All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Summer 1977 ( Part 2 )

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

 

- e.e. cummings

 

It was like being punched in the face. Sirius nearly dropped his can of cider, reeling, mind gone utterly blank as he stared across the fire. Remus had said it like it was simple, like it was easy, like it was nothing to be ashamed of.

I’m gay.

But that—that wasn’t possible. That wasn’t possible, because Moony had said—he’d said he wasn’t queer, they’d both said that they weren’t queer, and if he was then that…

Well, that changed everything.

Sirius was vaguely aware of Peter choking on his drink, of James straightening up beside him, of the shocked expressions on Mary and Marlene’s faces. Oh, Merlin—no one was talking, everyone was just staring, the way he was staring—was he—should he say something? Was he meant to say something? Panic crept up Sirius’s throat, making it difficult to breathe.

But then Lily turned, lifting her head off Remus’s shoulder and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. She snuggled back into his arm, leaning against him, and said firmly,

“You still deserve some fun.”

And just like that, everyone was suddenly moving on, conversation resuming when Marlene asked James some stupid question about quidditch. Lily remained cuddled next to Remus, and Peter went back to trying to sneak his hand up Dorcas’s shirt, and Mary laughed loudly at something James had said.

But Sirius remained quiet, thoughts tangling in his head. He had to bite his tongue to force back the questions that spilled into his mouth, crowding behind his teeth,

Since when? For how long? How long have you known? Before or after we—and you don’t care? You’re okay with it? You don’t feel—you don’t think it’s—But why wouldn’t you tell me? Why wouldn’t you say something? Why would you let me believe…

He thought back on the past year, scrambling to understand. Everything was suddenly different, reframed; the “experiment” with Mary, the weird comments about girls, every touch, every kiss, every conversation veiled in half-truths. Sirius tried, desperately, to parse through it, to piece it all together—the cider wasn’t helping; it clouded his head and made his brain feel foggy, sluggish. But he couldn’t stop drinking it, clinging pathetically to its hazy warmth.