Sinope's Fiction: Anything Quite So Unreal

Title: Anything Quite So Unreal
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: R
Pairing: Remus/Severus, Remus/Other
Summary: Two rather lonely men, one monthly excuse for conversation, and several fresh artichokes.
Author's notes: For Lore, without whom this wouldn't be half as good. For those unfamiliar with an artichoke's appearance or eating procedure, this page may be helpful.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

During the day, he works at a map shop that no longer sells true maps. Pictures he sells aplenty, accurate representations of the coast of Madagascar or the counties of Wales, but it's a rare customer who asks for guidance in getting somewhere, rather than the simplest route to take. The work drains him emptier every day, but the hours are short and the owners are understanding of his - peculiar condition. (The owner and his wife are Muggles, certainly, but Muggles with eyes opened to the world's potential; every time he digs through the filing boxes of the stock room, he holds his breath and hopes to unearth a crumbling true map.)

Remus doesn't need a map to go home to his one-room flat, though; he knows where to go, and which bus to catch, and how long of a wait to expect. He knows that the tea kettle will be waiting on the range, that it's two steps to the water tap and seven steps to the kitchen table as he waits for the water to boil.

The shrill squeal of the tea kettle is the loudest sound that Remus hears all evening.

Some nights, when the moon rises as a sharp sliver, sleek and cleanly-severed, Remus goes out and spends the evening in the corner of a subdued Muggle pub. He sips foamy brown beer and meets eyes with anyone who walks in with hair a little too dark, cheeks a little too slender and empty. Quiet introductions lead to shallow, careful kisses, and by the time the pub closes, Remus is gliding his fingers over the man's skin, searching out and memorizing the shivers and gasps he elicits. He's become very good at this, and by the time the two of them retreat to a bedroom (but never Remus's own), he feels so little apprehension that he's free to submerge himself in regrets.

Remus always wakes up first, on the rare nights when he lets himself fall asleep at all. Through his half-shuttered eyelashes, the rising sun glows like a shamelessly brilliant moon. By the time the stranger feels the hollow bedsheets, Remus has already Apparated home.

()

When Remus talks to Severus during his monthly visits, thirsty for news from the Wizarding World, he never discusses those nights, any more than the two of them discuss Remus's job or his paltry Muggle pay. Severus is, Remus often suspects, just as lonely as he is, if less willing to admit it; their conversations sometimes last from sunset to moonset, punctuated by awkward pauses as Remus searches for an innocuous excuse not to let Severus leave just yet.

"You're not going to like the Ministry's latest edict," Severus says cooly, one night in early spring. "They've banned Dark Creatures from all official buildings - not just the Ministry, of course, but Hogwarts as well."

Remus opens his mouth, then closes it. The ban comes as no surprise, given the xenophobic currents left in Voldemort's wake, but it still stings. "What about St. Mungo's? It's the only legitimate place that werewolves know to go."

Severus shrugs, his gaze looking through the chipped teacups on Remus's table. "Hospitals are an exception, for now; they were cut from the edict right before it passed. So was a provision to include anyone Marked in the category of Dark Creatures."

Remus looks up sharply at Severus then, but the other man is still looking at his empty teacup. "I'm sorry," Remus says at last, and he gets up to boil water while thinking up a more pleasant topic.

It's fortunate, Remus often muses, that relationships are one subject of conversation that has never been breached. He might suspect Severus of preferring men, were he to think too carefully about the possibility; and, if he did that, their delicate friendship would dissolve into something coarser and far more predictable.

There are already enough predictable elements in Remus's life.

()

Remus always looks forward to the coming of summer; summer means night falling ever later, and the scent of crushed green twig-buds through his window when it rains. This year, in the wake of Voldemort's death, the new season has been more exuberant than ever; there's a cluster of orange and pink snapdragons by his bus stop, and Remus fancies that their scent still lingers on his fingertips when he restocks the Michelin guides. Spring makes him smile more often, makes him walk past the usual pub and spend his evenings sipping a passable claret and writing hesitant poetry. This poetry, of course, is something else that Severus never sees.

One night in mid-June, Severus shows up at Remus's flat with Wolfsbane potion and an artichoke. Artichokes, being too expensive for a pauper and too finicky for a children's school, haven't crossed Remus's plate since childhood, but the memories come back vividly - lemon-butter sauce coating their gently astringent petals, and the treat of permission to eat with one's fingers. (There's something else about artichokes, part of his brain recalls, but he can't seem to remember it at the moment.)

At any rate, Severus is still standing in his doorway, looking more awkward by the moment. "Cynarin," he says finally. "The chemical tastes bitter, but anything you drink afterwards will taste sweeter." A thin smile emerges briefly on his lips. "All along, the remedy to the Wolfsbane taste was a simple Muggle food."

Remus takes the artichoke and sets it in a pot of water on the stove, then turns on the gas burner and turns to Severus. "They take a while, if I recall correctly - care for a cup of tea in the meantime?" He always asks - not because it's in doubt, but because it amuses him to watch Severus's obligatory hesitation and inevitable acquiescence.

They watch each other for a minute, and Severus raises his eyebrows, a faintly bemused challenge. "If you insist," he finally says, and Remus smiles.

They drink their tea, and their still-awkward silence has given way to muted, comfortable conversation by the time that Remus drains the artichoke and retrieves a bowl for the discarded bits. Remus can feel Severus watching him as he dips the first petal into a yellowish pool of melted margarine, and he feels his jaw hardening at the disapproval he senses. I can't help being poor.

In obscurely petty vengeance, Remus takes his time savoring the artichoke petal; he scrapes off the flesh with his teeth, then sucks off the last bits of salty margarine and chews serenely, finally swallowing and licking his lips clean. It's easy enough for him to fall back on his habits, the calculated sensuality and coy naiveté, each movement carefully enticing.

A loud scrape of wood on linoleum breaks his concentration, and Remus looks up to see Snape standing and staring at him, his eyes narrow and furious. Without a word, Snape whirls around and marches out of Remus's apartment.

Remus closes his eyes and quietly curses himself. Slowly and intentionally, he eats the petals and heart of the artichoke, forcing himself to taste every bitter bite.

()

When Severus arrives next month - precisely on time, as always - he bears nothing but a flask of Wolfsbane. "I'm sorry for last time," Remus says, taking the flask and wondering whether Severus can see the two artichokes waiting on his table. "Would you like to come in?"

"I'm not in the mood for tea," Severus says, a muted sneer tingeing his voice. A few beads of summer sweat have gathered at his temples, Remus notices.

"All right," he says. Impulsively, he puts his hand on Severus's arm and does not let go when he feels Severus flinch at the touch. "But I am sorry."

Severus shrugs and turns away, pulling his arm out of Remus's grasp. Before he leaves, though, Remus remembers what he'd meant to say. "The artichoke worked, by the way. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Severus says shortly, but when he glances back and meets Remus's gaze, his eyes are unreadable.

Severus leaves in silence, and when Remus turns and walks back into his flat, he forces his breaths to stay calm and level. He looks down at the two artichokes, and he wonders whether Severus even cared and why it ought to matter anyway.

()

A week later, Remus is fucking a slender, black-haired bloke with gleaming white teeth, and he tries to imagine Severus in his place. He closes his eyes and thinks Severus, digging his fingers into the man's side, and suddenly everything is strange and uncertain and awkward, their casual rhythm crumbling apart.

"You all right there?" the man - Jack - says, and Remus blinks his eyes open.

"Yes," he says, thrusting himself deeper and sliding back into familiarity.

When he comes eventually, damp with sweat and gasping for breath, Severus is the very last thing on his mind, and Remus is rather satisfied that he's kept it that way.

()

"I've missed our conversations," Remus says when he sees Severus next month. "Please come in? You needn't stay for long, I promise."

"I need to -" Severus begins, but Remus cuts him off.

"I was wrong, all right, but it's been two months. Now, we can continue to treat each other like strangers and enemies, or you can come inside and have some tea. Personally, I'd prefer the latter."

A hint of a triumphant smile flickers across Severus's lips at the words I was wrong, and he nods briefly. "I do need to return to Hogwarts to attend to a potion within the hour, however."

"Why don't I come with you, then? I do have a bit of experience sneaking into the castle, and I'll promise to be a good boy and let you do your work." Remus tries to hide his bemused smile, but Severus snorts quietly, muttering something inaudible.

"I'm sorry, Severus - what was that?"

"I said," Severus repeats quietly, "that I've missed our conversations as well. Now grab your precious artichokes and tea; if I'm to sneak a contraband werewolf into Hogwarts, we'll need to take our time."

Funny, Remus thinks, how much brighter his flat seems. He fetches the still-steaming food and drink, as well as a slab of real butter to melt, and follows Severus out the front door.

The journey to Hogwarts seems more awkward than their usual conversations, but it feels lovely for Remus to walk down the familiar stone corridors again. Of course, it's ironic, he thinks, that he's returning thanks to the escort of a man still stigmatized as Voldemort's pet.

They descend into the dungeons, and Severus's attention immediately focuses on his bubbling cauldron. It's a rare treat for Remus to watch Severus at his forte, slender fingers sprinkling ingredients and stirring with carefully counted strokes. He observes silently for a half-hour or so, trying not to make his staring noticeable, and smiles brightly when Severus finally bottles the finished potion, labels it, and sets it in an alphabetically organized rack. Casting a quick heating spell, he proffers one of the artichokes. "Artichoke, Severus? I hear they're best with butter."

Severus's glare holds no real heat, and Remus forces himself not to react when their fingers brush as he passes the prickly globe over. They eat in near-silence, and Remus focuses on the pleasant ritual of the food, avoiding the sight of Severus's thin, careful lips and narrow teeth. When they're finished, Severus gives him a rare wry smile and says, "Thank you."

()

Summer dissolves into autumn, the wind from the north begins to smell of bonfires and frost, and the artichokes at the greengrocer's become increasingly expensive. One waxing moon, Remus looks at his pocketbook and at the cost of artichokes, and comes home empty-handed.

Thankfully, Severus says nothing when Remus brings out a plate of chocolate biscuits with their tea, but Remus can see his flickering eyes taking everything in. They talk about the new First-Years and their incompetence, and Remus listens to Severus grumble about the marginally competent Defence professor that McGonagall picked this year, nodding in sympathy. As the night becomes late, Severus looks at the flask of Wolfsbane. "I ought to have a workable potion that includes cynarin by next month. My research has been rather slower, with the students back in school."

Remus shrugs. "It's all right. The taste does go away eventually, after all. I - I do appreciate all your work."

"It's an under-researched subject."

"Nevertheless." Remus meets Severus's eyes, holding the gaze for a moment. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Severus says, looking away swiftly. "I -"

There's silence for a moment. "You what?" Remus prompts.

"Never mind." Severus rises, but the abrupt movement rattles the table, knocking over an empty teacup. "Forgive me. I should be leaving."

"Please don't -" Remus starts to say, then stands up and clasps Severus's wrist. It's the first time that they've touched in months, and this time Severus is not the only one who shivers. "Please don't go. Not yet."

Severus looks at him sharply, a challenge in his curving lips. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because." Remus fumbles for words; this scene isn't predictable or calculated, but neither is the want that's been building in his nerves for months, years. "Because I've wanted to kiss you for ages, and if I don't do it now, I won't have a chance for another month. And I'm tired of waiting."

A tense shudder ripples through Severus, and Remus can feel his wrist trembling, but he doesn't move or say a word. When, a minute later, neither have broken their stance (and Remus has counted all sixty of the seconds), Remus leans forward and kisses Severus.

Severus's lips feel gently sticky from the biscuits, and his skin is damp and cool. Remus can feel himself holding his breath, holding himself back, and then Severus's mouth opens slowly and lets Remus explore within. He savours every movement of lips and teeth and tongue, wrapping his arms tight around Severus, afraid to break the touch or even to open his eyes.

He's so focused on memorizing each variation of taste and warmth and wetness that it takes Remus a moment to register that Severus is, in fact, encouraging the kiss - reciprocating his energy and thirst, drinking in Remus's lips and tracing him with his tongue - and that's when it clicks. Artichokes. An aphrodisiac in old wife's tales, and Severus would have known it all along, wouldn't he?

He pulls his lips a bare inch away and smiles triumphantly. "You - you intended this from the beginning, didn't you. And you had me feeling horribly guilty, thinking that you -" His voice breaks, and he draws Severus in for another kiss, deeper and more confident than the first.

When they finally draw apart again, Severus raises one innocent eyebrow, but his flushed cheeks betray him. "You didn't seem to mind the artichokes, as far as I could tell."

"No," Remus says, and cups his hands more tenderly around Severus's back. "No, I really didn't."

finis.