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Remus picent
Mar. 2nd, 2005 10:02 pmSomehow it was the little things that were the worst reminders.
The absence of water rings on the hardwood tables, because Remus always used coasters. Towels hung up to dry rather than just thrown casually into the sink. The absence of black dog hair on the duvet.
That last was the worst. Sirius loved--had loved--it when he was a dog and Remus would dig in and scratch his ruff. When he was human, he'd said it was somewhat like a massage. Remus had found it comforting, the pile of big black dog in his lap, though he never mentioned it to Sirius. He thought Sirius had known, at any rate, and just hadn't said anything because he liked being the comforting one for once.
About an hour ago, Remus was walking around the house, and tripped over a bundled up sock. It had been Sirius's, he knew--there was the slight tang of Sirius's smell on it, and a few coarse black dog hairs. He stood there for a moment, holding it in his hand, and when he blinked five minutes later, he was surprised to find that he wasn't crying. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, Remus thought, because in all the books, someone would stand there holding a reminder of his dead lover and then blink and find himself crying. But Remus wasn't crying. Hadn't cried. Wasn't going to cry.
I want to go home, he thought, carefully tucking the sock into a pocket and walking upstairs. Grimmauld Place wasn't home and that old rented flat in Shropshire wasn't home. If home was where the heart was, then Remus's was behind the veil with Sirius.
I've got promises to keep, Remus thought, and carefully put the sock in the back of the sock drawer in the room he'd shared with Sirius. And I'll keep them.
The absence of water rings on the hardwood tables, because Remus always used coasters. Towels hung up to dry rather than just thrown casually into the sink. The absence of black dog hair on the duvet.
That last was the worst. Sirius loved--had loved--it when he was a dog and Remus would dig in and scratch his ruff. When he was human, he'd said it was somewhat like a massage. Remus had found it comforting, the pile of big black dog in his lap, though he never mentioned it to Sirius. He thought Sirius had known, at any rate, and just hadn't said anything because he liked being the comforting one for once.
About an hour ago, Remus was walking around the house, and tripped over a bundled up sock. It had been Sirius's, he knew--there was the slight tang of Sirius's smell on it, and a few coarse black dog hairs. He stood there for a moment, holding it in his hand, and when he blinked five minutes later, he was surprised to find that he wasn't crying. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, Remus thought, because in all the books, someone would stand there holding a reminder of his dead lover and then blink and find himself crying. But Remus wasn't crying. Hadn't cried. Wasn't going to cry.
I want to go home, he thought, carefully tucking the sock into a pocket and walking upstairs. Grimmauld Place wasn't home and that old rented flat in Shropshire wasn't home. If home was where the heart was, then Remus's was behind the veil with Sirius.
I've got promises to keep, Remus thought, and carefully put the sock in the back of the sock drawer in the room he'd shared with Sirius. And I'll keep them.
