Chapter 1 : His Beautiful Little Angel
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Summary: Remus loves Sirius, but in his dreams he has someone else to love.
A/N: Um, painfully unbeta-ed, but I'm so lazy. D: Also, written on two different days with, like, a week between them, so maybe some inconsistency between halves? And I forced it to over 1000 words, so maybe a little dragged out. /: Not the best fic I'll ever write, but I'm happy enough.
(The title has almost nothing to do with the fic, except it has to do with eyes, and there is an eye theme in this. Um. yeah.)
Sometimes, in the undefined gray area between night and morning, Remus Lupin lays in bed, feels the heat of Sirius's arm across his stomach and Sirius's warm breath on his neck, and he sees.
He sees past the patched, leaking ceiling, and leaves behind the flat with walls so thin, they can hear the couple next door's screaming matches with startling clarity.
There's a boy, and he's so thin and looks so fragile, but he's beautiful and bright and alive. He has hair the color of the sun and eyes the most perfect cross between silver and blue (not like the moon, never that cursed, sinister shape that haunts him): the color of the night sky reflected in the most radiant pair of eyes that just glow when they're on him, on Remus, and he feels so lucky, he thinks he could die of happiness.
(But then if he died he'd never see Sirius, and he thinks that even if once a month he tears himself apart and wants to lay down and never open his eyes again, he'll do it a thousand times over for those eyes.)
Once Sirius asked him what he looked at when he thought Sirius was asleep, and he'd smiled and told him,
“I see our son.”
(He's never been able to hide anything from those sharp eyes.)
He doesn't have a name, but he visits the Potters every Sunday. Lily and James welcome the three of them with beaming faces, and he and Harry run and play, scuffle lightheartedly as boys do, with four pairs of content, fond eyes on them.
He reads on the sofa when he's at home, nose stuck in the yellowing pages of a dusty book so heavy he has to lay it on his lap and lean over to read it. Engrossed in the story, he never notices Sirius's amused gaze while Remus muses that he'll need glasses one day.
(And he'll never know how lucky he is to have such caring, loving eyes on him.)
When Remus is bored and he's read all the books in the house until the covers have been taped over and back together too many times to count, he presses quill to parchment and writes.
He writes what he sees,
(and he sees so much)
the son he's never had with Sirius, the one he's loved in his dreams and at night when no one else can see. When he's writing, he's still imagining, scraped knees he's never had because his mother (sweet and worried, she loved him, but somehow it was oppressive and in all the wrong ways) never let him outdoors,
(the overwhelming grief in those eyes had been too much for a little boy)
innocence he's never felt because of the monster that lurks in places other than under his bed
(fear tainting the corners of his vision until he saw it everywhere, even in the faces of those who loved him most).
He's the sweetest boy in the world, and Remus thinks it can't be any other way, when he's Sirius's son, and Sirius is kinder than anyone Remus has ever met, even James. And Remus knows he won't ever let anyone hurt this smiling, gentle angel of his, because he doesn't think he can bear to see silver scars on such pale, perfect skin
(scars he knows well, too well, glaring and harsh in his eyes).
Remus will never be anywhere but home. He knows how it feels, waking up cold and alone. He wants to be there, downstairs and cooking, in his room, laughing with Sirius. He wants those precious eyes to open in the morning and the first thing he feels it wrapped around him, love's warm embrace. He wants them to be able to look at Remus and know that Remus would never leave him, not for a second. He doesn't want that flash of doubt to ever cross those eyes.
The world will revolve around him, the turn of the clock entirely dependent on his whim. Remus wants him to have everything, because having nothing is a feeling too familiar, too painful. He'll never be tainted like Remus is, he'll be pure and bright and beautiful.
(The sun will rise and set to those eyes, and if there's ever a tear in them, it feels like the heavens themselves will collapse.)
It doesn't feel as strange as it should, loving someone who doesn't exist, who can never exist. Sirius grins and makes a few jokes, but he lets it be, labels it another one of Remus's quirks, like the way he always has at least a little chocolate a day, and how when he opens an old book, the first thing he does is close his eyes and inhale the deep history hidden behind worn pages.
He doesn't understand, but he doesn't have to. Because Sirius in Remus's fantasies loves their son and Remus so much, it's overwhelming. Remus loves Sirius, and Remus loves their son. Sirius loves Remus, but he doesn't love their son, but that's okay. Remus loves them both enough.
He loves Sirius and his smirk, Sirius and his eyes that sparkle with mischief. Sirius and his love, all his, no one else's, and he holds it close to his chest, selfishly, because if he doesn't hold onto it tight enough, it might run away, along with Sirius, and he doesn't think he can bear that.
He wants Sirius to hold him and kiss him and love him
(so much love in those eyes that stare so deeply),
whisper his name over and over, and over again. He doesn't want anyone else's name on those lips, brands that gorgeous body with his lips, undeserving lips, but Sirius kisses them and it's suddenly okay.
Remus and Sirius will never have a son, never hold him and love him together. But Remus thinks he can live without that, because when he dreams, he dreams of their family, three pairs of eyes that don't look at anything but each other.
They smile at each other and laugh with each other and love one another, and Remus thinks that there isn't anyone in the world who can be any happier than him.
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