Chapter Text
Sai'n siwr fel i fod beth o ni moyn bod yn y dyfodol
I'm not sure how to be what I wanted to be in the future
The moments they are able to spend together are fleeting and far between, but they make it work somehow. A cobbled lot of secretly arranged meetings when their trips to the Capitol correlate and the rarer instances of sanctioned travel between their Districts.
Sirius Black, ever one of the favourites in the Capitol, a breath of fresh air to them after the disappointment that was Remus' victory. (The Capitol had spent the better part of the year between the Fifty-Second and Fifty-Third Games working tirelessly to try and sell the image of Remus and his scars as 'the boy who battled the beasts' to the public, even though in Remus' patchy memory he is 'the boy who played dead and wished it would take him.' Trying to spin the scars as rugged charm while simultaneously trying to hide his bad leg and limp. By the time they were ready to admit defeat or take a more drastic path, Sirius had won and Remus was tossed aside in favour of a more palatable victor. The favourite tribute who had actually been meant to win his Games.)
A Capitol favourite. A title Remus would not wish on anyone, the one Sirius has managed to cling to all these years, regardless of the amount of time that has passed since his Games. But the one perk it has granted is freedom of movement. A misnomer, perhaps—none of them are free—but Sirius seems to have been able to sweet-talk the officials, build up some quasi-ambassador role for the Capitol and the Districts. It's not much, but it's something. A few weeks out of the year for clandestine meetings under the guise of business, without the ever-looming weight of being in the public eye when they meet in the Capitol on equal footing as mentors.
And then there are the Victory Tours.
Remus has only had to do one Tour as a mentor. One chance to visit District Three. Twenty-four hours to see Sirius in his natural element, his home. One night with the reverent gift of time spent in Sirius' bed.
"How do you do it?" he had whispered on that first night, face buried in Sirius' skin.
Sirius' fingers were in his hair, scratching Remus' scalp and twisting up in the curls. "How did we get through our own?"
Remus snorted, "I don't remember mine."
People had told him about his Tour afterwards, but he had been so heavily pumped up with painkillers in some vain attempt to get him to walk normally and mask the fact that every bone in his left leg had been shattered by the dog-bear hybrid that still haunts his nightmares.
Sirius let out a hollow laugh. "They're the ones that pay the price if we don't get them through this."
The wealthier Districts always perform better than Ten. Sirius has mentored five of his tributes to victory compared to Remus' measly one. The latest is a sixteen-year-old with the Games in her blood—the daughter and niece and cousin and grandchild of other tributes and victors. She is a career victor through and through (although she at least tries to hide her sneer as they travel through the outskirts of Ten, something the victors of One and Two never care to try to do).
Well trained by her family for glory, well groomed by the Capitol for subservience. She will make a good victor, Remus decides as they gather for dinner in the Mayor's house and she makes polite small talk with the officials of Ten, as if she didn't cave in the skull of their thirteen-year-old tribute six months ago.
Sirius takes the seat opposite Remus at the table. They don't talk other than civil pleasantries, catching gazes every once in a while. Nothing more than stolen glances.
It is too dangerous for anything else.
Too many eyes.
Too many ears.
Sunset falls early this time of year, one little blessing. As dusk slips into night, Remus loiters just out of the eye line of the Justice Building as he smokes. He watches, waiting under cover of shadow for a sign of movement.
It doesn't take long for Sirius to emerge. And for a moment, Remus holds his breath. He knows it’s Sirius—recognises his gait, his build, despite the dim lights. He knows that there is no feasible reason for anyone else to be out in this part of town at this hour, but there's always a moment of what if this is the one time he's wrong, what if he's managed to let something slip to someone.
As the figure moves closer, the moon catches their face, illuminating the curve of that jaw that Remus knows so well. The all too familiar glint in those grey eyes. Like two shadows merging, Sirius slips up to him unseen and silent. Remus doesn't say anything, just offers him a drag of his cigarette, which Sirius accepts wordlessly, although tobacco has always been Remus' vice more than it has Sirius'. They stand in silence for a few minutes, Remus simply enjoying the way their fingers brush together when they pass the cigarette and watching Sirius’ lips pucker as he inhales and exhales.
When the cigarette is burnt to a stub, the two of them walk wordlessly, along the edge of the path to blend more into the night, not a sound other than footsteps and the tap of Remus' cane on the dirt path.
It isn't far to the Victors’ Village, just a ten-minute walk. Close enough to the Justice Building and the Peacekeeper headquarters that victors will not forget their position under the Capitol's thumb, but far enough that they can at least maintain the illusion of freedom.
The moment the front door closes behind them, it's like a switch is flicked in Sirius. In an instant, the mask he presents to the Capitol is shed and in its place, the real Sirius Black in all his authentic glory that only Remus gets to appreciate.
As the lock clicks shut, Sirius' arms are around him, clinging so tightly with a murmured, "I missed you so fucking much," into the back of Remus' neck.
Remus has to physically fight against Sirius' arms, elbowing just enough space that he can turn around and face Sirius properly. His cane discarded with a clatter on the floor without a thought, Remus cups Sirius' face in his hands, runs his thumb over the soft skin and sharp cheekbones that captivated the nation. He kisses Sirius' cheek, his forehead, his lips, before wrapping his arms so tightly around Sirius' shoulders and burying his face in his neck and just breathing.
And for a moment, nothing else exists. Not the Victory Tour, not the Games, not the Capitol. Just the two of them, together and alive and unrestrained.
After a while, the world starts turning again. Slowly, they slip apart—still touching, always touching, even if only by a faint brush of skin against skin.
Sirius leans down to retrieve the forgotten cane. Remus takes Sirius' arm for support when they walk through to the kitchen, even though he doesn't need it (not physically at least, but emotionally maybe).
Sirius rests his chin on Remus' shoulder lightly, peering over to watch Remus make tea. (Plum and jasmine tea because Sirius mentioned it was his favourite once. It's a luxury not afforded to the Districts, but Remus made sure to get some when he was last in the Capitol especially for this moment.)
And they sit so close with their warm mugs at the kitchen table that their legs tangle together. For a moment, they can pretend they are normal, that this is their mundane routine.
When they fall into bed together, into the nest of blankets, is when Remus truly gets to worship Sirius. He slowly peels off Sirius' clothes, re-mapping his skin as he goes. Tracing every perfectly imperfect freckle, every scar hidden from the public from Sirius' time before, during and after the Games.
Sirius, in turn, lies Remus on his back. Gentle and chaste, he kisses the scar on Remus' face that almost took the vision in his right eye. Kisses the claw marks that carve across his chest and arms. Kisses the mottled patches of scar tissue and skin grafts which make up the mess that is Remus' hip and thigh. The stubble on Sirius' face brushing against Remus' skin keeps him grounded, a reminder that he is here in the now and not back in the then. And Remus loves that stubble so much, the aged dignity it gives Sirius, a glimpse into a future he can only dream of. And what Remus wouldn't give for the opportunity to see it grow out more. But every time they are in the Capitol, Sirius is whisked away in a matter of minutes by Capitol stylists to be shaven clean because that is what the Capitol likes, that is what they expect their darling to look like.
Sirius leans back on his haunches in between Remus' legs, hands running up and down his thighs with a faint touch. "How have you been?" he asks, voice soft.
Remus looks up lazily at Sirius. "Same old, same old. How are you?"
Sirius gives a small shrug, "Oh, you know."
Remus reaches up, tugs Sirius' arms to pull him down so they're lying chest to chest, noses brushing. "Tell me, honestly? How have you been?"
For a moment, the silence stretches. Remus can practically see Sirius' mind racing behind his eyes, thoughts bouncing about and attempting to organise into some cohesive linear pattern. Remus traces his fingers up and down Sirius' back, ghosting over each ridge of his spine as he lets Sirius process.
"Later?" Sirius offers quietly after the pause. "Can we talk later? Can we just be ordinary for now?"
Remus nods, tilting his chin up to catch Sirius' lips.
It's not chaste any more. Sirius' hands roam his body, caressing every square inch, making up for lost time. And Remus lets him take whatever he needs, knows what happens behind closed doors in the Capitol, grants Sirius the freedom here he gets nowhere else.
"I missed you so fucking much," Sirius murmurs against his lips. "Dreamt about you every night."
It's like a swell of pride, happens every time Sirius says something like that. The notion that Sirius Black, the nation's sweetheart who could have anyone he wanted, chose Remus Lupin.
"Oh yeah?" he asks, teasing, hands running up and down Sirius' skin. "Doing what?"
Sirius pulls back, pushes himself up onto his elbows to hover above Remus, studying his face. For a moment, Remus thinks he's misread the situation, that this isn't what Sirius needs, that he's slipping back into the recesses of his own mind like they're all prone to. But then Sirius speaks so softly, with such reverence, it makes Remus melt.
"Just existing. Just me and you."
It is a pipe dream. For as long as the Capitol thinks of them, they will never have that luxury, and the Capitol will never forget. But Remus clings to the same dream, the same hope, to just be able to exist with Sirius at his side. No tributes to mentor, no Capitolites to woo, no eyes watching every movement, no ears always listening.
Just to be together and to live and to grow old.
"I love you," Remus whispers, and Sirius' smile is blinding. Eyes sparkling, the same giddy disbelief as when Remus had first uttered those words. (The Sixtieth Victory Tour, in this same spot, lying in the position as they are now, three years after they started seeing each other.)
And then Sirius is leaning back down, bodies pressed together. "I love you too," he says in between heated kisses, trailing Remus' jaw to the juncture of his neck. Remus doesn't try to suppress the moan that escapes from the sensation of Sirius' hot breath on his ear, hooks his good leg over Sirius' hip as a silent invitation.
When they first started seeing each other it was rough. A fiery passion, a carnal desire to reclaim what the Capitol tried to take. The passion is still there these days—Remus doesn't think there will ever be a day in his entire life where it isn't—but it manifests in different ways. The tender, lingering touches. Worshipping and savouring each moment.
Sirius moves with the air that they have all the time in the world, preparing Remus slowly, revelling in the moment. To be together like this, to hold and to love each other, is rebellion enough.
In the Capitol, there are any number of ointments and pills to keep them adequately prepared and protected. In the Districts, they have spit and trust, but that is more than enough for Remus.
Sirius' slick fingers ease inside him, working him open before another slides in. Remus arches his back, pressing closer, impossibly closer into Sirius.
Remus can't stop touching him, needs every possible nerve in his body to be touching Sirius. His breath is heavy, panting, as he clings to Sirius' shoulders with one hand. Fingers clawing at the pale skin, the other hand buried in thick, dark hair. Clinging, just clinging, so desperate not to leave this moment, not to let Sirius go even for a second.
"Fuck," he mutters as Sirius' fingers twist in the most perfect angle.
He can feel Sirius’ smile against his lips. "Feel so good, sweetheart," he murmurs, "So perfect for me."
Remus hums, taking one hand to cup Sirius' cheek, forcing his chin up to look into his eyes. Their faces are so close that their noses brush, Sirius' grey eyes swirling in the dim light. "You're perfect," Remus tells him and Sirius' eyes crinkle.
Carefully, he extracts his fingers. Remus can feel his cock lining up against his hole. He nips at Remus' earlobe, goes to bury his face in Remus' neck.
"Don't," Remus tells him, twisting his face to try to catch Sirius' eye. "I want to see you."
Sirius hums, catches Remus' lips in a chaste kiss. "Anything you want, sweetheart."
"I just want you."
"You have me."
Remus doesn't argue the point, doesn't counter with I want you forever because he doesn't want to ruin the mood. He pushes his forehead against Sirius', blinking against the stretch as Sirius pushes inside of him.
It's hot and tight and part of his brain is telling him to squeeze his eyes shut as the pleasure overrides his mind, but Remus can't look away from the beauty that is Sirius Black. Wants to take in every moment, every second they have together.
They lie in the sticky aftermath, Sirius collapsed on top of Remus' chest, limbs tangled together in a sweaty mess. Remus runs his hand up and down Sirius' back, fingers ghosting across his skin, memorising the sensation of being together while they have the chance. If they're lucky, they might cross paths in the Capitol if their visits happen to coincide, but if not, it'll be six long months until the next Games. Every time it feels longer than the last, but Remus has to quash those thoughts, can't let them ruin the brief moment of happiness. He can wallow in his loneliness after Sirius leaves. Instead, he wrestles a boneless and placid Sirius into the bathroom.
The bath is warm, soothing all the way down to the bone. Remus slips in behind Sirius, pulling the other man into his chest, arms loose around his waist.
There are bubbles, some earthy-lavender scent that supposedly has calming properties according to one of the old healer women in town. Sirius scoops some up on his palm, passes the clump from hand to hand, bubbles seeping through the gaps in his fingers, before letting them disperse in the water. Remus watches quietly, chin resting on his shoulder as Sirius repeats the process. He can't keep his hands still, always needs to be doing something to keep his mind from slipping into unpleasant memories. Even in the Capitol, Remus can blend into the background motionless, but Sirius is always fidgeting, fingers tapping or fiddling with his clothes or hair.
Remus presses a kiss into the side of Sirius' head, and slowly, he feels him relax a little, sink further into Remus' arms. "Talk to me?"
Sirius doesn't say anything, not right away, lips pursed in thought until finally, like a breath he speaks so quietly that Remus almost misses it: "I'm so tired."
And it breaks Remus' heart to hear that omission. Because of course he knows how tired Sirius must be of it all, the same weight Remus has to bear but held to such a higher standard by the Capitol. And it's inescapable, always looming, an invisible burden pulling them even when they're hundreds of miles away from the Capitol.
Remus takes Sirius' hand in his, links their fingers and brings them to his mouth to press a feather kiss to the knuckles. "One day," he promises, "you'll outgrow them and they'll find someone else to fawn over, and then they won't care what we do."
"Would you let me stay here?"
"If you wanted. We could go wherever you like."
Sirius lets out a small laugh, sinks a little further into the water. "How many people do you think run away and live in the Wilds?"
"I don't know, but we stand a better chance at survival than most."
Sirius hums, tilts his head back on Remus' shoulder so he's looking up through thick lashes. "Just me and you. We wouldn't need anyone else."
Remus doesn't mean to sleep, but he ends up drifting off for a little while—it is inevitable when he's wrapped in the cocoon of Sirius and soft blankets. He wakes from a dreamless sleep to the distant crow of a rooster welcoming the day and the glow of the predawn sky slipping through the cracks in the curtains.
Sirius is curled up on his side using his chest as a pillow, one arm flung across Remus' torso, mouth parted ever so slightly as his shoulders rise and fall with each breath. The morning glow catches his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw, his sweeping eyelashes, the halo of hair that tumbles like waves onto Remus.
The time they have left is finite. The train will be ready to depart for District Eleven no later than nine and there is only so long before the prep team begins to question Sirius' absence.
Remus runs a hand over Sirius' cheek, barely ghosting over the skin so as not to disturb the blessing of a peaceful sleep. He tries to memorise every detail of Sirius, burn this image into his brain so he can recreate it in his dreams. To exist in this moment as it is is nothing short of a miracle.
When Sirius does wake, it is motionless, blinking eyes against the sun as he takes in their surroundings for a moment. And then he scrunches his nose in the most adorable way, stretching his limbs with a yawn before returning back to the same position curled against Remus.
"Time is it?" he asks, voice groggy with sleep.
"Half six thereabouts."
Sirius buries his face in Remus' chest. Remus can feel his breath as he lets out a low sigh before he props his chin up to look Remus directly in the face. Remus brushes the stray hairs from his face, tucks them neatly behind Sirius' ear.
"Do you want coffee?" Remus offers.
"Not enough to get out of bed."
When they kiss, it's soft, but clinging fingers betray the needy desperation, a final goodbye.
"Don't forget me when I'm gone?" Sirius teases, and although his tone is light, there is always the lingering fear of the unknown that waits ahead, the what-ifs if things go wrong.
Remus smiles at him softly, sadly. "I'll think of you every time I see the stars."
Mentoring is a miserable affair. Ten never does well. The Capitol does not want them to do well, so they don't. It is pure chance Remus won his Games, that he didn't bleed out quicker and that the other final tributes succumbed to their injuries before they were able to find him and finish him off.
This year, both of Ten's tributes are dead by the third night. The first, a twelve-year-old boy, the one time his name was ever in the reaping bowl. He spent the whole time in the Capitol blubbering, couldn't focus in the Training Centre, performed abysmally in the private session. He had frozen at the sight of the bloodbath around the Cornucopia and got his throat slit within minutes by a Career tribute sneaking up for an easy kill. He wouldn't have felt a thing; Careers shoot to kill. He was dead before his knees hit the ground. Remus finds solace in that—he went quickly and painlessly.
The girl had a better chance, only fourteen but already the demeanour of a fighter. If she'd been lucky, she might have had a chance at winning, lasted a little longer and won favour among sponsors as an underdog.
She was not lucky.
There was a cliff and the edge crumbled and she fell. The cameras keep cutting back to her, body broken and twisted in unnatural angles, unable to move but not yet dead. Too far down for another tribute to get help or put her out of her misery. It's like some sick joke for the Capitol, checking in every once in a while to see if she’s dead yet, taking bets on how long she’ll last.
Remus leaves after the fourth time they cut back with almost a tone of glee to see the state of her. He goes back to the apartments, locks himself in the bathroom and throws up whatever contents were in his stomach. He has no tears; he stopped crying for tributes a long time ago because there simply aren’t enough tears in the world for them.
He doesn't know how long he spends sitting in the bathroom, head resting on cool tiled walls, mind circling back to the image of her slowly dying and to her family back in Ten. She'd had a big family, he knows that much. Countless cousins and siblings and aunts and uncles. She'd talked about them in her interview, the hope she felt about how she'd be able to help them if she won.
It's Sirius who finds him, jimmies the lock. He doesn't say anything right away, just slides down to sit on the floor next to Remus. Thighs pressed together, taking his hand and interlocking their fingers.
"She's gone," Sirius says simply, softly. Nothing else, nothing more to be said.
Remus just nods, not trusting his voice in this moment.
There are three things you can wish for in the Games: to die quickly, to die painlessly, and to die with dignity. She got none.
Part of him feels guilty for leaving, for not seeing her final moments, like he'd abandoned her. He wonders if her family were watching until the very end. If they'd been praying for Remus to secure some miracle sponsor. If they'll blame him when he comes home and she doesn't. Some families do. They see Remus as complicit, like there was something more he could have done to save their child if he had only tried harder.
Remus gives himself one day to compose himself, to prepare to face the Capitol crowd again. It never gets easier. Sirius offers to stay with him that night as he does every year, as Remus does when their roles are reversed. Remus doesn't let him; it's the rule they've established. Sirius' tributes are still alive, so he still has work to do and Remus will not let his own feelings get in the way of Sirius securing sponsors that could potentially save the life of one of his tributes. They have greater priorities at stake and appearances to keep, after all.
When Remus returns to the green room, a few people offer condolences—pity he lost a bet and not sympathy for two more children murdered under his care. James gives him a tight smile, an understanding only comprehendible among mentors. James still has one tribute in the running, although it's not looking promising. Sirius has both of his.
There is laughter and the clinking of glasses in celebration at what a good year it is for the Games. Remus loiters around the outskirts of the crowd, gaze flickering between observing the ostentatious swell of the sponsors and the massive screens streaming the Games.
Sirius is among the crowd, laughing and smiling and drinking and working. Remus can't help but glance over every so often. He doesn't make a habit of it, too many people watching, but it is mesmerising to see Sirius in this element. To watch him flourish in the position he was groomed to be in by the Capitol, to see him seemingly thrive and bask in the attention, but to notice the way his smile never reaches his eyes. He revels in the satisfaction of knowing that none of these people know Sirius to the core. They all think they do, think they're special to him, but they're not. They're nothing, as replaceable as the tributes they gamble on without even recognising the precarious position they sit in.
That is what it is to be a victor. To understand the social structure more deeply than any other and to see the Capitol for what it truly is. To toe the line between Capitol and Districts, to mould into both as needed, but belong in neither.
It's gone three in the morning by the time Sirius comes to him properly, slipping silently into the apartment and to Remus' bed. Remus keeps the light on for him, always does when they get the luxury of maybe spending the night together. Sirius doesn't handle the dark well anymore, remnants from his Games and the labyrinth of caves that made up half his arena. It's almost funny to think about. Sirius Black, Career victor, scared of the dark, and Remus Lupin, victor of District Ten, scared of the guardian dogs that protect their livestock.
There are no words shared between them at this moment. What is there to say? Remus knows where Sirius has been, knows all too well what has been expected in exchange for sponsorship and the chance to maybe save one of the children under his care from slaughter.
Remus just wraps his arms around Sirius when he slips under the sheets, holding him steadfast and letting him bury his face in Remus' chest. He runs his fingers through silky black hair.
The Capitol loves to straighten his hair. Remus hates it. Craves the loose, wavy curls that emerge when they can escape to the District. The true Sirius they try so hard to stamp out.
Gradually, he feels Sirius' breath slow to a long, even rhythm. Not asleep, not yet. Remus wouldn't be surprised if most victors spend the Games sleepless, too wired to risk the vulnerability it brings.
Remus plays with Sirius' hair. Sirius inhales Remus' being. Neither of them sleep. Neither of them talk, but neither of them cry.
When the Quarter Quell is announced, Remus is alone, the fanfare of the Capitol anthem echoing through the empty rooms of his house.
Tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.
He does not know what he expected the Quarter Quell twist to be, but he did not expect this.
Reaped from the existing pool of victors.
It is almost a serene calmness that washes over him.
The anger will come later, the fear and the grief, but in the moment, he feels nothing.
The existing pool of victors.
His mind runs through the rest of the victors and their Districts. His name will be the only one in the reaping for Ten's male tribute. There aren't many Districts with more than one or two options for each tribute, with the exception of One, Two and Four. Even Three with their seemingly improving run of victories in the last few decades, only has a small selection of victors to choose from.
The odds are not in their favour, never have been, never will be.
Existing victors.
Sirius will be reaped, Remus is almost certain the Capitol will make sure of it. Whether as a punishment for some transgression or simply because he will provide the most entertainment to their star-studded lineup.
Reap the victors.
Remus will not survive the Games. He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to imagine the sickening loneliness and grief that would await him on the other side if he did.
Maybe that is the greatest gift the Capitol could offer him, a blessing in disguise.
He hopes he will go painlessly, quickly and with mercy. He hopes, selfishly, that Sirius will be with him when it happens, that his face will be the last that Remus sees.
He hopes Sirius doesn't suffer unnecessarily.
Later, he will remember everyone else. He will remember James and Lily. How James had to stand on that stage fourteen years ago and listen to Lily's name get called out, to learn at nineteen years old that he had to mentor her through the same hell he had gone through only two years previous. How they will be standing on the same stage again soon enough, waiting to see if their lives will irrevocably implode.
Remus had often thought those two were the only ones who ever stood a chance of finding true happiness after their Games. Having managed to land in the perfect balance of conforming to the mould of exactly what the Capitol craves from their victors, but never popular enough with the public that they were favourites in the same rights as the Career victors are, as Sirius is.
If the stars had aligned, they would be able to carve out a nook of happiness in District Four with each other without begging or manipulation to cross District borders just to see each other. To truly disappear together.
That is when anger will come, the burning betrayal that makes his stomach churn and his chest tighten to the point he can't breathe.
The naivety that they had won their happily ever after has long dissipated, but they were promised life. Even if it is a miserable existence, a puppet and a play thing, it is still a life and they had all had the hope to go out on their own terms.