Remus Lupin x Slytherin Reader,
-- in which reader figures an uncharacteristic bout of avoidance is the best course of action in light of her budding feelings, and Remus teaches her that is not the case.
tags: remus x reader, friend to lovers, Slytherin reader (although can be read as any house) no use of y/n, TYPICALLY confrontational reader but for the purposes of this fanfiction avoidant reader, remus is very kind, gender neutral reader (?) (i wrote this with a female mc in mind but no pronouns are mentioned)
a/n: this is highkey my first fanfic ever so be gentle ...
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Inherently hypocritical. You believed that's what would be on your tombstone when this was all over.
Died young, loved by some, inherently hypocritical.
Perhaps this was what you deserved. A symptom of your self proclaimed martyrdom. Your proclamations, your preachings. Lectures given to friends on the importance of communication, drunken chidings given to Sirius on his lack of it. Brutal honesty, self above others, thickening the skin of your peers as if your own hadn't grow thin.
You, of all people, avoiding a confrontation. You could laugh, if you weren't so anxious.
Frighteningly, cripplingly anxious.
You focus on the way your boots crunch through the snow, the way they dim the fresh fall in a muddled, murky shadow. Anything to distract from the racing, unfounded thoughts circulating through your head.
No. No -- founded. They were founded. Today was surely the day you were going to die.
Nobody ever said you weren't dramatic.
Willing the feeling back into your hands, you watch as a mother shepherds her children out of the cold. Under normal circumstances, in this weather, you might have chosen a cafe. You might have gone to that bookstore down the street and tucked your feet beneath you as you curled into the corner, hoping he didn't notice how your eyes often lingered on him more than it did your book. Today, you treasure the openness. Anything less would be stifling.
The lake is frozen, and you resent the fact there's no birds to watch, or stones to skip. All around is stillness. Crippling. Silent. There is nothing to be with but your thoughts, and nothing you want less than to think. Cowardice, it seems, is rearing its head as of late.
To know when it began is to be able to splice time in half, to analyze the oxytocin in your blood and calculate just at which point it increased a little more when you saw him. You guessed third year. Lily, ever the intuitive, guessed second.
It wasn't obvious that you were in love with Remus Lupin. At least -- that's what Lily reassured. Your love wasn't something expressed outwardly, wasn't shown through flushed cheeks and stammered words. Instead, it suffocated. It took control of every facet of your being, burying itself into your nerves, your brain, your lungs.
It grew within you. It imploded.
How embarrassing it is, to think so highly of a boy.
For as much as he annoyed you, as much as his sheer kindness (for, yes, at times he was all too nice) pissed you off -- you couldn't help but be endeared to him. His sweaters were ugly, his hair always in need of a cut, his disposition hopeful in times of strife. It was infuriating, maddening, and everything you wanted.
You were not well versed in this realm. There had been few -- very few -- instances of romance in your life. The etiquette, the forum, the time, they were all foreign. It was treacherous water, and required a vulnerability you weren't sure you knew how to manifest.
So, against your basic instincts, you ran. You avoided. You shunned. You no longer went to his house for tea on Sundays and you slowly ceased participation in your two-person book club. You ducked his calls, answered his texts only in the most uninvolved, distanced way, a way that said 'surely, I am not in love with you.' In groups you took care to throw yourself into the mix for fear of a moment alone with him. You left too early and never drank quite enough, the thought of a loosening tongue keeping you on track.
A Sisyphean task. For every step you took to distance yourself, he took two to ensure you'd want to do anything but. When you declined his offer for tea he took it in stride, asking if there was anything else you wanted, anything else he could get you. When you lagged in the book he assured you it "wasn't that good, anyway." When you left early he insisted on walking you home, and once you were alone, asked if you were feeling alright.
It was in these moments you'd grind your teeth and will the flush in your cheeks to regulate, head held low and a mumbled response about being "busy" working to placate him as you'd move on to your next strategy. It was pitiful.
You knew -- of course you did -- that you were drawing attention to yourself. Your friends were not very discreet people. It's why you weren't surprised, merely disappointed, when James finally confronted you.
He had intercepted you on your way home from work, lingering on the periphery of your apartment complex in an effort not to appear too creepy. You had spotted him and sighed in aquiensce, saying few words as you allowed him into your home. The finish line had arrived, and you had lost.
He had sat down slowly on your couch, biting at his tongue to keep his thoughts at bay, as if the pain would focus his mind, not derail the conversation as he so often did. You busied yourself in your kitchen in an effort to delay the inevitable, hands wandering through meaningless, benign tasks. James, ever confident, seemed… awkward, in that moment. Still, he ventured forward.
“Well.” James began, removing his glasses to clean the fog that had situated atop the lenses.
You nodded, feigning intrigue, tension balled tight in your chest as you hoped he couldn't spot the tension in your frame. “Well.”
You had sighed, allowing yourself to tense a moment longer, fingers digging into the granite table in front of you before you joined him on the couch, purposefully avoiding his gaze.
"You've been acting weird." He accuses, as though it's necessary.
He huffed at your bluntness, sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck in an exasperated manner. “Listen… I know, okay? So just..." He gestured vaguely at you, "stop with the aloof bullshit.
You had stiffened at his words. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re in love with Lupin.”
"Lily told you?" You seethed, betrayal ripe on your tongue.
"What? No. No--" James waved away the accusation, eyes wide. "She didn't -- no. I used deductive reasoning."
You echoed the words back, mocking. "Deductive reasoning."
James had huffed your name, clearly fed up with the back and forth. "Please."
Slouching back against the couch, you had let your arms fall to your side. Half heartedly, you gave a weak “you’re insane.”
“Fuck.” The word came out as a breath, hand running down your face in resignation. James allowed the silence to last a moment longer, before he awkwardly interrupted it.
“He loves you too. No reason to keep avoiding him.”
A scoff escaped your lips. You feigned a lie, figuring no harm in digging yourself deeper. “I’m not avoiding him.”
He raised a brow, laughing slightly, a sound that made you scowl. “Sure.”
There wasn't much left to say, so you didn't. You allowed yourself the silence as you picked at your cuticle, blood seeping from the dried skin as you watched it with empty, vacant eyes. Your words came out quiet, pitiful. "You didn't tell him, right?"
James sighed heavily, looking up towards the ceiling as if you were a lost cause. “He’s not oblivious, y’know? He can tell you’re skirting around him, dipping out of conversations. He misses you.”
"Practically." You echoed him again, letting out a dejected sigh. “It’s just a bad idea, James."
The boy in front of you had scoffed, itching his jaw. “I don't care if you think it's a good idea or not. He doesn't deserve to be iced out like this."
Guilt settled in your chest and you felt yourself grow smaller. "I know."
"I know." The words were fast, clipped, and you regretted them the moment they came out. You couldn't bring yourself to say sorry, though, willing your guilt to manifest into anger. "I'm just... I just..." You shrugged, unable or unwilling to make a point.
"If he does... I mean, you know he'd be nice about it."
"That almost makes it worse." You said, words devoid of emotion.
"No. Not really." You sighed, letting your chin sink into your jacket. "I'll do it. Now."
"What, are you in a rush?"
James laughed through his nose, glancing out the window towards the darkening sky. "No. No, I just think the sooner the better."
You followed his gaze, wondering if a storm was coming. Hoping one would, that maybe it would prevent the inevitable. "Yeah. Fine. Tomorrow."
And so, as sure as babies are born and people will die, tomorrow came, and you found yourself on the outskirts of the frozen pond, devoid of life, and movement, and hope.
You weren't entirely sure if he had even gotten your note to meet you there. You had been too scared to check, soothed by the possibility of a non-arrival. That possibility of salvation is crushed when you hear his awkward tread upon the snow.
You don't turn. You think, if you did, you wouldn't be able to say it. Instead you stay staring at the lake, letting the reflection off the ice blind you.
"Ran into Sirius on the way here." He says as he sits down beside you, too close -- always too close -- so you can feel his warmth, have to actively calm your heart. "Asked why we're meeting alone in a park. He thinks you're plotting to murder me."
You will your face into a smile, but all you can manage is a grimace. You attempt to placate with a laugh, but it sounds choked, deprived. Is this what it's like, to lose your spirit?
He notices. Of course he does. You shake your head before he can say a word, clearing your throat and hoping he will mistake the tears in your eyes for the reflection of the frozen lake.
He won't, but he'll never bring it up again.
When your voice comes out, it doesn't sound like your own. It's desperate, and pleading, and you feel so deeply embarrassed that it's him who has reduced you to this.
“Don’t interrupt me, okay?"
"Remus." The word comes out hard, and firm. He goes still in the wake of it. "I'm serious. and if you don't... if you don't like what I have to say don't say anything. Just, like... just walk away, okay? Just walk away."
There's questions on his tongue, curiosity in his eyes. He fights to keep it back a moment then, tentatively, he reaches out his pinky, hooking it onto yours softly. You want to melt.
“Okay.” You echo yourself, the word shaky and quiet, the brief contact withering you for a moment.
All the words you prepared have left you. Illiterate, unintelligent. You make yourself smaller, knees squeezed to your chest as you search for the perfect way to express your feelings, the perfect sentence to portray how complex your inner thoughts are.
When you realize you will not find it, you figure you will use whatever you can get.
"I'm sorry for avoiding you." The words sound hollow in your mouth, taste bitter on the back of your throat. You choke down the guilty tears that threaten to come, knowing if you start you will not stop. Self righteous, and overly confident. You keep in mind to add those to the tombstone.
Still, you do not -- can not -- look at him.
"It's... it wasn't mature. Or... or nice. and I'm sorry. I just..." Faltering for a second, you choke on the next words before they jumble in your throat, coming out in a breath that makes you sound as desperate as you feel. "You make me crazy, Remus."
You shut your eyes tight, heat flushing your cheeks. You know, now that you started, you cannot stop. Cannot let gim think you've finished -- cannot let him speak, cannot let him walk away. The words you have to say fall after the other like dominoes, quick, and sharp, and not all together sensical.
"And I'm sorry. I mean -- I'm not sorry. I can't be sorry, really. Because I can't control it, you know? But I... I really do like you. Like, much more than I should. And it doesn't..." You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, "it's embarrassing. It really is. What you do to me. Bad for my reputation.
Your attempt at a joke falls flat as your words catch. You let my head fall between your knees for a moment of constructed solitude.
It stretches on, the air thick with things both said and unsaid. When his voice breaks the silence you almost finish. "Are you...?"
You shake your head, stifling a sniffle as you look back up to the lake, powering through the last of your unstructured monologue.
"I just don't know what to do anymore. Because maybe I'm a bad person, and a fucking hypocrite but... I, I think about you with somebody else and I get sick. And I know I have no claim -- I know that, it just... It's how I feel. And I don't know what to do."
Your jaw is tense as you hold the emotions in, hands gripping at your pant legs. You feel Remus's gaze burning into your profile, but you don't dare meet his eyes. The words seem to take a moment to sink into him.
"Are you done now?" His voice is disturbingly quiet for the situation, gentle in a way you don't expect it to be. You give a small nod, palming reaching up to haphazardly wipe away a stray tear.
You don't know how he does it. You don't know how he manages to move you -- himself -- so swiftly. All you know is you blink, and he's kissing you.
His lips are warm in the frigidity. It's a brush -- a skin on skin contact -- a breath shared and he's pulling away, eyes meeting yours as if you're feral, untamed. It's then you see the nerves he hides, the flicker of fear behind his eyes. You feel sick, and overwhelmed, and endeared all at once. The idea of you rejecting him makes you want to laugh, brings white hot tears to your eyes, but whatever sound that bubbles in your chest is cut off when he leans in again, hand firm on the back of your head, movements sure.
This kiss is real, long awaited. You can't help but sigh a little and feel the heat of embarrassment crawl up your neck at the noise. If he notices, he doesn't let on.
It's like the world has opened up beneath you, swallowed you whole, enveloped you in warmth and love and everything that is nice. Every neuron fires, every synapse transmits. Your bones feel hollow, and you wonder if it's normal, to feel so much, to want so much.
It breaks you. It puts you back together. You'd be lying if you said you weren't terrified.
You let him break it off though you want more. If there ever was a question of whether or not you are a glutton, it is this man who has answered it. He brushes a soft thumb against the apple of your cheek and you have to suppress a shutter -- you feel so soft you worry you may break.
"You're neurotic." He accuses, eyes filled with a warmth never before levied in your direction. The accusation draws a shaky laugh from you, bringing forth the tears that have laid dormant since the beginning of this conversation.
"I know." You answer, talking around the strain in your throat. "I know. Thank you."
"For putting up with me."
His eyes soften and you feel embarrassed by your words, at the way you demean yourself. Yet still, it feels a necessity. You want to thank him. You want to never stop thanking him.
"It's not as hard as you think it is." His touch is light as it glides down to rest on your back, palm warming you even through the fabric of your clothes. "It's one of the easiest things I've ever done, really."
You're not used to such outward niceties. Such kindness, such warmth. You force yourself to look away so you don't cry more, too overwhelmed with emotion to come up with a response.
Remus seems to know what you need. He sits there, a grounding presence next to you. The relief that has flooded your body renders you weak, pliable. Anything he asked you right now, you'd do it.
Love is dangerous. You can't fathom that humans are capable of such complexities. You can't fathom that millions of other people have experienced what you feel right now. You can't fathom that they have survived.
For the most part, you can't fathom that the man sitting next to you right now, hand on your lower back, feels the same way.
dededos
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