and not to the point of suffocation. I think vampires have to kill people they feed off. Maybe it’s alright to love someone without killing them…?”
Remus seems to get lost in his own metaphor.
“I think that’s what I do.”
“What?” Remus looks over at him, “You kill people with love or you don't?"
“Both? Look, mate, I think there’s something wrong with me.”
“I thought this was about a girl.”
“There's no bloody girl, okay, it’s me. There’s something deep down wrong with me, Moony.”
Remus looks well out of his depth, but he tries. He tries and it makes Sirius sick to even think about. He doesn’t fully understand that. How Remus even likes him enough to be around him without Sirius even trying. Then Remus has the gall to be helpful and it makes him want to turn tail and run.
“I don’t think… I agree,” Remus says.
Sirius scowls at the ground. It’s pretty late into autumn and winter is really just around the corner. Dead leaves and branches knocked off trees mix with the grass.
“Well, erm, Sirius, maybe it’s just… I mean, I think I get it?”
His head turns too fast, already showing his cards. Remus looks anywhere but his face.
“I… loved,” and the word comes out thick, as if every sound that makes it up was a challenge to push out of his mouth, “loved someone, but not the way they loved me… I guess in a weird way, but it felt normal almost? I think if that’s what you’re going through, then there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Who were you in love with?” Sirius asks, not meaning to sound so accusatory. Remus sighs and sets his eyes on him. He doesn’t say anything and Sirius chooses to ignore the obvious answer in his lack of one.
Remus says finally, “Doesn’t matter, okay, I just think I know what you’re getting at.”
Sirius shakes his head, “You don’t. Was she pretty?”
“Uncommonly.”
“Right. Did you want to kiss her?”
“Why is this an interrogation?” Remus asks, arms crossed tight around his chest. He’s always cold when the moon is dark.
“I just want to know if we’re the same,” Sirius snaps, “Did you want to kiss her or did you need to kiss her? They’re different.”
“They are,” Remus glares, “but I don’t think you should n- Sirius, it was just normal, okay? You’re normal. I liked- this person in a normal fucking way. You’re not the only one who gets to be fucked up about love, just because you can only feel your own emotions.”
“How am I supposed to know, then, Remus? How am I supposed to know if I’m fucked up or not if I can only feel myself? If everyone talks about love like it’s some universal thing, how do I know if I’m doing it wrong?”
“You’re only-” Remus huffs, “you’re only doing it wrong if you’re hurting someone. You can’t love wrong, you just love. You do or you don’t.”
“Well, what if I’ve-”
“You haven’t,” Remus cuts in. He’s getting increasingly more exasperated.
“No, Remus, what if I don’t know if I do or if I don’t.”
“You don't," Remus says, hard, but still soft- like it hurts Remus to say, but he wants it to hurt Sirius too. It’s almost romantic.
Sirius just looks back at him, as if he could somehow translate exactly how he’s feeling to Remus through simple eye contact. If it were easy, he’d reach in his chest and pull his heart out and exchange it with Remus’. Then he’d know. They would both know.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” Remus says weakly.
“How am I looking at you?” Sirius takes a step closer to Remus, “Does it hurt to look at me?”
Remus runs a hand through his hair, “It’s not supposed to hurt, Padfoot.”
“Do you want to kiss me?”
Too many emotions to count swim around in Remus’ brown eyes. Sirius has never understood the appeal of eyes. They’re just an organ. They’re just parts that make up a whole.
“Do you want to kiss your girl?” Remus asks heavily.
“There is no girl.”
“Please, just pretend there is.”
Sirius takes a second to respond, “Sometimes, yes.”
“What would it be like?”
“You have to answer my question,” Sirius says.
Remus shakes his head, “I’ve answered enough nonsense questions. How do you want to kiss her?”
This feels too raw, somehow more intimate than getting naked would be.
“Sweetly,” he says after the longest pause, “I would be gentle. It wouldn’t be out of breath or frantic. It would just be… sweet.”
“You wouldn't want to…?” Remus trails off before he can finish the question. Sirius can fill in the blank.
“It would be the last thing on my mind.”
Remus lets out a breath, not really a sigh. He looks pointedly at the ground.
“I could do it, though,” Sirius says.
Remus looks up at him, “Do what?”
“It-” Sirius gestures around them, “I could do all of it.”
“Do you want to do… ‘all of it’?”
Sirius had not ever actually considered that. That he could want something. Well, he had, but he chalked the feeling up to selfishness. Because he doesn’t want it all, he just wants what's convenient. He wants some things. He wants to hold hands. He wants gentle lips on his face and time spent with a person you know won’t leave. He wants Remus’ hands in his hair and Remus in his bed, and just in his bed and there's nothing more to it than that. He wants to laugh. He wants to feel like someone's sense of humor was made to accompany his, like they just go together. Perfect 3rds.
But of course, there’s a note in between them. And there’s absolutely nothing tangible about how he feels. There's no inexplicable draw towards Remus, to his body. Sirius can say, from an objective and a subjective standpoint, Remus is beautiful. But he feels no need to touch. Nothing about him right now, in a sweater and denim is all that extraordinary, but it’s Remus. That’s what he likes best about it. Not that Remus looks good in those jeans and not how it will look when they go back to their dorm and Remus takes them off. It’s just Remus in clothes that he likes. And Sirius doesn’t have to touch him to know that he likes that.
“You don’t,” Remus finally says, answering his own question. Sirius is almost afraid Remus just read his mind, but he knows where he is. He’s safe, he’s not at home.
“I would-”
“But you don’t want to,” Remus says.
Sirius brings his hands to his face to rub at the tears forming in his eyes.
“I think you don’t actually like this person,” Remus says, “Not like I like you.”
“I dont-” Sirius takes a second to steady his voice, “I don’t know what that means.”
Remus looks back at the ground and shakes his head, “You do. You’re smart, you’ll figure it out.”
Sirius wants to lurch forward and grab him. He wants so much from him, but really nothing at all too. And he’s still not doing it right. Apparently, love isn’t supposed to hurt.
“I’m going to bed,” Remus says. Sirius just nods, even though Remus isn’t looking at him. He walks away and it's just want, want, want with Sirius. Always wanting. Always needing more.
He stays outside for a little while longer, if only to wallow in his own self pity and confusion. He can't ever make up his mind and it makes no sense that Remus would be into him. Not in some cosmic, loving way that Sirius could never reciprocate or even really emulate. Maybe he likes, maybe he wants the attention. That's probably all it is. He decides to file it all under the file in his brain labeled Walburga’s Fault, even if it isn't. It makes him feel better, but only a little.
By the time he makes it back up to the dorm, everyone is already in bed. He is definitely past curfew, but he can't bring himself to care.
James waits up for him. No moonlight seeps through the windows; the stars are not bright enough. He climbs into James’ bed, not caring if Peter or Remus hear. James flicks his wand once the curtain is closed, and Peter’s snores are muffled to silence. James won't understand, but Sirius will tell him anyway.
“I love you, Prongs.”
James smiles, squinting with no glasses, “I love you too, Padfoot.”
At least he gets something right.