Meek and Wanting

She was just suddenly there. He saw her all at once, and it was almost overpowering to look at. He felt his heart scream in his chest, felt the pelt to it. His eyes widened, his pulse quickened. His knees began to knock. He began to think poetry: Romeo and Juliet. She looked like the Juliet he'd always imagined. She was absoloutely gorgeous. Subconsciously, he found a hand rubbing the back of his neck, as was his nervous habit. He knew she wouldn't look at him, and if she did, she wouldn't see him, but suddenly he felt like a thousand eyes were on him. He was twitchy, scared. His senses were all on razor-edge, alert beyond alertness.

And he couldn't steal his eyes away from her.

She had hair redder than red. Dark, vivid, avid green eyes that swam and formed a pattern of shadow and light. He was reminded quickly, overwhelmingly of an image of him at six: poised over a wishing well, the stone rim pressing against his stomach, staring to the bottom, wondering how the magic all worked in there. Her skin was pale and smoothed the expanse of her bones. She was beautiful. Better than an angel. She was a pretty piece of flesh and the most astounding thing, the thing that made Remus notice all the more was, she didn't know it. She was completely unaware of the eyes fixed to her body right now, the lusty beat to all the boys' hearts in the room right then. Either that, or she was callous to it.

Remus bit his lip. He could smell her, from where he sat. She smelt like perfumed soap, strawberries. There was cigarette smoke in her hair. He tore his eyes away and looked out the window, the cloud-ridden sky. One single, white bird flew by, eclipsed the setting sky for one poetic moment as it fled to the horizon. He felt his heart soaring with it, still seeking warmth in the distance.

But then, like cold panic, he remembered who he was.

What he was.

He remembered what coursed through his blood like black bile. He remembered what he became, he remembered something that he never could escape. And he knew, instantly, he could never have her. He knew, instantly, that to even glance upon this lovely Lily Evans was to marr her. He gripped the edge of the over-stuffed armchair. He felt like a child, and he felt shame for that, even though he was still very much a boy. But for Remus, there was no time for growth, no time to mature: He needed to be impeccable in something, because it was all he could do to compensate.

Remus heard her laugh.

He watched the fire until his eyes felt hot.

Now, don't misinterpret him: Remus realizes there is beauty to the world. He sees it on a regular basis, as does everyone. Whether they have an eye for it, whether they are trained to see it, is entirely up to them. He sees it not materially, superficially. He sees it in the pattern of the shadow cast on the cieling by the chandeliers in his bedroom. He sees it in the minute detail of a wand, the texture of the wood. He sees it in the setting sun, in the moon and the winking stars. He sees it in the scars from various romps and encounters. He sees it in the bone-breaking loyalty of his troupe, The Marauders. He sees it in Lily, but he sees it in everyone indiscriminatorily.

Sometimes the beauty around him is scary and overbearing: sometimes it presses around Remus until all he wants is out. Sometimes when he sees it in everything, all he wants is for all of it to end. Sometimes he gets black visions of torment and evil and ugliness in his mind, when he feels crippled so with love. Mostly, Remus feels augmented by the beauty. But sometimes he feels persecuted. And sometimes, all it does is make him feel even uglier.

His mouth is dry and his tongue is too big as she comes nearer, and for an insane moment Remus is practicing his opening line over in her head. How's it going? What's happening? Hey. Hello. Hi. What'd you think of the last Quidditch game? But then she passes him in a rustle of skirt and in her wake is that smell of strawberries. He coughs into his hand, just to make a noise. She's behind him, murmuring to someone else. He picks himself up. He walks stiffly to the door, to find his friends.

He lets himself glance oncemore upon her. He says goodbye, in his mind, and steps out into the world, into more beauty and ugliness and sharp subtly. He tells himself she's just a girl, but inside he knows, or retorts rebelliously: She's not A girl. She's THE girl.

Welcome to the troubled and confusing mind of Remus Lupin. Too romantic to live, too careful to die.


i don't know. i don't know where this came from.
i'm not sure if it should be one shot or on going.
thoughts? reviews?

screaming monkey labrat