Tattered And Tumbling
"You are English?" the stranger asks. His voice is soft. His skin is a deep blue, almost an indigo purple blue, rich and deep as the sky in the moments before it becomes black.
"Yes," Remus says, trying not to stare. He does not recognize what the man might be.
"Excuse me. I am thinking that you are thinking that I am strange." The stranger's voice is still soft. Gentle, and warm, and with something to it that Remus cannot place. There are notes to his speech that are too low and far too sad and lonely for them to be laughter, but that are too warm, too alive and aware of the joys that life may offer for them to be sorrow. "My name is Kurt," he says, and he lifts his arm as though to shake hands, then hesitates and lowers it again, lowering his eyelashes, too, and these over brilliant golden eyes. "Kurt Wagner," he adds, to cover the aborted movement, offering a last name instead of a touch.
Remus feels ashamed of himself then, as well. He hardly has any right to stare and gape at fellow freaks, has he? "Remus," he says. "I'm sorry, my name is Remus Lupin. And -- yes. Yes, I -- I'm English," he adds, stammering a bit. And he wants to say he's sorry for staring, that he knows the feeling, but perhaps it's better if they leave that unsaid. Certainly it's safer.
The air outside is balmy. Remus likes sitting outdoors when he can. Prefers it, rather, for he does not like being outside in the evening, and smelling nighttime as it comes on. He prefers it, though, because it is, strategically speaking, safer. It leaves escape routes open; it is easier to slip away than being trapped inside. He does not like sitting so close to the street when he's in England. That's not so much for strategic reasons as it is for reasons of not being stared at, not being pointed at, not being seen.
He does not mind sitting by the street so much here in Germany, though, even knowing as he does that Voldemort has his spies everywhere, just as the Order have theirs.
Which makes him wonder as to this stranger's nature, and his motives in approaching Remus. In all likelihood, they are nothing more sinister than a search for some companionship, motivated perhaps by some sense of a brotherhood in freakishness.
Soft and shy as he seems, though, this Kurt does not seem distressed by Remus' discomfort or his stuttering. More importantly, he does not seem bothered by the painfully obvious fact that confirming he was English was just Remus' way of avoiding a discussion of strangeness, of confirming that he was staring as he so hates being stared at.
The top button of Kurt's shirt is undone, and as he lifts his head and smiles, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. The slightly open shirt reveals, in the lavendar dusk, in the yellow glow of the pub's light spilling out and the light from the street, designs on the stranger's skin. Paler than the indigo blue of the rest of his skin, and they are scars, Remus realizes suddenly. Deliberate scars, on the small, slender man's throat and chest.
For seeming so ferocious -- and that is not fair, Remus realizes, for nothing about Kurt beyond his looks seems ferocious -- there is nothing predatory about him. He is not even so predatory as the bullies Remus took points from while he was teaching, not even so predatory as Sirius would be when he was picking on Snape. This soft-spoken stranger, unlike Remus, is soft-spoken because he is a gentle man. A strong man, yes, Remus can tell that in the way he moves, but a gentle one, one who has been hated and feared and who responds only with patience and forgiveness.
The breeze created by a passing car stirs the heavy green leaves of the plants and saplings at the edges of the bar's courtyard. Remus realizes that something about the other people who make up this place's clientele itches at him. That none of these people are Muggles, exactly, he can tell, but by the same token, he can also tell that that he is not amongst wizards.
Kurt respects, for now, that Remus is a stranger in a strange land, and smiles. "Ja, I have been to England a few times. It is a lovely country. Not home, but it is lovely. From where in England have you come, Remus Lupin?"
They have shared a couple of pints, and a couple of hours have gone by, when, during a comfortable pause, Kurt laughs. "I must make a confession to you, Remus Lupin," he says softly, gently. His voice, with so much gentle sunshine in it, makes, as it has all throughout the evening, for an unsettling contrast to his skin, the color of a terrifyingly huge sky before nightfall.
"I'm not a priest, I warn you," Remus answers, finding himself answering the smile this time. His voice is almost teasing. He recognizes desire within himself, but something of this man's presence makes it burn lowly, warmly, and steadily. "But you knew that."
There is a sickle moon hanging in the sky tonight, Diana's bow. It is a waning moon, and so there are no fangs in his mouth, and he will pose no danger for a couple of weeks yet. The balance fits, of course, like yin and yang -- Remus, who is quiet and gentle and passive without and holding back the beast, and Kurt, who looks fanged and fierce, like some monster from a nightmare, who must be despised by the world at large, but who is warm and laughs quietly and patiently in the balmy evening.
Finally, Kurt lifts his hand, and slowly, carefully, he places it atop Remus'. "I am thinking I shall sin very soon."
His hand, Remus realizes for the first time, has only three fingers. They are thicker, broader than his own, and Kurt's nails are almost claws.
Remus looks at their hands for a moment, then lifts his head, and gives Kurt a drowsy smile.