Post by Kamish on Dec 17, 2007 2:11:55 GMT -5
At Hogwarts, silence was unsafe, it meant the Marauders had a prank ready to be pulled. It meant that students had to cast looks over their shoulders every few moments just to make sure they weren't the target, and even that didn't help much.
Silence meant laughter, meant good times were just around the corner. It meant they'd probably get detention, and a disapproving glare from the professors, and an exasperated glance from Remus. It was a good omen, it meant that they were awake, and Peter wasn't snoring away, it meant they would soon be running under a swollen moon.
In Azkaban, silence was the worst thing. Worse than the screams. Worse than the deathly rattles of the Dementors. Worse than the jeers of the newcomers, or the few inspectors and visitors.
Screams were welcome, they reminded you you weren't the only one alive, they reminded you that you were alive. Sometimes, he screamed, if only softly, just to hear the sound echoing back, a morbid parody of an answer.
And he'd smile, reminded again that he was alive.
Was he? Alive, that was. Sometimes the screams felt like a nightmare, repeated over and over, as though he'd died, and gone to Hell, as his mother had condemned him to do the moment he'd left, and even before then.
Actually, the first moment he could recall her damning him was when he'd been Sorted. A Black, in Gryffindor? Ridiculous, ludicrous, insane. She's screamed for all Hogwarts to hear, and he'd sat there, very quiet, waiting for the storm to pass.
Screaming had been good then. It was good in Azkaban. Maybe screaming was always good, maybe screaming was a sign you were alive, it was a sign that you were feeling; pain, anger, rage, joy.
He'd found he didn't feel, not unless the requirements were fulfilled. The requirements were simple, or they had been once. The requirements were confusing now, but oh so simple. It was amazing, how something so simple as so difficult.
Oxymoron, that's what Remus would call it.
Grimmauld Place was silent. Perhaps that was yet another reason to hate it, it was silent. Silence was terrible, it had been corrupted from the beautiful thing it'd once been.
Silence. Pure silence. And he'd simply wait in the silence, too scared to break it for fear he'd not hear his own voice, for fear his screams had died with the rest of the sound. He'd wait until the Order returned, until Remus returned, until sound returned.
And then he was almost him again, he could smile, if only with relief; sound was real, not a bizarre hallucination his Azkaban-addled mind had conjured.
But they'd leave, and the sound would go, and he'd be silent, waiting again.
That was why he hated sleep, sleep meant closing his eyes, loosing the remaining assurance that there was a world, that it wasn't simply a black chasm that fell on forever.
Sleep meant nightmares, meant silence.
His nightmares were silent. Always silent. There was no speech, though the lips moved. There was no words, no screams, nothing.
Perhaps that was why he always woke screaming, to reassure himself....
Or perhaps it was to fulfill the requirements.
The screams used to be what he needed, used to tell him he was alive. Now, the screams drew what he needed. Brought Remus to his side. Remus.
Remus was real. Remus wasn't a dream. Remus was alive. Remus made him know he was alive. The scent, the touch, the sight, and most importantly, the sound.
His voice was imperfect, the soft rumble of thunder, just a little too rough, as though someone had tried to record a perfect sound with a Muggle recorder. Imperfect, yet so alive.
Remus' voice was so alive, it was as though the life in his voice carried across the too wide space to Sirius. Travelled and let him know he was alive. Still alive. That the world was real. That the world had colour and scent and taste and touch and sound.
Taste.
He wondered what Remus tasted like.
He wondered if the life in the taste would give him his own life, a little spark that would burn just enough that he wouldn't need to be reassured.
He didn't want to taste Remus. Not if he wouldn't need Remus anymore. He wanted Remus. He never wanted to not want him.
But he did want it. He wanted Remus' touch, his taste, his scent, his sound. He wanted it.
So, when he woke screaming, clutching bedsheets and relieved to know he was alive, but still unsure of that fact, he wasn't sure if it had honestly happened, or if he had convinced himself to do it.
He wasn't sure; had he wanted the choice to work itself out so much that he'd given himself the perfect chance? Had he simply stumbled upon the chance? He didn't know.
He didn't know what words were leaving his lips as he babbled incoherently, he didn't know anything, everything was strange, unreal.
But the scent came.
Remus' scent, a delicious hint of something delicate wrapped in the purely masculine, wolfish smell. Comforting and protecting, but fierce and dangerous.
The touch came.
Hesitant, not to touch him, but to extend itself to another, another who may be unwilling. Strong and soft, rough and gentle, powerful enough to hold him down, but careful enough to let him be safe. Safe.
The sight came.
The scarred, weary features. The little lines that spoke of every trial and worrying moment he'd had. The warm, slightly unsure amber eyes. The startlingly soft hands, the curiously pale skin, like moonlight had been trapped there. The delicious hair, a salt-n-pepper of grey and sandy brown, wrapped in the scent that was entirely Remus.
The sound, oh gods, the sound.
His inexplicable sound; the very essence of life.
The taste... the taste he had to steal.
And gods... the taste.
The taste was everything that could and couldn't be tasted.
And suddenly, though there was no sound, the agonising silence was gone, if only a little while.
Silence meant laughter, meant good times were just around the corner. It meant they'd probably get detention, and a disapproving glare from the professors, and an exasperated glance from Remus. It was a good omen, it meant that they were awake, and Peter wasn't snoring away, it meant they would soon be running under a swollen moon.
In Azkaban, silence was the worst thing. Worse than the screams. Worse than the deathly rattles of the Dementors. Worse than the jeers of the newcomers, or the few inspectors and visitors.
Screams were welcome, they reminded you you weren't the only one alive, they reminded you that you were alive. Sometimes, he screamed, if only softly, just to hear the sound echoing back, a morbid parody of an answer.
And he'd smile, reminded again that he was alive.
Was he? Alive, that was. Sometimes the screams felt like a nightmare, repeated over and over, as though he'd died, and gone to Hell, as his mother had condemned him to do the moment he'd left, and even before then.
Actually, the first moment he could recall her damning him was when he'd been Sorted. A Black, in Gryffindor? Ridiculous, ludicrous, insane. She's screamed for all Hogwarts to hear, and he'd sat there, very quiet, waiting for the storm to pass.
Screaming had been good then. It was good in Azkaban. Maybe screaming was always good, maybe screaming was a sign you were alive, it was a sign that you were feeling; pain, anger, rage, joy.
He'd found he didn't feel, not unless the requirements were fulfilled. The requirements were simple, or they had been once. The requirements were confusing now, but oh so simple. It was amazing, how something so simple as so difficult.
Oxymoron, that's what Remus would call it.
Grimmauld Place was silent. Perhaps that was yet another reason to hate it, it was silent. Silence was terrible, it had been corrupted from the beautiful thing it'd once been.
Silence. Pure silence. And he'd simply wait in the silence, too scared to break it for fear he'd not hear his own voice, for fear his screams had died with the rest of the sound. He'd wait until the Order returned, until Remus returned, until sound returned.
And then he was almost him again, he could smile, if only with relief; sound was real, not a bizarre hallucination his Azkaban-addled mind had conjured.
But they'd leave, and the sound would go, and he'd be silent, waiting again.
That was why he hated sleep, sleep meant closing his eyes, loosing the remaining assurance that there was a world, that it wasn't simply a black chasm that fell on forever.
Sleep meant nightmares, meant silence.
His nightmares were silent. Always silent. There was no speech, though the lips moved. There was no words, no screams, nothing.
Perhaps that was why he always woke screaming, to reassure himself....
Or perhaps it was to fulfill the requirements.
The screams used to be what he needed, used to tell him he was alive. Now, the screams drew what he needed. Brought Remus to his side. Remus.
Remus was real. Remus wasn't a dream. Remus was alive. Remus made him know he was alive. The scent, the touch, the sight, and most importantly, the sound.
His voice was imperfect, the soft rumble of thunder, just a little too rough, as though someone had tried to record a perfect sound with a Muggle recorder. Imperfect, yet so alive.
Remus' voice was so alive, it was as though the life in his voice carried across the too wide space to Sirius. Travelled and let him know he was alive. Still alive. That the world was real. That the world had colour and scent and taste and touch and sound.
Taste.
He wondered what Remus tasted like.
He wondered if the life in the taste would give him his own life, a little spark that would burn just enough that he wouldn't need to be reassured.
He didn't want to taste Remus. Not if he wouldn't need Remus anymore. He wanted Remus. He never wanted to not want him.
But he did want it. He wanted Remus' touch, his taste, his scent, his sound. He wanted it.
So, when he woke screaming, clutching bedsheets and relieved to know he was alive, but still unsure of that fact, he wasn't sure if it had honestly happened, or if he had convinced himself to do it.
He wasn't sure; had he wanted the choice to work itself out so much that he'd given himself the perfect chance? Had he simply stumbled upon the chance? He didn't know.
He didn't know what words were leaving his lips as he babbled incoherently, he didn't know anything, everything was strange, unreal.
But the scent came.
Remus' scent, a delicious hint of something delicate wrapped in the purely masculine, wolfish smell. Comforting and protecting, but fierce and dangerous.
The touch came.
Hesitant, not to touch him, but to extend itself to another, another who may be unwilling. Strong and soft, rough and gentle, powerful enough to hold him down, but careful enough to let him be safe. Safe.
The sight came.
The scarred, weary features. The little lines that spoke of every trial and worrying moment he'd had. The warm, slightly unsure amber eyes. The startlingly soft hands, the curiously pale skin, like moonlight had been trapped there. The delicious hair, a salt-n-pepper of grey and sandy brown, wrapped in the scent that was entirely Remus.
The sound, oh gods, the sound.
His inexplicable sound; the very essence of life.
The taste... the taste he had to steal.
And gods... the taste.
The taste was everything that could and couldn't be tasted.
And suddenly, though there was no sound, the agonising silence was gone, if only a little while.