things you said after you kissed me (remus, museofrequirement)
Send me a ship for a mini fic || Accepting
@museofrequirement
Remus is about as far away from James as he can get. Red rimmed eyes giving away the fact he’s been crying. Usually, James would be a bit freaked out by that. He’s twelve and almost positive boys aren’t supposed to cry. It’s gay. Or something like that anyway. Girly. Not what they’re supposed to do but it definitely doesn’t count if you were missing your mum a bit and cried in the shower. Because how did you even know you were crying in the shower? It could just be the water. That was the rule. Shower crying, not real crying.
This? This isn’t shower crying. But this isn’t Remus missing his mum either. This is Remus finally admitting it, what James knew, what James practically forced out of him. Maybe he’d been a bit blunt, maybe he should’ve let Remus tell him himself but it just didn’t make any sense to James why he was keeping it so secret in the first place. James didn’t know much about Werewolves, but he imagined the whole thing was probably pretty cool.
He’d imagined wrong.
At least if the way Remus hunched in on himself, as far away from James as he could possibly get, was any indication of his wrongness. As though somehow, James was going to catch it just by breathing in the same air. As though that’s what James was going to think now he knew. That he was going to look at him differently, treat him differently, somehow be scared of the boy who broke his nose one time because he fell asleep reading and dropped a hardback on his face. James wasn’t sure how anyone could be afraid of Remus.
With narrowed eyes, he shuffles over on the bed, taking a breath as he reassures himself this isn’t at all gay. This is proving a point, to his best friend who is upset. This is simply to make sure Remus knows that James is right and he is wrong and that the only person afraid of Remus in this room—is Remus.
Without much more thought he’s leaning in, pressing his lips firmly against the other boys cheek. Loud and exaggerated, a grin and wink following almost immediately after.
“Oh look, I didn’t catch it!”
If anyone asks, James will maintain for now and for forever that this wasn’t his idea. It was probably Pete’s. Pete who just happened not to be here right now. Or maybe Sirius and yeah—okay, so he wasn’t here either but he knows this is something they talked about late one night. When talking about things like this is acceptable, in the dark, lying in their own beds and discussing what exactly it was girls wanted from a kiss. It had made sense, at the time, when they couldn’t see one another, to agree that the best thing to do, was to test out one another’s techniques.
They’re thirteen and impressing girls is so terribly important. That Ravenclaw boy kissed Susan from Hufflepuff and everyone had been calling him slobber jaw ever since. You couldn’t mess it up, it’d ruin you forever. It’s just being a good mate, making sure none of them were subjected to that kind of disgrace, even if Sirius pretended he obviously never would be.
Sirius was wrong, which was why it was James sitting here, on the edge of Remus’ bed, talking him through his date with that Hufflepuff James had forgotten the name of. Sirius was off somewhere in a sulk and it had absolutely nothing to do with James’ insistence that he had to be the one to do it as it had been his idea. That wasn’t what happened, and Sirius was talking shit.
Remus’ eyes are kind of intense close up like this. Almost as though they’re seeing right through to James’ fucking soul or something. It’s weird and he’s never thought about Remus’ eyes like that before, they’re kinda nice. In the way sometimes it’s nice to look at the sky or something on a clear day—not that he does stuff like that, because it’s a bit gay. But if he did—that’s what it’d be like.
He steels himself as one hand cups the other boy’s cheek, thumb stroking softly and it’s not because he wants to touch Remus. It’s because he’s trying to play the bloody girl and as James has kissed a grand total of five girls so far, he’s definitely the authority on the subject. Except, as he leans in, as their lips meet and James’ breath catches in his throat—he quickly realises that kissing Remus is nothing like kissing a girl and that James can’t remember that he was supposed to be acting in the first place.
It’s overwhelming and weird. Makes his stomach feel all strange, kind of like maybe he’s going to throw up but also that he might also be about to have to spend some time in the shower—to do things thirteen year olds do in the shower, not crying, he’s not twelve anymore, shower time is different now—he’s probably sick. He’s probably going to pass that on to Remus and maybe ruin his date—but that’d be alright, cause James will just stay in with him and Remus can read whilst James throws chocolate frogs in his general direction when he wants attention.
He realises quickly Remus is looking at him, looking at him with those eyes, nervous and expecting and James pulls back as though he’s been burned, running a nervous hand through his hair.
“So uh—yeah—I’d give that a solid eight.”
James doesn’t know how long he’s been sat here. He doesn’t know how long Remus has been pretending to be asleep, but he knows it’s been a while. He knows his legs are numb from the hospital wing chairs—chairs that aren’t meant to house people for as long as James has been sitting here. Chairs that are for brief visits, visits that involve chocolate, cards and jokes about the latest injuries. Visits that fucking end, visits that don’t involve Poppy sticking her head round and shooting you sympathetic glances, bypassing her own rules about visiting hours because she knows what happened.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here, but he does know Remus has been pretending to be asleep for at least an hour of that. Because James knows—James knows when Remus is sleeping. James has spent enough time over the years watching Remus sleep. He knows when he’s hurting, he knows when he’s finally settled, he knows when he’s plagued with nightmares or guilt and he knows when Remus doesn’t want to open his eyes because he’s terrified of what he might have done.
This is one of those times.
This is probably the worst of those times and part of James doesn’t want Remus to open his eyes either. He doesn’t want to explain why Sirius isn’t there too. He doesn’t want to tell him about the screaming match he had what felt like days ago with their best mate. He doesn’t want to tell Remus about Pete taking sides so easily and how James is worried about his lack of autonomy. That he’d followed the leader, who he saw as the most powerful. That he took James’ side and James is worried nobody is comforting Sirius.
He doesn’t want to tell Remus what Sirius did. He doesn’t want to see the look of hurt in his eyes or the guilt that would follow shortly afterwards. He doesn’t want to tell Remus that his condition had been used as a form of revenge, as a prank, when they’d never tried to use it for their own gains before. He doesn’t want to hurt him and the ferocity with which he feels that terrifies him more than the possibility of Remus deciding to be awake sometime soon.
He’s terrified of how angry he is on Remus’ behalf. On the urge to fix it for him. To protect him. To climb into the bed and hold him until it all goes away. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how to voice it or what the fuck it means but it’s too much for his fifteen-year-old brain to process.
He sighs, biting his lip as he takes Remus’ hand in his, lifting it, hesitating for only a second before he presses his lips against the back of it.
“It’s alright mate—it’s gonna be alright…I’ll sort it.”
It’s a stupid game. A stupid fucking game and James doesn’t know why he agreed to play. He doesn’t know why Remus agreed to play either. He doesn’t understand why Remus was able to kiss Sirius without hesitation, with laughter and eye rolling at the cheers from the rest of the circle. He doesn’t know why that fucking bottle keeps landing on Remus anyway, or why Pete keeps filling Moony’s fucking glass up as though the bloke needs anymore to drink.
He doesn’t know when at sixteen years old, this stupid muggle game involving a bottle became acceptable to play. Or why—the only people James had gotten to kiss so far were Marlene and some random fourth year girl who bit his lip hard enough to bruise and then ran away sobbing that she’d made him bleed. James was having the worst time playing this game. But apparently, Remus ‘everyone kiss me’ Lupin was having the time of his fucking life.
He’s obviously wasted. Obviously he can’t see what he’s doing, or how much it’s pissing James off. Or maybe he can. Maybe he does know that it’d piss James off. Maybe he knows that James hates every second. Maybe he knows and just doesn’t much care anymore. James won’t kiss him in public right? James kisses him like he did in the hospital wing. Alone and in the dark. James kisses him and doesn’t explain why. James kisses him and refuses to look into the all-knowing eyes of Remus. Because James Potter is under no illusions that Remus always knows what’s going on.
He’s busy stewing in his anger, too busy to notice at first when the bottle, spun by Remus lands on him. He doesn’t notice the cheers or the prompting from his mates. He doesn’t notice any of that, but he does notice the expectant eyes on him. The challenge. Issued by a drunk Remus who James is under no illusions did it on fucking purpose. Clever bastard that he is. James has no doubts in his mind that Remus knows how to rig this game and rig it he has.
He’s going to do it.
He rises to his knees, eyes fixed on those of Remus as he shuffles over to him. Heart beating rapidly against his chest, and he tries for a second to just focus on Remus. To remember when they practised and James felt like he was looking at a clear sky, poised for flying. Looking at endless possibilities and ultimate freedom. He tries, he leans in and he’s sure he’s about to really fucking do it until someone claps him on the back, urging him on in the game and all of a sudden, all James can focus on is the crowd around him. All he can think about is kissing Remus in this room full of people and he pulls back with apologetic and regretful eyes.
He ignores the jeers around him, ignores as someone else reaches for the bottle and instead, murmurs, low and under his breath to the one person it really fucking matters to that he didn’t do it.
“I’m sorry.”
Remus is moving on. James can tell. He’ll still kiss James. Still touch him. He’ll still open up his bed and his arms but James is rapidly starting to understand that maybe Remus wants more than that. They’re seventeen and about to leave school. It makes sense that he would. Fuck, James wants more than that. He just doesn’t know how to make it happen, he doesn’t know how to take that step. Doesn’t even know what that fucking step is and he wishes sometimes Remus wasn’t his best mate and didn’t insist that James had to find these conclusions on his own.
He wishes Remus didn’t know him so well.
He wishes he didn’t know Remus so well sometimes. He wishes he didn’t know that Remus was probably enjoying the attentions from the blonde Ravenclaw in the corner of the Great Hall. He wishes that he could just finish his toast and ignore it. He wishes that he didn’t know that Remus wants that. Deep down where he maybe won’t admit it. He wants to have someone who isn’t ashamed of him. In the way Remus has spent a lifetime ashamed of himself. He also knows Remus won’t ask for it. He won’t ask because he’ll never think he deserves it.
It’s probably not real. It’s probably got absolutely nothing to do with anything why Remus is standing so close to the Ravenclaw boy. It probably means nothing that he’s rolling his eyes, laughing and that the Ravenclaw is feigning offence. It doesn’t matter that this boy knows that Remus is funny. People are allowed to know that, allowed to appreciate it. Remus deserves to be appreciated. It’s probably nothing. Probably doesn’t mean a fucking thing and yet maybe it means everything. Because as far as everyone else knows. It could mean something. They could be thinking about how much they must fancy one another. Could be expecting them to go out on a date, could be thinking maybe they’ll be moving in with one another when they leave school in a couple of weeks. Maybe they’re even thinking how sad it must be, to be in love and going off to war. Maybe they’re thinking that this is some tragic fucking love story and—
He’s up before he’s even finished the thought, up and striding towards Remus. He can’t see anything but the other boy as he shoves the Ravenclaw aside, can’t hear anything but his own heartbeat as he crowds him against the wall and kisses him soundly. Desperately. The way he’s wanted to kiss him for a long time, finally in the fucking light. Finally without pretence. To make it real. Make it something they do and that James isn’t ashamed of.
He doesn’t know how long he kisses him for, only that he’s suddenly acutely aware of the silence in the hall. Only that as he turns his head slightly, he can see every single eye on them and for a second he thinks he might panic. Except, he can still taste Remus on his lips, he can still feel his breath, hot against his own and instead of panicking, he simply shrugs.
“…fuck it.”
He kisses him again then. Right there in the Great Hall and he doesn’t say anything after. He doesn’t need to. He figures the kiss says everything he needs to.
