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[theshabbiestofmen]

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[theshabbiestofmen]

Both. Either. Look, you don't have to look at me like that, I can explain magic to you if you'd like!

[majestyofthethrone]

It's like you told me you can breathe without air.

[She considers it, but then, well:]

You might not understand it? But my favorite proof is my brother's soul.

[She cracks her fingers and plays. And plays. The music is strange, disjointed for a moment, but then suddenly it's like there's another person in the room. A teenage boy, someone irreverent, cranky, strange, artistic. Part of his voice is there, too, loud and brash and angry, but there's a tenderness to it, too.

She plays this song a lot. After about ten minutes, she stops, and takes a deep breath in.]

[theshabbiestofmen]

[He closes his eyes after a minute into it, trying to enjoy it-- and he's never really understood music, not really, but this is something even he can appreciate. It's short and sharp and beautiful, as exasperated as it is loved. Remus smiles sadly when she stops playing.]

I don't understand it. But it's beautiful.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She closes her eyes for a moment and flips her book to another series of squiggly lines and numbers and letters, and plays Sirius.

She's spent so much time with him, so much time touching him, that this is easy. It's dark in places, and funny, and bold, and just a little dangerous. It's as though he's in the room, casual and beautiful and careless, and she plays it and plays it.]

I haven't figured it all out yet. I need more time, I think.

[theshabbiestofmen]

I'll help you, if you like.

[He smiles and tilts his head back, closing his eyes.]

It's wonderful.

[majestyofthethrone]

He's easy.

You're harder. I'll figure you out, too.

[And she leans over, just putting some weight on him. It's not romantic, it's just comfortable.]

[theshabbiestofmen]

[He huffs a soft laugh and shifts, putting an arm around her.]

I'm easy. Insecure, constantly wanting to please, desperate for friends, constantly diving into books.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She shakes her head]

No. It's not like...who you think you are. It's who you really are. Your place in creation.

[theshabbiestofmen]

Well. I'd certainly be interested in hearing it, if you ever do figure it out.

[majestyofthethrone]

I will.

Thank you. For being here. With me.

[Because he's not the only one desperate for friends.

[theshabbiestofmen]

Of course.

[He tugs her in, squeezing her shoulders for a moment.]

When you say it's one's place in . . . in life-- does that mean, then, that you know about-- what precisely do you know about Sirius, then?

[majestyofthethrone]

What I know and what I hear are different.

But I know quite a bit.

[theshabbiestofmen]

Can you explain that a bit better? I just--

[He pushes his fingers against the floor, trying to work out what it is he wants to say.]

His song. I can hear all of him, the caring bits and the dangerous bits and the cruel bits and the bits that won't admit it but want desperately to make you laugh. All of him. And how . . . some of it I've only seen once or twice, and I've known him for years.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She looks down and thinks of how to explain it.]

I don't - think of creation - everything that is, was, will be, it's a song. Sometimes I hear snatches of it. Creation is. So I can sort of hear it, but I have to work it into numbers to understand it. But it doesn't mean that I know everything about him. It means...I hear what he's like.

It takes a lot of time for me to hear it. I don't know what's dangerous or cruel. He's never been that way to me. It's just who he is.

[She takes another moment, and stands up, to get her violin, and opens it. She takes a moment to tune, and plays, and it's Seraphim, it's complicated and shy and hesitant. There's a playful bit about it, a part that is scared and afraid, tones and arching music, like-

Like-

Like Seraphim. And then suddenly, miraculously, is her laugh, her voice, her real voice, except it's all on the violin. When she stops she looks at the bow of her violin and looks back up at him.

This is the most vulnerable she's been. And she doesn't know - maybe this was a mistake]

[theshabbiestofmen]

[He looks pale, his eyes wide, like they always get when he doesn't understand something-- but there's no fear, no disgust or cruel laughter. When she stops and looks at him, he stares back-- and then hesitantly reaches for her, offering his hand.]

I don't know if I understand. I think I do, but perhaps not. But-- but it's beautiful, this, what you can do, and that was . . . thank you for sharing that.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She sets her violin and bow down, and takes his hand, and it's shaking, just a little. She squeezes his hand, careful, before she reaches for her slate]

Only my brother has heard that. And now you. See? Now you hear me, but don't know me.

[theshabbiestofmen]

[He grips her shoulder tightly when she writes, trying to assure her, to make sure she knows-- what? That he isn't frightened by her, perhaps.]

I think I know a little more about you. Perhaps.

[majestyofthethrone]

Well, you know a lot about me. A lot more than most people.

[A lot more than Sirius.]

[theshabbiestofmen]

[He nods slowly, uncertainly. Again, a bit awkwardly:]

I-- I'm honored you've shared so much with me. Truly I am.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She looks down, and shrugs, and goes back to the piano bench to sit, slate in her lap.]

You're easy to talk to.

[theshabbiestofmen]

As are you.

[He curls up a little, hugging a knee to his chest.]

I'm not typically so articulate, to be honest. Sirius . . . James, too, they've known me so long, I don't have to be. Not always. They're good at emotions most times.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She watches him, and she knows, there's always something emotional about this sort of thing. They pair well together, in that regard.]

Do you want to talk about something?

[theshabbiestofmen]

I--

[He shrugs.]

I don't know if I can articulate what's bothering me. I don't know that I even know, really.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She considers it for a moment, then wipes her slate clean and offers it to him, with a piece of a chalk. Sometimes, it's easier this way. With chalk and words. To say something he's been keeping in.]

[theshabbiestofmen]

[He stares at the blank slate for a few seconds, uncertain, before hesitantly slipping the chalk against it.

I'm miserable, he writes, and bites at his bottom lip. I want to go home. I want things to make sense. I dislike most of the people here, and I don't want to think about the future, and I bloody well hate James' stupid kid, and I miss just being at home and worrying about essays. I miss Raven and I miss my parents and I just want to go home.

Which is a silly and childish thing to whine about, because so does everyone else, and there's nothing I can do about it, but-- there you have it.]