parts adapted from 'Dear Myself' another of my own fanfiction


It began in a hailstorm of familial worries, wide eyes and deep seated fears. It was the pale-faced, scarred boy; in love with routine but scared of the moonlight and the sinewy, dark, fallen angel who lay shattered in the rubble of all he had known.

The scarred boy looked up at the angel, in between the rush of others around him, and saw nothing but courage and bravado; all he wished he was and all he wanted to have. For the boy was not particularly brave. He was not athletic or charming like James or pitiful and playful like Peter. He thought that there could not be a more astronomical difference between himself and the beautiful, real angel he saw perched on the top of his make believe Christmas tree.

The angel was brilliant and glowing and fuck he wished he could reach out and touch him; hold him in his arms and acknowledge that what he felt was real. He wanted to know that it wasn't a pipe dream to love an angel; that angels could love too (and just as tenderly).

He didn't care that the angel was imperfect, that it bled impurity and shamefulness all over his dormitory floor; he liked it like that. A real angel who could taunt him and tease him and never, ever be aware of how it made the boy feel. He loved the notion that his angel was still naive enough to never realise what lay beneath his rough skin, embedded deep within his heart.

The scarred boy loved the fact that their names matched. Sirius the dog-star and Moony. It was so fitting that they should be linked by celestial bodies, despite the disparity in their relative proportion. The star was so big and bright and powerful; the moon so weak and feeble, bending to its gravitational pull.

He had never wanted to know whether the angel reciprocated these feelings, he'd never wanted to ask. Because that just left too much room for heartbreak, and despite his heart breaking already, being unable to touch the angel, he feared more loss should the angel flee.

(Because the angel had wings to fly).

He'd loved him for as long as forever, keeping it locked away within him, never allowing it to surface because the charcoal coloured angel was everything he could never be.

Which is why, when he saw the angel laying on the floor, with his heart spread out all around him in tiny, glassy, red and silver shards the scarred boy was so confused.

The angel had fallen from the tree he had configured, all the way down over spiny branches of pine which had wrecked his wings and halo, rendering him powerless. So the scarred boy picked him up and set him straight (instead of letting someone predatory find him).

Beautiful as he was, the angel collapsed onto the scarred boy for support; the sun relying on the moon. It was as if the galaxies had realigned, if only for one night, and everything revolved around the boy with the pale face and amber eyes.

So he took his chance.

For just as the pale faced boy feared the moonlight, the angel had feared loss and rejection, of which he had dealt with in his own, perfect way. Yet although the angel left his heart broken on the floor, the boy pieced it all back together perfectly, and slipped it in his pocket to hand back to the divine creature at his discretion.

As he was finished searching for those last missing pieces of glass-blown red heart, he sat the angel up and whispered in his ear, pulled him fearlessly into his lap and encircled his arms around it, pulling it closer and letting it weep onto his shoulder.

The boy rejoiced in his own bravery; his outlandish opportunity to touch the angel, to finally rest him in his arms. Despite the fact that the angel is a little too large to fit comfortably, the boy doesn't have a care in the world, much less that someone should come down the stairs and catch sight of the two bodies, far too close together to be friendly.

They couldn't have understood.

After a while he feels the angels head lift slowly, as if to signal the end of their moment, and the boy panics. He hasn't had nearly enough of this angel; it has been the closest to something so heavenly he has had in his short life. If he was ever close to acting on those heartfelt emotions he has inside him; it is now. However the angel sits up and wipes his face on his sleeve roughly. Without a word or a sound he glides away softly from the boy, looking forlornly over his shoulder, as if to ask for his approval.

Instead the boy stands and walks hurriedly after the angel, to which it doesn't seem to mind, out the portrait door and down the corridors.

It is when the boy reaches the doors to the front of the castle that he balks. For the boy detests the moonlight in any form; even when it is but a slim crescent. It brings him back to harsh memories of the monster within, and leaves himself privy to primal urges which surge up inside him like a rush of hot lava.

But the angel has left him to float outside again (and the way he walks so evenly with his cloak billowing out behind him it would appear he was floating), and so the scarred boy has a choice. What is he kidding? He would risk it all for the fallen angel, much less one with tear tracks and a broken heart he has kept in his pocket.

The star has entered the forest of demons, rushing through branches and trees, letting them scar him, whip him, hurt him like he feels nothing but urgency; and the boy follows after him, grunting as he slashes through the rebounding branches.

It was as if he should have known the angel would find somewhere this beautiful, he thinks, as he walks into the small clearing. Tufts of unkempt grass, full of chestnuts and uncomfortable pine needles pinch his bare feet as the angel stops running and sits, childishly on the ground, cuddling his legs up to his chest.

He sighs forcefully, almost like he wills his soul to be breathed out, and to leave his body forever. He dries up some more tears which have escaped him; foolishly, the boy thinks, as there is little more beautiful than seeing someone so strong cry. He thinks it's probably because he's never ever like this; never exposes himself so blatantly, as he is always the one joking and laughing and making it all seem okay.

The boy sits motionless beside him, barely touching, so it shocks him when the angel speaks so plainly about his family, how they're not pleased by him or love him or care for him and all he wants, all he wants in this world, is for someone to just fucking care about him. To look after him, he states, to know that for once, just once he's made someone proud.

It comes out in a torrent of worries and expletives and desires and more expletives. The angel has never looked more dirtied and broken.

It's then, that the boy with the scarred face realises that the angel next to him is really, no angel any more. He can touch him, and reach him and hold him just as any other could. The angel isn't strong or invincible or scary or heavenly.

He's just Sirius, and the pale boy is just Remus; and what Sirius needs most in the world right now is Remus.

So he turns to the star and interrupts his monologue, staring the surprised Sirius right in the face as he whispers an apology which is hardly going to make a difference.

Then he turns and captures the star's lips with his, roughly knocking his knees out of his arms and shifting his weight so they're facing each other; Sirius' legs under the bridge of Remus' knees.

It's hardly perfect, or tender and there's rough stubble everywhere and teeth crashing together forcefully as Remus tries the best he can to just tell Sirius, show Sirius, how he feels and what he needs. For in Remus' head the celestial bodies are colliding, and comets are racing; stars just like the one he holds close to him are exploding above them and making the little place above his navel lurch with pleasure. He feels so completly warm and fluffy he completely forgets about reciprocation.

The star is stunned and shocked and a little bit overwhelmed; so he pushes Remus back to slide his legs out from under him and springs up all in one, concerted movement.

He backs away with a confused expression, towards the edge of the clearing, leaving the pale-faced boy with a hand full of grass and a world shattering in shards of glassy red heart all over the pine needles in the glare of the moon. He isn't sure of what to do, because everything has simultaneously been flipped on its head.

But the pale-faced boy can't let this opportunity escape him; he has to fight and struggle now that he's ruined every concept of friendship available between them. He has to convince him and show him that Remus is everything Sirius needs, and nothing else.

He begs him, tells him wholeheartedly how he feels, lets a tear or two track down his own face as he implores and apologises for every problem he has conceivably ever caused. He tells him, over and over, how he loves him, loves him like no one else does, and how Sirius doesn't need a family of misfit purebloods to forget him or burn him because Remus never will. He will never, ever forget him and more importantly, always, always love him.

He reminds him that he's in awe of Sirius, his charm, his strength; his fucking got it all together attitude which makes Remus feel like he's irrelevant. But he doesn't care at all because he's fucking proud as hell to have someone like Sirius as a friend.

He explains how he's tried and tried and tried to forget he's ever felt like this, ever wanted this of Sirius before, and how he wishes that they would only be friends. But now he feels like this, now that he's just screwed up so royally, he can't pretend that friendship is all he feels and-

But he couldn't have finished his sentence, because Sirius is pushing back into him with all the force in the world, hungrily enveloping his lips with his own, breathing down heavily, sultrily onto Remus' soft spoken lips.

It's never, ever going to be soft or tender or gentle with Sirius, he realises. It's going to be rough and mind blowing and insane every time they kiss; it will always catch Remus off guard. It's always going to set off fireworks in his brain, imploding in his head until there's nothing else in the world he could possibly think about but Sirius.

Sirius, the fallen angel, the dog and the star who had just kissed him so ferociously, so impatiently that he had ended up over Remus, whose head now rested on the soft tufts of grass and spiky pine needles. Remus, who now reaches into his pocket before all of his brain cells scream 'Sirius', and pushes the glass-blown, red heart back into his friend's chest, filling it with all the love he can muster.