like canine doThe books have ears, Remus knows, in the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Sometimes literally. And other bodily appendages that books aren't supposed to have, but do.
Even here, in the relative quiet of the library, the house carries on its legacy. Years of hate and pain and bigoted pure-blood mania; many years of social parties and dark traffickings. The shelves are full of books like Wizarding Ancestry: A Complete Guide, or How To Kill A Vampire, and Other Handy Everyday Tidbits. He traces the dusty patterns on the wallpaper with his care-worn eyes, not really concentrating. Many days and nights he had spent in the dusty inner sanctum that was the library, contemplating everything. The old house had kept him company, creaking him a melody as he'd laid his head down and slept on many an old, spiderwebbed tome.
Remus wants to sleep forever. He's still not sure why he's gotten up this morning. The routine's been the same: he wakes up after a night of tossing and turning, looking to his left and finding Sirius with his back to Remus. Remus would make an excuse for him, like oh, he must have rolled away in his sleep, but he's not so sure it's true.
He gets up every morning, just as he had this morning; pulling an old jumper and trousers on, joints creaking, he descends the staircase from the cold upstairs room that they share down to the kitchen. With withering hands, he puts on water for tea, and hunts down a teabag. He then settles down into a chair, and props his head upon his hands on the tabletop.
Remus doesn't cry. Sirius taught him that. And why would a werewolf cry? He just sits there, head in hands, old. And getting steadily older.
---
The first time Remus doesn't cry is when he boards the train and leaves his parents for the first time. Off to Wizarding school; a grand adventure, or so he's been told. His mother had tears in her eyes when she told him goodbye, and his father smiled wistfully. Goodbye, Remi, love, we'll write every day, we'll see you for Christmas, don't hesitate to Floo if you need us, if you need anything, we love you. His mother assured him, repeatedly, as if he didn't hear it enough then he wouldn't remember it.
He sits alone in a compartment, dressed in a worn jumper and too-baggy tan trousers, the shoelaces of his trainers laying like dead worms on the floor of the train. Gold-brown wisps of hair are stuck to the condensating window in a sign of defeat. Remus is cold, lonely, and fighting back tears that just won't stop erupting. He crosses his arms over his small chest and gives a sigh, further plastering his face to the glass.
Suddenly, the door is thrown open, and two loud, happy boys tumble in. The larger boy stops laughing, looking at Remus oddly, and elbows the smaller boy in the side. He turns to the larger boy like he's about to object, but then catches sight of Remus' semi-frightened face and goes silent.
Remus studies the boys who intruded on his privacy for a moment, while they're both still and quiet. The taller boy has glasses, chocolate-brown eyes and tousled black hair. He's wearing a red t-shirt, white button-up thrown over it, and jeans, and stands like a prepubescent boy tends to - slumping; looking somewhat guilty.
The smaller of the duo is the one that, for some reason, catches Remus' eye. His shoulder-length black hair is smooth, and curls nonchalantly up at the ends. He's got pale skin, grey eyes, and stands like his partner - guilty and slumping. His grey slacks look new, but the green jumper and white undershirt don't. Both boys hold their school trunks awkwardly behind them.
The intruding duo stand there, frozen, until the bespectacled youth raises a hand in greeting and extends it to Remus, who grasps it uncertainly.
"Hullo, I'm James, and this here is Sirius. Do you mind if we share a compartment with you?"
Remus, eyes still watery and face still blotchy, nods, and wipes his face on the sleeve of his gray sweater.
As James hauls his trunk up to the luggage racks above their heads, the striking grey-eyed boy named Sirius extends his hand, eyes averted. Remus takes it and shakes it, this time with a firmer grip.
"My name's Sirius," says Sirius, "but, um, you already knew that." He looks directly at Remus for a moment, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. The wind seems to blow out of his sails for a moment, but then his backbone seems to stiffen and he props himself straight upright. "And - and you shouldn't cry. You know. At Hogwarts. Not on, you know, and - and all that. So. There's that," he finishes roughly, and turns to punch James.
Young Remus, cheeks flooding pink with embarrassment, wipes his eyes covertly and sits up a little straighter.
This is the first time that Remus doesn't cry for Sirius.
---
The third, fourth, tenth, and twelfth times that Remus cries, Sirius doesn't know about. Of course, it's not always his fault that Remus is crying, but sometimes it is. Most of the time it is. Remus hardly ever cries anymore. And he never cries in front of anyone else. But sometimes, he knows he just can't help it - this dull ache in his heart; the twist of his stomach; the burn of his eyes as he fights away liquid poison. Because it is poison. Real Boys Don't Cry. And Remus is determined to be a Real Boy.
Sirius likes Real Boys. Real Boys don't cry; Real Girls are allowed to cry. Remus knows this. He has witnessed this for years.
Like the time he stumbled upon Sirius, hands under Mary McKinnon's shirt as she moans and twists against him. Or the time it was a flash of familiar, dark, black hair, rubbing against a Ravenclaw Quidditch player, who (Remus bets) hasn't cried since the day he was born. Or maybe it was the occasion on which he happened upon Sirius kissing James while they were both high on Gillyweed. But, he admits, that one could have been his imagination.
The next time Sirius sees Remus cry, it is when he confronts Remus in the corner of their 6th year dormitory and turns into a large, shaggy, black dog. And Remus sinks to the floor, crying, because he knows that Sirius cares, knows he cares so much, and how could he ever care so much about poor, unlovable, Loony Lycanthrope Lupin? Who spent so many nights alone, tearing into his own flesh, not of his own volition, waking up human, naked and bleeding, on a splintered wood floor?
Padfoot licks away Remus' salty tears. The shaking, golden-eyed boy tries to cover his face, stumbles out an apology through cracked lips, something like "I'm sorry, Sirius, I'm sorry," but then they're both all human and Sirius is gently prying his hands away from his tear-streaked face. He whispers, roughly but not unkindly, "It's okay, Remus, we did this for you, please don't cry. We love you. I love you. Please don't cry. I can't let you cry like this, Remi, Moony, come on."
Remus can't stop crying, so Sirius leans back, takes a good, assessing look and a deep breath, and kisses Remus full on the mouth.
Needless to say, that just makes him cry harder. When he tries to speak, to tell Sirius Goddamn, I fucking love you, you fucking wonderful miserable twat-faced bugger, Sirius silences him with a light kiss and says "Re, love, I know. I know."
Fuck you, Sirius, and your fucking dog tongue kisses.
And Remus is too happy to cry for quite some time after that.
---
The next time, it's an accident, and Sirius has just come back from a war that keeps on going. They fight occasionally, but that's a given in any relationship. And this isn't a fight that either one of them can apologise for, even if they don't really mean it. Sirius is kneeling on the floor, hands reaching out towards the bed in supplication, and Remus is standing in the doorway silently, helpless, searching.
Sirius' own tears are splattering on the bare boards beneath his knees. They run from his eyes traitorously and splat on the floor like parachuters without the parachutes. He heaves long-suffering silent sobs as his hands slide down from reaching towards the bed, till they land palms-down on the floor. Sirius is a human table, a portrait of grief. Remus has never seen Sirius cry like this. Sirius hates crying; it's a common fact.
So why now? Why Sirius? What is there to do, when one has lost so much?
"They're gone," whispers Sirius harshly - venomously spits it out, like so much bile. "Fuck," he whines piteously. He balls his left hand and punches the floor; sobs again and again. "Oh, god, fuck," he says, louder, and skitters away like a large spider to the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. He retches again and again into the porcelain bowl, heaving until he's empty.
His black hair makes a puddle around him as he falls onto the white-tiled floor. Remus walks silently over to the door of the bathroom, in shock, knowing -
"Oh, god, Sirius."
Sirius' right arm is burned, mottled flesh from mid-forearm to shoulder. His half-singed t-shirt tells the story, what must have happened - Fiendfyre, sweet jesus, Remus thinks, covering his mouth with an ink-stained hand.
Sirius looks up at Remus through misty, pained eyes. "Remi - Remus - all - fuck," he says, clambering to the toilet and retching again. This time, Remus rushes over and pats his back as nothing but oily liquid comes up.
He helps Sirius lean against the back of the tub. "You don't have to talk right now, Siri, let me help you, clean you up - "
"No," Sirius croaks vehemently, ""No." He clears his throat painfully. "They - set my family on fire - Cruciated them - I was watching, black sheep of the family, couldn't look away; Mother, screaming, Father, screaming, never screamed like that, never - "
He coughs, pauses; Remus tries to comfort him but he screams, "I watched them burn, I tried to help but they burned, and it was all my fault, I should have been a better son, I should have made my parents proud, I should have - and they're gone - "
And Sirius just cries and cries and dry heaves and cries, and Remus is the strong one. In that small bathroom, with the sting of vomit in the air and war at the doorstep, the werewolf holds the poor puppy.
Later, Remus wakes up to the sound of a lone dog howling.
---
After this one, Remus thinks, I will never cry again. Never, ever again.
He's naked like baby Jesus, covered in dust and ash on the lawn of someone's estate. He's not sure whose it is, but he's sure it must be a blood traitor, because it wouldn't be a pureblood. Not at this time.
The fire inside has burned away all his clothes, leaving nothing but lightly tanned (albeit scarred, and now burned) skin. Remus doesn't remember leaving the house - only rushing inside, looking desperate, and then waking up with his flesh aflame.
After that point, he passed out, and then woke up again on this grassy knoll.
He hates being a werewolf, but knows he's lucky for the healing powers that come with the package. He's sure he would be mottled and burnt to a crisp - please, don't think 'Like Sirius, like his arm,' he pleads with himself - if it weren't for that. As it is, he's still pretty fried, and the thick smoke rolling like feather-light tumbleweeds through the air isn't helping. He's choking, he's coughing, he's hurting. And he's right next to a huge fire, but he suddenly goes cold.
Remus sits up and peers through the smoke to find his childhood home ablaze. Why didn't I realize sooner? Gray tears roll clear tracks down his cheeks. The fire of the Dark Lord is all-consuming; he doesn't know why he expected any less, he doesn't know why it happened, but he's sure he should have been protecting his family.
He doesn't speak; doesn't make a sound. He just sits there, on his knees, crying like the baby he was born as - the normal, human baby.
He doesn't flinch as a porcelain hand descends lightly upon his shoulder.
"Come on, Remi, I've got you," says Sirius, voice hoarse from smoke inhalation. "I've got you. Don't cry."
Later on, the only thing about that night that sticks out to Remus is "don't cry".
---
Remus misses out on crying for so many things that he loses count. He refuses to cry. He knows Sirius loves him, but somehow he's still afraid that if he isn't a Real Boy, Sirius won't love him anymore. Childish? Yes. Foolish? Maybe. But is it ever foolish to take precautions when it's your heart on the line? Remus doesn't think so. He's had enough broken things on his body to last a lifetime - he doesn't need another.
The next time Remus cries is when, of course, stupid Sirius Black takes his heart - and the lives of his friends - and throws it all down the drain, like so much bacteria.
After the funeral of James and Lily Potter, Remus doesn't cry for twelve long years.
Then Sirius came back, of course, and he was like a skeleton, fresh out of the freezer common folk called Azkaban - the wizarding prison. So they still shared a bed, but it wasn't the same. Okay, Remus could compromise - in the beginning of Sirius' return, it was the same.
But then Sirius started to go a bit mad, started to shun Remus, started to yell, stop eating or eat too much, started to look away while they were being intimate. Remus, after 13 years of being alone and lonely, had neither enough nor too little. And he continued to get older and older, and so did Sirius - locked up in his parents' house, with only a hippogriff and a werewolf for company. Instead of breaking Remus' heart once, he did it every day, repeatedly. So Remus gave up.
"I give up," he says to the empty kitchen. "I give up. You win."
---
Even here, in the relative quiet of the library, the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black carries on its legacy. Nothing is quiet in here for too long, and right on cue, a noise breaks the monotony.
Books creak in protest as Remus' spine cracks the ages-old binding. He bites down, hard, on his lip, keeping in the moans and screams that are threatening to erupt. Remus feels the coming rush; feels the rusty taste of red humanity hot on his tongue. He's not sure if this is what he wants, but this is as good as it's going to get.
With a pained grunt, finally releasing his mutilated lower lip, he spills himself into Sirius' hand. Falling forward a bit, he covers his eyes with his hand, coming to rest on his lover's emaciated shoulder.
"What's wrong, Moony?" says Sirius, with an affection that Remus hasn't heard in days - or, it seems, years. The puppy-dog tone is so endearingly familiar and heartbreakingly painful simultaneously that it makes him want to scream. With this, he knows that it's over, and that's the hardest part - that Sirius won't admit it, or maybe doesn't know yet.
"We're old, Siri, Sirius," he chokes out. "Old."
He feels the muscles in Sirius' shoulder tense for a moment. Then Sirius withdraws, and Remus traces the worn lines in the smaller dog's face - etching them in his brain for all eternity, watching the half-moonlight play across the wrinkles and the plateaus, the crow's-feet and the gray eyes. Something sad flickers across Sirius' white face for a moment, and then he bends down, wiping his hand on the carper roughly. Rising to his feet fluidly, he looks at Remus - a hard look, a real look - and says, in an indescribable tone, "You don't think I know that?"
Then he leaves, without once looking back. Remus ekes out a painful "I'm sorry, I still love you". Or maybe it was "I'm sorry I still love you." Either way, Remus is left alone in the library of Sirius' forebears, and he cries without ever letting a tear fall, because werewolves - and real boys - don't cry.
A day later, Sirius falls through the veil, and Remus is left alone, with dry eyes and a library full of evil books. Books with teeth.
---
The next time Remus cries, it's when he makes love to Tonks for the first time, and he looks away because it's like fucking her long-since-dead asshole of a cousin.
Remus cries, but Nymphadora doesn't, because Real Girls don't cry. Remus taught her that.
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