Chapter Text
There’s a full moon tonight, and although it’s still early, it hangs low and heavy in the sky. If ever I were to be something else, Remus Lupin thinks, I would be a wolf. There’s something carnal about this moon--something about its fullness which slides beneath his skin and tugs at his bones, as though willing him to escape his weary body. Would if he could.
Right now, that weary body loiters outside a bookshop, wrapped in layers of wool clothing, hidden from the bitter chill of the December air.
A moment ago, he was walking along the side street. In another moment, he will be entering the shop. But for right now, Remus is suspended in this moment--the moment that exists between approaching and doing. His problem heart lets out a few ill-toned beats as he takes in the overwhelming sensation of the now.
Inside the shop there is a comfortable and quiet chaos. The layout of the store is haphazard at best, with mismatched loveseats and discoloured shelves.
The shop owner is a Scottish woman named Pince, who wears a severe facial expression most days, and has frazzled hair. She smiles at Remus when he enters--a gesture he tries to return, as he processes the change between being suspended, and going back to the “doing.”
“Good to see you, Remus,” says Pince, sorting a pile of books at her counter. “It’s been a while. Ms. Evans was in here a few days ago and said you were in hospital.”
“Just a little hiccup,” Remus says, gesturing awkwardly at his chest. “Only had to stay for one night.”
“Damn shame, that heart of yours,” Pince says. “Have you tried ginger root? My wife swears by ginger root tea. Cures everything from hangovers to HIV, she says.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Remus says, promptly and purposefully forgetting the suggestion. He steps away and moves between the familiar aisles of the shop, running a finger down the bindings of books he hasn’t read before, and a few that he has.
One of Remus’ biggest fears is needles, and he has the unfortunate need to be poked with them often. Whenever a nurse comes at him with something sharp, he closes his eyes, and finds himself here, wandering amongst tattered and yellowing pages of used books. Instead of the smell of hospital antiseptic, he smells the dust in the crevices, and the age in the paper. If not a wolf, Remus thinks, then perhaps, instead, a tree, so that some lumbering, bearded man may cut him down, some factory worker with calloused hands may smash him into paper, and some publishing company (independently owned, perhaps), could print stories on his skin. He thinks he would live very well as a book, provided he fell into the hands of someone who read him gently.
And so, happy to just be here, Remus strolls about the shop, occasionally stopping to pull down a particularly ragged book, to read a page or two. He’s drawn to the covers that seem well-used--it means someone loved it enough to pick it up more than once.
Remus finds himself leafing through an account of World War II, and the binding is literally falling apart at the seams. “The Nazi Death Camps,” he reads to himself. “Left most of their prisoners dead, and for those left alive, it was not an existence worth having.”
He sits the book back on its place on the shelf, and walks to the fiction section with a newfound sense of purpose. His memory has been jogged by this simple sentence, into remembering a book that no longer is in his collection at home, but should be. He heads towards the “W” section.
The latter half of the alphabet is crammed in an awkward corner in the back of the shop, where the heater doesn’t reach too well, so there’s a draft. On a quiet night like tonight, there is exactly one other person browsing here, and Remus has to try not to stare, for he is very attractive.
He is a man, but a young one, with long black hair, and a stoic disposition. He is broad in the shoulders, and stocky in his frame, which is draped in a heavy, leather jacket. He wears motorcycle boots. Remus can’t tell definitively, but he thinks he might smell like motor oil.
Remus diverts his eyes, but can’t help but to try and watch the man in his periphery as he searches the shelves for his book. The man is directly beside him, scanning the same section as he, and the air between them is full of the tension that comes when two people are trying hard not to acknowledge that they both know they’re in each other’s personal space.
Remus, though distracted, spots his book. It is directly in the middle of the middle shelf, and is not really tattered enough for Remus’ liking. This is a book that deserves folded corners, and loose covers, and pencil scratches in the margins. He vows to rectify this wrongdoing, reaching out a hand, just as the man to his side reaches out his, and the two of them make accidental contact as they both grab at the very same book.
They both drop their hands, take a step back, laughing awkwardly.
“Sorry,” Remus says.
“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry,” he says.
They stare hard at their own feet for a moment. They laugh again. They are uncomfortable.
“You can have the book,” Remus says quickly, even though he still wants it. His desire to get out of this situation is stronger than his desire for his book. “Truly, go ahead. I’ve, uh, I’ve already read it about a thousand times.”
The man laughs a real laugh this time, and says, “Honestly, I’ve read it before too.”
“Really?” Remus asks, looking up from his shoes, his surprise genuine. This book--this particular book--means the world to Remus; it’s a part of his soul. It is also, almost entirely, unknown. A failure. A flop. This shop wouldn’t even own a copy if it weren’t for Remus’ recommendation. No one in the world has read this book. Except Remus. And, apparently, this man.
“Yeah,” the man says, shrugging. “Hah, what are the odds we’d both be look for it at the same time, huh?”
Remus nods absently, and before he can stop himself, like some nervous tick, he finds himself saying, “‘If it happens, then it was supposed to.’” The man looks confused for a second, until realization washes over him.
“Did you just quote the book at me?”
Remus tries not to look too sheepish.“I told you I’ve read it too much.”
The man reaches over to the shelf and pulls the book down. It is called A Life Worth Living, by Eugene Washburn, and it is the most tragic thing Remus has ever laid eyes on. His weak little heartstrings pull at the thought of it, in fact. Remus watches, transfixed, at the way the man holds his precious book. He has large hands. Worker’s hands, Remus can tell, by the thickness of the skin, and the blackness beneath the nails. He does not hold the book gently; he grasps it tightly along the edges. When he flips through the pages, he does so with little grace--the sound of the page turning seems to echo off the walls of their tiny corner in the latter half of the alphabet. Remus is pleased. This man will take the proper care of his book.
“I’m surprised,” the man says, still leafing through the book, not looking at Remus. “If you can quote this off the cuff, I’d expect you to already have a copy.”
“I did,” Remus assures him. “A very well-used copy, I might add, that I took with me everywhere. But I, uh, I was in hospital earlier this week, and between the commotion of moving rooms and getting settled, it got misplaced. I didn’t realize it until I was home. I went back to look for it, but they hadn’t seen it.” He scowls. “They probably trashed it, honestly.”
The man glances back at him. He has very dark eyes. “That’s a real tragedy,” he says nicely. Then he holds out the book. “I also think that you probably deserve this more than I do. I only read it once by chance at a library. I never thought to buy a copy, until today when I came here just to kill some time.”
“I don’t mind,” Remus lies, staring greedily at the book. “You can have it.”
“Come now,” says the man, grinning. “We can go back and forth about this for a million years, but eventually one of us is gonna have to end up with this damn book. Isn’t there a quote like that in here?” The man looks to the ceiling, thinking hard. “‘You can always put off the inevitable,’ or something like that?”
Remus smiles very wide. “Close,” he says. “You got the general idea, at least. ‘There is almost always something you can do to postpone the inevitable, but I suppose the real courage is being able to face that which is fated,’” he quotes. “And then, well, the quote goes on, but…” he trails off. The man, he realizes, is laughing at him.
“See what I mean?” he says kindly. “This book belongs with you.” The man holds out the book again, as though presenting some sort of precious gift. He holds the binding so tightly that his fingers are white. He loves my book, Remus thinks, and who else would ever do that? He casts a sad glance at Eugene Washburn’s first and only novel, and shakes his head.
“No, see, I already know it all, almost literally to the letter. You keep it.” The man raises an eyebrow, opens his mouth to protest, but Remus puts up a hand. “I mean it, it’s okay. Someone else has got to love that book, and that won’t happen if I keep hogging all the copies. Besides,” he adds. “I can always find another one.”
The man looks skeptical, but slowly withdraws the book, clutching it tightly in one hand, down at his side. He regards Remus with a curious expression. “My name’s Sirius,” he says finally.
“I’m Remus.” Sirius nods.
“Thank you for the book,” he says. “Now I feel like I need to give you one of my favorites to make up for it.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Remus says, but Sirius waves a dismissive hand.
“Nonsense. Here, wait for two seconds, let me see if I can find something.” He leaves before Remus has a chance to even process what Sirius said, let alone protest against it. He stands stupidly in the middle of the aisle, suddenly very aware of his own body, and how awkwardly he is holding himself. He straightens his back and fiddles with his sleeves.
“I’ve got it!” He hears Sirius before he sees him, noisily trampling around the shop in a way Remus would never do. “Perfect trade,” Sirius says, once he rounds the corner a few minutes later, brandishing a book at Remus. Remus takes it and immediately lets out a snort.
“Ah yes,” he says wisely. “A true classic. Football’s Greatest.”
“Are you a football fan?” Sirius asks, grinning.
“Not in the slightest,” Remus says, and Sirius’ grin only gets wider.
“Perfect,” he says excitedly. “Then you don’t have any spoilers for the book.”
“Christ,” Remus says, laughing. He holds the book to his chest. “I will cherish it always, thank you.”
Sirius has changed drastically in a very short period of time. He somehow--despite his intimidating getup, and the stoicism he seemed to give off only a moment ago--exudes the exact disposition of a child in a sweetshop. It is as though, through simple introductions and book exchange, he is now perfectly comfortable in Remus’ presence. Remus isn’t shy, necessarily, not that much at least, but he is quiet, and he is introverted, and he is confused by the change in atmosphere, as though all the tension between them suddenly is melting away like ice cream in the heat.
“Listen,” Sirius says. “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re up to, but I am bored as shit.” He flashes Remus the most charming smile he has ever seen in his life, and he feels like he should shield his eyes, for fear of agreeing to something through pure white-teeth-manipulation. “There’s a coffee shop two buildings down. Come keep me company for a while.”
It’s not even a question. It’s one tone away from a command. “I don’t know,” Remus says, glancing at his watch. His problem heart doesn’t like him to stay out very late, but then, there is a full moon tonight, and his bones are feeling adventurous.
“I’ll let you talk about books,” Sirius says. “You can tell me all about Eugene Washburn, and quote him all you like.”
Remus instantly enters his own sweetshop.
“You probably should have led with that,” he says.
---
Sirius Black is an interesting person who is drawn to other interesting people, and Remus is definitely one of the most interesting people he’s met to date, and he’s only known him for about five minutes.
This boy looks ridiculous and is nearly lost in his oversized jumper. His hair is hidden beneath a beanie, say for a few wisps of brown curls that frame his face and stick out behind his ears. And he is buying the football book. He is honest-to-God dishing money out from his pocket, putting it on the counter, and buying it. This boy, with a silly hat and more wool than body, who can quote obscure novels off the top of his head, is buying a book called Football’s Greatest, because Sirius suggested it. Sirius cannot, in good conscience, walk away from him without knowing more.
“You know I only gave you that as a joke, right? I didn’t expect you to actually buy it,” Sirius says as Remus accepts his receipt from the middle-aged bookstore owner who once tried to convince Sirius that all he needed for a loving and creatively stimulating relationship was some topaz and maybe some opal for good measure.
“No, no,” Remus says pedantically. “Fair’s fair in a book trade, I’m afraid. This is mine now. I am now the owner of a book called Football’s Greatest, and it is entirely your fault. That is something you just have to live with.”
“In my defense, I tried to get you to take the book you actually wanted.”
“Yes, but you needed it more,” Remus says, stepping out of the door Sirius is holding open for him. Sirius leads the way to the coffee shop, which is owned by a pretty woman named Rosemerta, who makes the scones herself from scratch, and gives Sirius free refills on coffee.
“What are you drinking?” Sirius asks.
“I don’t need anything,” Remus says politely.
“Neither do I,” Sirius says. “I definitely don’t need a latte at eight in the evening, but I’m still gonna get one, because I want it. So what are you drinking?”
Sirius likes the range of emotions that go across Remus’ face. Embarrassment. Annoyance. Amusement. Acceptance.
“A hot chocolate,” he says finally. “A small one.” Sirius turns to Rosmerta.
“The usual for me, a hot chocolate for my friend,” he says, giving her a flirtatious smile. He doesn’t fancy her, but he likes her--thinks she’s nice--and he likes the way she gets flustered when she’s flattered. She turns a rosy pink across her cheekbones, and she pushes her hair back unnecessarily. Sirius likes making people feel beautiful.
“Thank you,” Remus says when he gets his drink. He doesn’t quite meet Sirius’ eye.
“If you’re worried about a stranger buying you stuff, don’t sweat it,” Sirius says, picking up on Remus’ discomfort. “I nicked a few pounds off one of my roommates, so technically he’s paying.”
“Well, that would still mean a stranger is buying me stuff,” Remus points out, but he looks a little relieved. “Though, should I be concerned that you apparently steal money from your roommates?”
“Nah, I’m sure he did something to deserve it,” Sirius says dismissively, and he heads towards a table in the back, with Remus close behind. The place is cramped, and all the tables and chairs are creaky and wobble on the uneven wooden floor. There is abstract art hung on all the walls, done by local artists who can’t get their artwork bought anywhere else. It’s very clear they’ve tried to make an ancient building look vintage and hip, but Sirius is pretty sure it’s about one tough inspection away from a fire safety violation.
“So what brings you to this part of town?” Remus asks once they’re seated. “You live around here?”
“Nah,” Sirius says, taking a sip of his coffee. “My roommate had a blind date, and he insisted I wait downtown for him to give him a ride home if things go awry.”
“Is this the roommate you stole money from?”
“No, it’s the other one. James. He’s my best mate, but Christ, he gets worked up over birds. He’s been on about fifty dates in the past month it seems like. He’s insisting he’s holding out for ‘the one’ or whatever, but I’m like, mate, you’re twenty years old, you don’t have to marry every girl you sleep with, you know?”
“I’ve a friend like that. Her name’s Lily. Real independent woman, mind you, but she gets so worried that she’ll ‘never find someone to love,’” Remus says, doing air quotes. “And, I dunno, I understand I guess, but at this time in my life I just think I have bigger concerns.”
“Nah, I agree with you. Maybe we should just get her and James together, and they can go have their torrid love affair, and we can be free from their incessant whinings.”
“Mm, don’t take this the wrong way, but if your James is anything like you, I doubt he’d be Lily’s type.”
Laughing, Sirius says, “I’m sorry, how exactly am I supposed to take that? Like me, how?”
“Oh I dunno,” Remus says, fiddling with the lid of his drink. “Loud, I guess. You’re very loud.”
“I’m loud?”
“Not--not in a ‘wow you’re so noisy,’ sort of way. More like, boisterous, and forward, and… I don’t know, just… loud. You just have a very demanding presence.”
“Demanding presence, huh?”
“Yeah. You’re very, ‘let’s skip the small talk and go right in on the personal details,’ which isn’t a bad trait, necessarily, but it’s a unique one. I don’t mind it, but, I dunno, I think Lily would.”
“Hm, well, James isn’t much like me I don’t think. I mean, in the ways it counts, I guess. Like we have the same morals, and the same sense of humor, but he’s a little more reserved. Maybe a little more mature,” Sirius adds with a small smile. “The kid can get a big head sometimes, though, but that’s really his only bad trait. He’s aces, James is.”
“So’s Lily. She’s an...uncommonly kind woman. Really supportive. I’d be lost without her, really.”
“Hah, maybe we should hook the two of them up.”
“Yeah, I don’t really make a habit of playing match-maker with strangers,” Remus says. “Though,” he adds as an afterthought. “I also don’t make a habit of going to coffee shops with strangers on a whim, so who knows what the future may hold.”
“Well we wouldn’t be strangers if we actually talked about ourselves instead of our friends,” Sirius points out. “So tell me something about yourself.”
“Something about myself? Oh, you’ve got to be more specific than that.”
“Mm, fine, but let’s get the boring stuff out of the way. I’ll go first. My name is Sirius Black, I’m twenty years old, no, I’m not at Uni, yes I have a job, what is it? glad you asked, I’m a mechanic, I live with my two best friends, James and Peter, my favorite color is that shade of pink that sometimes mixes with all the oranges in a sunset, I much prefer dogs to cats, and I, in no way, have any inkling of what I’m going to do in the future. Your turn.”
“Oh gosh, um, okay. I’m Remus Lupin, and I’m also twenty years old. Er, I’m not at Uni either, and I don’t, uh, have a job either. I’ve had some health problems lately, so I haven’t been able to work, so I’ve been living with my mum and dad, but hopefully only temporarily...what were the other questions?”
“I think you’re missing favorite color, dogs or cats, and what are you going to do in the future?”
“I like dark blue, because it reminds me of nighttime, which is my favorite time of day. Let’s see, I would probably be classified as a dog person, but I respect cats. As for the future? Fuck if I know.”
“Cheers to that, mate,” Sirius says, raising his glass. Remus, he notices, has not stopped moving since, well, since they ran into each other at the bookshop. Some part of his body is constantly in motion, be it his fingers fiddling, his legs jiggling, or his teeth chewing at his bottom lip.
“They’ve got the heat on way too high in here,” Remus remarks, pushing up his sleeves. “That’s another thing about me--I’m always cold, so if I say it’s hot, either I’m dying, or it really is too hot.”
Sirius shrugs off his own jacket and slings across the back of his chair. “Well, I don’t think you’re dying,” he says. “It is pretty warm in here. The ventilation system in this place is wonky as all Hell, so the temperature is always in flux.” He trails off, distracted by a metal bracelet that’s dangling from Remus’ wrist. “What’s that?” he asks.
“What’s what?” Remus asks, and Sirius nods to the bracelet. “Oh.” Remus furrows his brows a little, and pushes his sleeves back down in a way that seems instinctual. “It’s a, uh, medical bracelet.”
“For what?” Sirius asks tactlessly, which is the only way he ever asks anything.
“Sorry,” Remus says. “I generally don’t divulge my medical history until the second date.” He immediately then sucks on his teeth as though he had suffered a burn to the skin, and adds quickly, “Not that I think this is a date.”
Sirius just laughs. “Wow, which one of us forward now,” he says.
“Oh God, no, I mean, it’s just a turn of phrase, I didn’t mean it like…”
“Relax, Remus, it’s fine.”
“Okay, it’s just, I mean, you’re a stranger, and also I wasn’t sure--am not sure really--if you, well…”
“If I what? Bend that way?”
“That’s one way to put it, I guess. You don’t have to tell me, of course, but I don’t want you to think I was insinuating anything. I mean, I saw you flirting with the barista, but I also know that could have meant nothing, so I really have no idea.”
“You’re rambling,” Sirius says, amused. “And let’s just say I don’t bend the same way James does when it comes to love interests. That answer your question?”
“Technically I never asked a question, which I think is an important distinction, but yes, that answers my...my curiosity.”
“Should I then assume that you’re a little bent as well?”
“I think it would be safe to say that I,” Remus clears his throat a little. “Er, that I bend all sorts of directions.”
Sirius raises his cup and winks. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“Christ,” Remus mutters. He flushes and stares determinedly at the table, but Sirius can see the workings of a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Sirius opens his mouth to try and pry further into Remus’ conspicuous health matters, or maybe to learn more about his elusive sexuality, but he is distracted by a strong vibrating on his thigh. He jumps, reaches into his jean pocket, and pulls out his phone, which displays James’ name, along with a photo of the boy Sirius took when his friend fell asleep on the tube once, after a night of drinking.
“It’s James,” he says to Remus, standing up. “Gimme one second.”
He steps away from the table, back to Remus, and answers his phone. “I take it you’re not getting any tonight?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.
“Dude you need to get me out of here,” comes James’ voice. “I think she’s a closet dominatrix or something. She’s trying to get me to come home with her so she can show me her ‘dungeon.’”
“Hah!” Sirius laughs. “Come on, Jamesie, a little sexual exploration wouldn’t hurt you, now would it?”
“I think that in this case, it very literally might. Please come get me?”
Sirius lets out a drawn out, exaggerated sigh. “You are the ultimate cockblock, you know that?”
“What?” James asks. “I’m the one on the date here.”
“Yeah I know, but… ah, never mind. Yes, I’ll come get you. Are you still at the restaurant?”
“Mhm, presently hiding in the bathroom.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“I dunno, that Peter got hit by a car or something?”
“I could run Peter over with my motorcycle, if you think it would help your cause.”
“Probably wouldn’t hurt. Now hurry please. I don’t know how much longer I can keep deflecting the dungeon conversation. I’ve already ordered two different desserts.”
“Yeah yeah, your fabled prince to the rescue. Be there in a minute.”
“I kiss the ground you walk upon, sire. See you soon.”
Sirius pockets his phone and goes back to Remus, who is still moving, this time by twiddling his thumbs. He honest-to-God twiddles his thumb while he waits, Sirius thinks with a pained feeling of remorse in his gut, knowing he has to leave this fascinating boy’s company.
“Trouble?” Remus asks when he sees Sirius.
“James,” Sirius says. “Asking for assistance. Apparently his date is trying to literally rope him into some sexual situation that’s a bit above his pay grade.”
“Eek. Guess you have to go save him, then?”
“Afraid so,” Sirius says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut our… coffeshop excursion short.”
“Well, seeing as it wasn’t planned to begin with, I can’t really complain, now can I?”
“We never got to talk about the book.”
“Mm, that is the real tragedy here, yes.”
“Maybe we should get together some other time?” Sirius asks, pulling his jacket off the chair and tugging it back on. “You know, just to talk about the book?”
Remus is already on his feet, tapping his fingers against his thigh, smiling. “Maybe we should,” he agrees, as they head out the front door.
“I’m headed this way,” Sirius nods to the left.
“I’m the other way,” Remus says, gesturing to the right.
“So before I go, if I were theoretically going to get together with you again to discuss this mysterious book we both seem to like, how would I go about doing that?”
Remus grins slyly, gives off a one-shoulder shrug, and says unhelpfully, “If it happens, then it was supposed to,” before waving the briefest of waves, turning away, and walking down the sidewalk.
Sirius gawks after him, not sure how to process being quoted at in lieu of actual plans. He shakes his head, certain he might have just seen the last of Remus Lupin. He turns to the left, stuffing his cold hands into his pockets. He stops in his tracks, feels something with his right hand, and pulls out a napkin he doesn’t remember putting there.
“For my medical history and more, call:” it says, with a number scrawled beneath it.
Sirius breaks into an uncontrollable grin, stuffing the number back into his pocket and heading towards his motorbike up the street. He mounts the bike, and speeds towards James’ rescue, the glow of the full moon lighting his way.