Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Remus moves into 12 Grimmauld Place.
Notes/warnings: Only a vague link to the lines. XD I didn't want to include them, just the feel of them, sort of.
Hear my soul speak!
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides,
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log-man.
- The Tempest, Act III, scene i
Remus hadn't brought a lot with him to the old house. Some clothes, a few books. A bottle of firewhiskey. Some rags, for cleaning. Sirius made a crack about the state of Remus's Sunday best. Remus gave him a louder crack, around the head, with his fist.
"Bastard," Sirius muttered, rubbing the sore spot.
Remus just shrugged. "Yes. I'm all sorts of bad blood, me."
"Sorry." He pushed his hair out of his face and looked around the dingy old bedroom. "I hate this place," he said, quietly.
"Mm. Why'd you think I got out when I could?"
"You're smarter than you look, apparently."
Things were still a bit weird between them -- it wasn't that they didn't want each other's company, it was just that it was taking them an inordinately long time to get used to having back what they'd written off -- and the silence was heavy and awkward.
"Help me unpack," Remus said, turning away abruptly and going out into the hall to lug in the final box. "I've not got much, it won't take us long."
"What've you got there?"
He closed the door. "Records. I know we've got to be quiet around your mother, but I'm not putting my entire life on hold just because things are tough."
"Records are your life, hm?"
"Part of it, yes!"
Sirius laughed at the badly-concealed indignance in Remus's voice. Remus shoved him again. Sirius shoved back. They scuffled like schoolboys for a moment. Remus won.
"I lost on purpose," Sirius said, breathlessly. "Do you have to sit on my stomach? Ow."
Remus quickly rolled off him and gave him a hand, pulling him back to his feet and turning away to rummage through one of the boxes. "It's too bloody quiet in here," Sirius could hear him complain, under his breath, and he pulled out a record and set it on the ancient dusty player.
The familiar crackle before the first song. Sirius waited for Five Years, maybe, or perhaps Space Oddity. Remus had always liked the older ones.
And then the trumpet kicked in, and Sirius frowned.
"...what on earth is this?"
Remus settled on the dusty floor with his head on a cushion he pulled off the sofa, and didn't answer. His eyes were closed.
"You like jazz now?" Sirius spluttered. "Or... big band, swing, what do you call this shit?"
Remus opened an eye and glared. "I call it music, Sirius."
"But what happened to Iggy Pop and Bryan Ferry and Bowie?"
"Bowie? He made me think of you. You were dead. I didn't like thinking of you."
Sirius bit his lip. "Oh," he said, quietly, then shook himself a bit and said, "But you could have chosen something not-shite to replace me!"
"I don't know. Punk?"
"Name me another genre of music that doesn't involve dying my hair green and shoving metal spikes through various bits of cartilage. You'd like this if you'd only listen."
"Bet you my house I wouldn't," Sirius muttered, but he shut up and listened anyway. "Who is it?"
Silent, Remus handed him the record sleeve. Sirius took it and blinked, once.
"Harry James," he said. His voice was tinged with vague surprise, and something sad. "Oh."
Helen Forrest began singing quietly.
All I say is, "Leave me in the gloom," and here I stay within my lonely room, 'cause I don't want to walk without you, baby.
Sirius laid his head on Remus's chest, and Remus stroked his hair until the windows went dark and they missed Molly's supper.