1504 (around a year later).
Somewhere in Florence.

There was once a time in his life, when Remus Lupin would find himself holding his breath.

Not in the literal sense, of course - one tends to need air to actually function, odd as it may seem.

It was more like he was waiting. Waiting for the world he had built for himself to collapse around his ears; waiting to make a mistake so terrible that there was no hope of coming back from it.

It's so easy to go through life and not notice that you are too afraid to live it. It is so, so much harder to step back and realise that all you are doing is existing, and that death is probably a better option in the face of a boring, meaningless survival.

But Remus, against all odds, had survived. He had gone through the endless motions, never quite caught in the moment, cautiously indifferent to life so that in case it were taken from him, he would not be too badly upset.

Alas, we are all human. You cannot resign yourself from having emotions, and Remus was no exception. He knew that now.

This is not metaphorical. Not anymore. Because you, my reader, have been made to experience more than you possibly ever expected to. You have, like Remus, sometimes lived without living, perhaps have taken a breath while wondering why. You have, in short, survived - and this is no small feat.

But anyway, let us continue. The story is not quite over yet.

***

In a small corner of Florence that no one had ever heard of (unless they had), there was another corner, home to an artist that everyone had heard of (unless they hadn't, but I don't want to imagine what kind of rock these people were living under).

Remus Lupin was sat at his desk by a large window, writing feverishly. The window looked out over the familiar streets far below him; they looked like they'd been sketched, with untidy little people scribbled over them. It was a hot day, and warm light was slanting through the window onto his paper. High in the sky was the sun, reaching out over the city, shining on each building like yellow paint.

If you asked him, he wouldn't be able to tell you where the time had gone. Life had moved quickly, one thing after the next, a wheel that spun on and on and twisted the thread of time.

If you asked him, he would tell you that he was happy, and a smile would pull his face up and his eyes would wrinkle like they always seemed to do.

He had been swept up in a creative frenzy these last few months, the fruits of which were visible throughout the house. Every wall was crammed with canvases, thick with colours, the same person painted over and over (as though Remus believed that painting them was the best way to commit every one of their features to memory). Every table (and many chairs) was home to stacks of poetry, the same name written over and over, like a prayer.

Dorcas had been driven mad by the mess ("Chairs are for sitting, you idiot!"), though Remus did his best to appease her. It didn't often work.

Not that her wrath was stemming his flow in any way: he was still painting regularly, and writing even more.  He was caught in a virtual storm of bluish ink and smudged letters that stained his hands and filled his sheets. He'd barely been sleeping, but couldn't seem to care. Nothing could stop him.

Nothing, except -

"Remus?" a voice asked behind him, making him jump.

He glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. "Oh, yes, love?"

"I just came over to remind you that James has invited both of us to his home this afternoon."

"I remember, and we shall be there." Remus went back to his writing.

"Not on time, I'm assuming?"

"Of course not, we're always fashionably late, darling. It's essentially tradition!"

"You make a very valid point."

"I do, and I also remember that Peter was bringing wine, so that's one less thing to worry over."

"It's nice to know you aren't losing your touch, despite you being up at all hours of the night."

"You're very funny." Remus sounded sarcastic, but his eyes were fond.

"Yes," the other man mused, sidling over to the window and gazing out of it. "James has sent us a warning that Lily might not be in the best mood today, however, so he doesn't blame us if we're 'too busy' to visit."

"Well, being pregnant would put anyone in a bad mood, it can hardly be helped."

"Exactly. And besides, it'll be worth it when the baby is here. I can't wait to spoil it rotten."

"Nor can I." Remus looked up again, catching his breath at the sight of the man's dark silhouette against the light outside. He put down his quill, then got up and joined him, standing very close to him with an arm around his waist.

"It's so beautiful today," Remus murmured, resting his cheek on the other's head.

"Not like you to talk about the weather."

"Remind me why I love you again? I keep forgetting."

"Erm, because I'm brilliant?"

"If you say so."

"You have dealt a grave blow," the man said with a faux-sadness, and Remus rolled his eyes.

"Fine, you're brilliant. Does that make you any happier?"

"Much, thank you."

"Welcome."

They stood in silence, listening to the birdsong and the faint sounds of life that managed to permeate the glass. Then Remus turned to face the other, looking gently into those beautiful eyes that lit up quite suddenly.

Thumbing across the scar that lined his temple, Remus traced its white path down a pale cheek. He pressed a kiss to the smooth forehead, then another to that pink, smiling mouth, his hands moving to cradle those cheeks in a hold as soft as the light that came through the window.

The other sighed, coming onto the tips of his toes to kiss Remus' cheek. "You're such a sap."

Remus grinned. "You say that as if you aren't." One of his hands trailed down to touch another scar, one that started at his collarbone and travelled under his shirt. "Does it hurt today?"

"Only a little, but Dorcas gave me a tincture that eased the pain."

"Good woman."

"Very." His eyebrows raised. "Out of interest, what were you writing?"

Remus kissed him again, then let go, moving to embrace him from behind so that they might both look outside. "Just a poem, that's all."

"Can I read it?"

"Hm... no."

"Arse," Sirius grumbled, and Remus laughed.

"Alright, you can, but not yet. Would that suit you?"

"Yes, that would."

"Good." And oh, it was. It was all so good, better than Remus ever imagined it could be.

As they watched people milling around on the roads beneath them, Sirius leaned further into Remus' arms, whispering something that sounded a lot like 'I love you'.

Remus smiled, and whispered it back. He couldn't have meant it more.

Squeezing Sirius just a little tighter, Remus felt himself exhale. His breath briefly misted the window, like a momentary cloud - a mere second of white on glass. It faded just as quickly as it appeared.

***

it all falls together deep in between the lines
(like the fragment of silence at the end of a song),
and there's a moment where i think we both belong:
when i find your fingers tucked inside mine.

~end~