the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 56: Easter, 1977

Yesterday,
All my troubles seemed so far away;
Now it looks as though they're here to stay,
Oh, I believe in yesterday...

- "Yesterday" The Beatles, 1965

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place of Widcombe, Bath, stood three hours away by train and a little more than four by car. Remus knew this because he'd spent his first day back in London measuring the distance out on the maps Giles left tucked in the seat pockets of the Rolls. It was as though he needed to convince himself on paper that simply running away to Sirius was not a feasible option. Even if he did make it all the way to Bath, Sirius wasn't even permitted to use the phone over holidays—Remus doubted he'd be allowed so much as a glimpse of his friend if he went. Though, the rebel in him couldn't help but imagine throwing stones at Sirius' window, then climbing some trellis until they were nose to nose and he could look him in the eye as he asked him to run away together. He knew without a second thought that Sirius wouldn't hesitate. They'd climb down that trellis with little more than the clothes on their backs and they'd be off. They could busk on street corners for pennies like they'd always talked about, and stow away in freight trains to warmer weather the moment it grew cold again. Sirius would never complain, too busy enjoying the moment, and that gave Remus courage.

Except it was only ever a fever dream, and foggy London mornings culled those quick enough.

Maybe if he'd had Sirius he would've been able to pluck up the courage to visit James or Peter's—but alone, Remus couldn't even pick up the phone, let alone accept invitations to mother-made suppers or Piccadilly Circus. He knew James and Peter would understand if he told them, but the mere idea of trying to explain what Tomny had said made him sick to his stomach. They would feel sad for him, then rage as Sirius had, but it would be misplaced. They didn't know what had gone on before, not really—how he'd lied to everyone and stuck his nose in where it didn't belong. How he'd used Tomny as an outlet for all the anger he felt for his parents, and Tonya as a comfort. How he'd fallen in love with both of them and then treated it all like a vacation from a life without any real hardship. It was guilt beyond measure—and James and Peter would never understand. Sirius came the closest. He already knew the 'before' stuff, which made the 'now' bits easier. But Sirius wasn't around.

On his second day, Remus wrote a letter.

Dear Sirius,

I called the flat again from my house. I know you told me not to, but I did it anyway. I was hoping the line would be dead again, but it rang and someone picked up. I think it was Ian, but I couldn't really be sure because I hung up the moment they said hello. I guess a part of me wanted to think that things would stop for them too. But Tomny was right. Life just goes on.

In the end he didn't post it. Instead Remus shoved the letter in a bottom drawer with the rest of his things; books, albums, cigarettes—everything that'd ever come out of the flat. He told himself that he would burn it. That way there wouldn't be anything left and he could truly put it all behind him.

When he'd reappeared on Tomny's doorstep last Christmas it'd been thanks to a sliver of hope that Tomny hadn't truly meant what he'd said when he'd gotten hurt in August. Now that sliver was inflamed. Infected and slowly poisoning the rest of him with anger and hurt and bitterness, enough to drown out some of the guilt. Tomny had given up, and wherever she was, Tonya had given up too. They weren't his friends, maybe they never had been. What sort of friends ran away or gave up on one another so easily? Sirius wouldn't have given up—James or Peter neither. The phrase 'give up' didn't exist in any dictionary they owned, and you'd probably have to break a few legs to get any of them to leave you behind. It made Remus wonder where he fell on that spectrum. He didn't want to give up either, but if Tomny hated him so much, what else was there to do?