h e . c o m e s . i n . c o l o r s

He Comes in Colors
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG

Summary: Every day, Remus put on his grey office clothes and went to work in his grey office building, and ate his lunch in the grey office lunchroom.

Notes: Written for Moony in the Shacking Up Secret Santa, as thanks for her last minute pinch hitting. She wanted MWPP-era first time kissing. Inspired by "Chasing the Night" by Jim Jordan. Thanks to Nichole for the prompt.

Date: December 24, 2005

The summer before seventh year, Remus took a job working for a small accounting firm in London; his parents were glad of the extra money, and it would give him some idea about what working as a Muggle would be like, and provide him with references for after he left school. He had no illusions about his ability to find work in the wizarding world, despite his friends' protests that things would be different for him, that Dumbledore would make it all work out.

Every day, he put on his grey office clothes and went to work in his grey office building, and ate his lunch in the grey office lunchroom, with its lingering scent of overcooked curry and burnt coffee and the unidentifiable stains on the grey Formica table.

He spent his mornings sorting mail and delivering it through the maze of cubicles that made up the office, murmuring good morning to each employee, most of whom paid him no attention, just another grey body in their daily grey routine. In the afternoon, after his very ordinary lunch of two cheese sandwiches and a thermos of tea (Earl Grey), he restocked the supply cabinet, reloaded the photocopier with paper (allegedly white, but it, too, took on a tinge of grey after sitting in the mailroom for a few hours), and prepared the outgoing mail.

Every day was the same. He was grateful for the routine, for the money, for the complete anonymity of it all, which allowed him to slip in and out of these people's lives like a ghost, barely remembered even when he was standing right in front of them.

There were no windows in the mailroom, and Remus thought he might be slowly dying from the lack of sunlight, his skin fish-belly white, his veins fading to ice-water blue, and his lungs filled with grey office dust.

He found himself forgetting that he had ever had any other life -- after a day amongst adding machines, fluorescent lights and Styrofoam cups, his wand felt alien in his hand, and he began to grow sluggish about magic.

After long hours sorting mail, he had no desire to sit and write letters of his own, and nothing to say in them, anyway. James and Sirius were off with the Potters to some exotic place, and Peter was wrapped up in his girlfriend (whoever she happened to be that week), while Remus had only the unchanging monochrome grey of Merkle & Merkle Chartered Accountants.

At night, perhaps to make up for this, his dreams grew more heated, more colorful, bursting with all the life he was denied during the day. He dreamt of wild adventures -- life on a pirate ship, as a Quidditch star, in a rock band. He dreamt of his friends, of running through the Forbidden Forest at night, of remembering their full moon frolics, of slipping through the corridors of Hogwarts under the warmth of James's invisibility cloak, Sirius's chest pressed against his back.

He dreamt of lying on a golden beach under a clear blue sky that seemed to stretch forever, and when he reached out his hand, Sirius was there, gleaming bronze like Apollo, but grinning wicked like Dionysus, body glistening with perspiration. He would touch Sirius and Sirius would touch him, and he'd wake sweaty and tangled in the sheets, wet stain spreading on the front of his shorts.

He tried to forget those dreams especially, though he couldn't help but see that dream vision of Sirius when he brought himself off at night or in the shower, sharp white teeth visible in his grinning red mouth.

As he left the office one evening in the middle of August, the humid air making his thin cotton shirt cling to his skin, his grey silk tie like a noose around his neck in the heat, he squinted dazedly at the sun, as if he'd forgotten what it looked like. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back to enjoy the feel of sunlight on his face, like the fervid kisses from Sirius he dreamt about so frequently.

The roar of an engine startled him back to awareness, and when he opened his eyes, Sirius stood there as if conjured by Remus's thoughts, astride a monstrous looking motorbike, shaking his hair of his face and looking every bit as tanned and dangerous as he had in Remus's dreams.

"Merlin on a motorbike, Moony, you look terrible. I hope I'm not too late."

"Too late for what?" Even Remus's voice sounded grey and thin and dry, as if he'd aged a thousand years over the fifty-four days (and yes, he'd counted) since he'd last seen Sirius.

"For you." Sirius jerked his head toward the motorbike. "Come on!"

"I, I, I don't know," Remus stuttered, feeling the tips of his ears burn. He toyed with the knot of his tie, ducking his head look at his scuffed black Oxfords, Sirius's bright glow even harder to stare into than the sun's.

"I, I, I," Sirius mocked him. "What's there to know? Come on." He made a moue of distaste. "Nothing we can do about your clothes right now, but we'll think of something. Get on the bike. Now."

Remus couldn't resist that command in that tone, if he'd ever been able to resist Sirius anything. Sirius sat on the bike and Remus slung a leg over and sat behind him, tentatively placing his hands on Sirius's hips when he realized there was nowhere else for him to put them. Sirius snorted and reached back, grabbing Remus's hands and wrapping them firmly around his midsection.

His grin was razor sharp when he said, "Hold on."

Riding through the streets on the back of Sirius's motorbike was exhilarating, and Remus wondered if he were dreaming again. If he was, he didn't want to wake up. Sirius smelled of sun and sand and sweat, and Remus occasionally pressed his face against the cool cotton of Sirius's T-shirt and inhaled.

They were heading south, from what Remus could tell, weaving in and out of traffic at speeds far greater than the legal limit, but he didn't question. He was too busy hoping Sirius couldn't feel the effect he was having on certain regions of Remus's anatomy, pressed close together as they were.

When they were away from the city, and there were fewer cars around, Sirius cast a silent Disillusionment charm -- Remus could feel it slithering over his skin, and he shivered in the heat.

Sirius gave a quick glance over his shoulder, and flipped a switch, and they were suddenly airborne, the road falling away beneath them, the wind whipping their hair as they rose higher and higher into the evening sky.

"Isn't it brilliant?" Sirius shouted over the wind and the roar of the engine.

"Yeah," he said, but his thin, dry voice was carried away on the breeze.

"What?"

He tried again. "Yeah." He still sounded creaky, like a rusty hinge on a too-long-unopened door.

"What?"

"I said, yeah," he shouted, finding his voice hadn't left him after all, he'd just forgotten how to use it. "It's fucking brilliant!" He whooped then, ululating the way they used to as younger boys playing tag.

They were over the Channel now, the sun slowly setting on their right, turning everything to rose and gold, the bowl of the sky darkening to indigo far above.

They flew over cities and Remus played the map out in his mind -- Calais on the coast, and then further inland and south, Amiens, and then after a while longer, rising from her riverbank like a queen, Paris, the elegant spire of the Eiffel Tower knocking at the gate of heaven.

Sirius set the motorbike down and they roared the wrong way down a one way street, and finally skidded to a stop in front of a bustling café.

Remus was stiff from sitting so long and it had been a bit chilly, what with all the wind, but he unfolded himself from the seat of the motorbike and stood, rolling his shoulders.

Sirius grabbed him by the tie, the grey silk noose around his neck, and pulled him close. Before Remus could do or say anything, he found himself being thoroughly kissed, Sirius's other hand twining in his hair, Sirius's tongue slick and hot against his. He had to grab Sirius's shoulders to stay upright, need striking him like lightning. Sirius tasted of bright cobalt days and deep indigo nights, the gold of the sun and the aquamarine of the ocean, exploding into Remus's grey life like fireworks.

Sirius kissed the way he did everything, with single-minded enthusiasm and panache, and Remus let himself be carried away for a few minutes before he remembered where they were.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, but nobody seemed to have noticed, even though the Disillusionment charm wasn't really that powerful.

Sirius shrugged. "The French," he said, his red and shiny mouth curving in a droll grin.

Remus laughed, ignoring all the questions he probably ought to ask, and kissed him again hungrily, eager to restore color to his world.

fin

***

And the poem that shaped the story:

Chasing the Night

There´s nothing like riding a motorbike
through the streets of Paris at night.
Ignoring traffic rules, hurtling onto pavements,
going the wrong way on one way streets,
weaving wildly among traffic
alert and alive.

The city's monuments
come alive with twinkling lights
The Eiffel Tower and
its glass pyramid ~
illuminating the night

Every candelit cafe
sparking romance
like clichés out of a romance novel ~
It is magic…
as the moment
ricochets into the night.

~Jim Jordan

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