Another year, another school, another afternoon spent licking his wounds in a public toilet; Oliver’s played this game before. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying and presses the compress to his eye again—it’s more a wetted ball of paper towels than anything else, but at least it’s stopped most of the bleeding.
“I see you’ve got a good, old-fashioned welcome,” a voice says. Oliver stiffens but doesn’t turn—everything’s a test, because everything’s always a test. He hears the door shut, hears a lock snick into place, and wonders why he didn’t hear it open, wonders if he’s blown an eardrum again.
It’s not what he should be wondering about, of course, but he thinks if he’s going to get the tar beaten out of him twice in one day, there’s no point adding anticipation to the mix. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. You learn to take your licks, when licks are all you’re getting.
“You could say that,” he says, as his reflection in the mirror gains a tall, gangly shadow. “You here to give me another?”
“Hospitality is my specialty,” the boy says, and then his hand’s on Oliver’s shoulder, turning him around. “Christ, they wrecked you, didn’t they? No, no, put that fist down—I won’t laugh at you if you don’t make me, but you don’t look like you could take a kitten.”
head hurt toooo much for h50 premiere watching
tomorrow will be watchytime
Sirius goes to war the way Remus goes to the moon; with his entire self and entirely against his will. He fights like he fucks, focused and driven and laughing on it a little—Remus watches him because he’s helpless not to, risks his own neck for the line of Sirius’, blood-streaked. It is the first time in his life he’s thought to howl while human, hands dirty with clean magic, and when the higher-ups throw around words like “curse” and “unforgivable,” Remus wonders if they know what they mean.
“Moony,” Sirius says, on the train to the grocery. His voice is rough with sleeplessness, and Remus’s shirt conceals a cacophony of bandages, and the hell if he’ll spend another day in bed. There’s the war out there and the war in here, and Sirius’ hands are so familiar that it hurts to look at them, crossed across his lap.
“Yeah?” says Remus.
“You remember when we were eleven,” says Sirius, “and it seemed like—you know, I guess I always thought I’d die before I had to be. Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Don’t say things like that,” says Remus, and Sirius’ eyes are as ancient as his face isn’t, still rounded out and devastatingly handsome if you don’t look too hard.
“Someone has to,” he says, and it’ll be years before Remus understands the tight, furious curve to his mouth, the way his hands clench against his thighs, the way he buys canned food and dry crackers like he’s steeling himself for something.