Chapter Text
Remus Lupin doesn’t think much of anything these days, but he thinks of him, and often. In the mornings he wakes with crust in the corners of his eyes reminiscent of salt flats and the occasional taste of Lucky Strike cigarettes lingering on his lips. Glancing at the tattered pack on his bedside, he tries to recall whether he smoked or drank the night before. Deciding it was a drinking sort of night, he lays his head back into the pillow for a few more blissful minutes and allows himself to recall the feeling of Sirius Black’s mouth on his instead.
The radio’s been hissing more than the coffee pot these days but he still manages signal enough for a Merle Haggard song to crackle on through. It reminded him of Sirius only because he would’ve hated it. Sirius was too flashy for local radio. He liked the television. He liked Marshal Matt Dillon. He liked Presley. Outside a dusty wind hit the aluminum trailer like a make-shift twister and somewhere in the back of his closet both hands on an old watch sat still. Thirty-nine with little more than a few stubborn horses and a couple of fives in a coffee can over the fridge, Remus climbs out of bed with the same crook in his neck he’d had ever since that buckskin mare had thrown him years before. Sirius had howled when the following April had come around and Remus told him. ‘Easy for you to say,’ Remus had said, ‘you’re used to it. Getting your ass tossed into the dirt.’
'Is that a euphemism, friend?'
'It ain't.'
Sirius laughed harder. ‘Yeah, well, 'least mine pays better.’
A glance at the plastic radio clock on his bedside tells him he’s running late. Third time this week and his boss is likely to fire him unless he kicks the habit. Can’t hardly rely on Teddy these days, what with him moving on to college and all. Shameful for a father to lean off a son so early anyway. Best get the horses loaded up. They’re going up the mountain today, see if they can’t fix up that old corral before winter. Then there was the hunting shack. Don’t know how it got so rundown in the first place—the thing was only a dozen years old or so. Thinking back to that summer, Remus would’ve paid good money to have four standing walls around to keep the wind out, but same as he felt the lingering crook in his neck, he knew he’d have taken the flapping hems of the most threadbare tent one could find if it meant just one more night with him.
Sunrise broke over Wyoming with skies, mottled grey and orange like spilt coffee on a ratty vinyl tablecloth and Remus John Lupin drove his father’s rusted Ford pickup across the Utah-Wyoming state border. He was living on borrowed couches then and the only hopes he carried were of securing himself a job that’d get both him and his ailing mother through the winter. He met the Wyoming-born Sirius Black in camp foreman Alastor Moody’s trailer office and knew instantly that here was a man he would never understand. It wouldn’t strike him until much later how he’d spent a lifetime trying anyway.
It was the summer of 1963, both barely twenty and reeking of the same sort of rough-neck mannerisms that followed high school drop-outs with little aspirations other than a cold beer at the end of the day. Remus was engaged then, to the equally rough-necked Nymphadora Tonks. Dora’s parents had been the ‘enlightened’ type and had met while backpacking through the mountainous wilds of Tibet. It explained the strange name as well as her ability to burn every brisket she ever made; not much of a homemaker but good at making home for herself wherever she went anyway.
Remus hadn’t been so lucky. His father had been a rancher through-and-through, and even if his mother had liked to read more than the average wife, she’d never set to filling his head with such fantastical blather. No sir, suppose when his parents had named him that brisk morning in March they’d just woken up feeling a bit weirder than usual. It was Remus’ first thought when Sirius shook his hand and told him his name.
Just what were your parents smoking when they named you?
After applying for the same position with Farm and Ranch Employment, Sirius and Remus had been loosely assigned as herder and camp tender up on Brokeback Mountain. It took a good while for Moody to make his point, but as far as Remus could tell he’d gotten the job. If either had anything to say about the pair of heavy scars stretching across his face and jaw, they kept it to themselves. Made sense enough, considering Moody only had the one eye.
Often folks didn’t know what to say when they looked at Remus. Some assumed the worst straight away—poor childhood, a desperate boy looking for solace. Others gave him a wide berth, thinking maybe he earned them. Remus almost preferred the latter.
According to Moody, the two of them would be responsible for maintaining a large flock of sheep up on Brokeback Mountain. They would work the whole season—through rain, fog, and the occasional summer snowfall once the high altitudes gave way to chiller temperatures. Him, Remus, would be responsible for maintaining the guise of legality up the registered land platform, just in case the Forest Service decided to come sniffing around. There he’d pitch a camp and oversee the preparation of all their meals while Sirius—already on his second year on Brokeback—would slip past the Service’s order and pitch a pup tent three-to-four miles away, sleeping every night amongst the sheep and the dogs.
It was important to Moody and the Forest Service to keep the herd moving so as to not strip the land of all its vegetation. The rules were stern but they at least made for a short list. For Sirius there were to be no fires. He had the tent and the clothes on his back to keep him warm and that was all, lest the Service start catching on, slapping Moody with a fine worth more than each of their salaries combined. By the time the two of them were stumbling out of the gruff old cowboy’s trailer Remus felt like he’d already taken a licking, and Sirius said he could use a stiff drink.
‘I’d like to save up enough to get myself a decent spread,’ he said, before Remus had even gotten his first beer in hand. He sat there nursing it while Sirius slugged back whiskey. ‘Fixing something nice. Maybe down in Texas. That’s where I compete. You rodeo?’
He didn’t, but didn’t much mind the idea of it neither, and so when Sirius indicated to the tin (not silver) plated bull-riding buckle strapped to his waist Remus let himself be regaled with tales of grandeur much too big for a lonely boy from Lightning Flat. As he did so, Sirius produced a box of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket and ripped a single cigarette free with his teeth. The rest he offered to Remus, who partook and humbly offered to light Sirius’ cigarette for him in return. As the smoke wafted up between them, Sirius tipped back his whiskey tumbler and casually said, ‘I ain’t ever see you round here before.’
He waved smoke from his face as he said it, and Remus was able to get his first decent look at him without the other man taking note. Sirius had long lashes, he noticed, longer than Dora’s. His jeans were worn but his legs weren’t any shorter for it, and he had cheekbones that would’ve put most of the day’s TV stars to shame. A waste of a face in Wyoming, really.
‘Grew up outside Bonneville,’ Remus told him, striking a match. ‘Along the salt flats.’
‘A Utah boy, huh? Your momma religious?’
‘She goes to church.’
‘Got yourself a girl then?’
‘You sure ask a lot of questions.’
He grinned, smoke in his teeth, and Remus counted a dimple on each side. ‘Nah. Figured if we’re gonna be working the same herd, we should at least get to know each other. You feel like telling me how you got those scars?’
He wished he could’ve been surprised by the boldness, but Sirius Black didn’t give the impression of being at all shy or timid-like.
‘Accident,’ Remus answered gruffly. ‘Happened when I was a kid.’
‘Must’ve caused you a heck of a lot of trouble growing up.’
‘How you figure that?’
‘People are mean. Boys even more so. You ever kick anyone’s ass before?’
‘None that didn’t deserve it.’ Remus sipped his beer, trying not to look smug. ‘You don’t seem like much of a fighter yourself. For a bull-rider, that is.’
‘Hey now, I give as good as I get,’ Sirius said. ‘Something you’ll come to know about me, friend, is I ain’t ever learned how to quit when I was ahead.’
In truth, Sirius Black puzzled him. Remus had never put much stock into quitting, but dreams as big as being the king of the Texas rodeo didn’t often make it out of towns so small. But Sirius liked to show off. Remus knew it the instant he showed up that first morning on the trailhead, looking fresh in a new shirt and shiny as a new button in that fancy Chevy truck of his. Next to him Remus felt gangly, come out with a head too small for his body and legs long enough to hang off a horse eighteen hands high. Along with the accident that'd left him permanently scarred across his face and chest, a fight he'd gotten into when he was a teenager had shattered the bridge of his nose, leaving him with a distinct ‘s’ shape near its peak. The least of it came the cheeks bearing a permanent five-o’clock shadow and sunken brown eyes that girls only complimented when they were fishing for compliments in return.
Fighting had always come naturally to Remus, and he made plenty of it growing up along the Nevada border. His daddy had bit it early on account of one—later two—bum lungs. Momma was heartier. After Daddy had passed, she began working herself to the bone cleaning folks houses and working the late shifts at the local hospital. But like a sagging clothesline that’d seen too many winters, eventually the work caught up with her.
Breast cancer, the doctors had said. But don’t worry, we caught it early. Right as rain in no time. Only, rain ain’t common enough in the Great Salt Lake Desert, and Momma had been diagnosed with stage four before the Remus even had time to count that high.
Now it was up to him to take care of what was left of his family. He started by selling the house. The land wasn't worth much but it covered most of the earlier medical bills; the rest he'd simply work to satisfy.
It hurt his mother’s soul, he knew. She’d always maintained big dreams for him; finishing high school and going off to the city and making something of himself. Go west, marry a pretty girl, give her grand-babies… But it wasn’t all for nothing. He had Dora, who Momma liked, and who was always willing to lend a hand when Remus had to leave town for work. He was smart too—maybe not a stickler sort of smart, but intelligent enough to hold a decent conversation so long as he felt like it. Once a teacher had caught him reading John Steinbeck behind the school bleachers and recommended him for one of those night classes offered over at the community center. They were mostly meant for adult drop-outs who'd barely learned how to read and were just fixing to get their GEDs, but it’d be good practice.
Remus went to three sessions before the ball dropped. He was just shy of his sophomore year. A shame too. ‘Junior’ didn’t seem to say much about a man, but in his mind ‘sophomore’ seemed to carry a kind of distinction. But by then Momma’s cancer had already hit the dreaded ‘Four’ and from then on out all that was left for Remus was ranching.
The sun was high when Al Moody’s man met them at the base of the mountain with three strapped-up mules and all the correct supplies. Sirius was already astride a tar-coated stallion when Remus arrived, fussing over the reins as the horse stamped its front legs stubbornly and attempted to throw him into a thatch of thorny stickers.
‘Might be better off choosing another mount,’ said Moody’s man. ‘Padfoot, there, is young, ain’t never been up mountainside before.’
‘There’s a first for everything,’ Sirius said, before hollering at the horse like the young colt was a bull in the ring. ‘Come on, boy, show me what you got!’
After watching the two rally for some time, Remus was eventually given a tawny mount with a small pattern of bright white over its nose.
‘Moony here’s a gentle beast. Not unlike yourself, I reckon,’ said Moody’s man, peering Remus up and down. His cheeks were the color of muddled raspberries and his workman’s boots were coated in a thick layer of desert dust. ‘Behave just fine for you, I reckon,’ he went on. ‘Make it an easy ‘nuff job, I reckon.’
Along with Moony and Sirius’ restless mount, the pair took to the mountain with the mules, two blue heelers for herding, several hundred coarse-haired ewes and all their lambs, and enough canned beans to get them through the first three weeks of self-imposed isolation. It took half the day to hike up to the Forest Service’s platform—a great flat patch of gravel that appeared chiseled out the mountainside itself—and half a day more to make sure the flock's starting count was correct. Couldn’t afford to lose any sheep on the first day.
Afterwards Sirius set to the dogs, ensuring they’d marked out terrain enough for the animals, before joining Remus back at camp for some much needed grub. Remus said very little that first night, content to feed the animals while letting Sirius ramble on about this feat and that. Seems he'd never run out. He’d yet to complain about Moody’s sleep-with-the-sheep-and-no-fire order but by the looks of him Remus figured it was only a matter of time.
‘Shot a bear last summer,’ Sirius said, leaping to his feet next to the fire. ‘Sumbitch was the size of a house.’ He raised his arms up high for emphasis. ‘Balls on him the size of watermelons. Should’a seen the death mask on him too. Would’a thought I’d ended a line of kings.’
‘Maybe you did.’
It was the first thing Remus had said all night aside from ‘rice or beans?’ and Sirius looked at him thoughtfully, face caught in the fire’s glow. Finally he pulled back the front panels of his coat, revealing a lining made of thick black fur.
‘I don’t waste none,’ he said. ‘He was a tough sumbitch, and I’ll never forget his face. It had a soul, that one.’
With his line of kings finished, Sirius went on to tell Remus of his previous year up on the mountain. Sirius had been the camp-tender then. On the nights when his partner, a crotchety old bastard named Blotts, came in from the herd, the old man would get so drunk that he’d mistake the cook pot for a bush and end up pissing into it in the middle of the night. It happened so many times that eventually Sirius began trading the pot for Blotts’ hat. Earned himself a shiner for that one—might have earned more, had Blotts not seized up in the field over a heart attack not two weeks from season’s end.
Now he had Remus.
‘Well, cheers to my only night of peace from here on out. Gonna be up all hours chasing off damn coyotes. Them dogs Moody gave us are about as alert as a pair of stumps,’ Sirius said, after the fire had died down and the two of them set to tucking in for the night. He tossed what was left of his coffee into the bushes and stood up. ‘Feel like sleeping in the tent? Doesn’t seem worth it pitching two now.’
‘Nah. I’ll be all right,’ said Remus. ‘Got them extra blankets. And the stars.’
‘Suit yourself. You should know, gets damn cold up here at night.’
‘I know.’ He eyed Sirius' bear-lined coat.
'Well.' Sirius inclined his head slightly, tongue darting out to taste the salt and leftover cigarette on his lips. ‘I’ll be right over there if you’re feeling up to it.’
Remus watched him crawl into the tent, all sharp and narrow edges, and turned over to burrow down into the wool blankets as the smell of mule wafted up into his nose.
Dawn broke like smouldering fire and after Remus had boiled enough coffee for the pair of them, Sirius filled his canteen and set out to join the sheep in their make-shift pasture. From then on began the incessant back and forth that would come to color their summer; Sirius returned twice a day for breakfast and supper. He seemed pleased enough most days to do it, slowly cracking Remus’ stoic surface with friendly smiles and bottles of whiskey or malt beer brought up by Moody’s man. He liked to tell stories about his old partner Blotts and how he used to chase him with his belt in hand every time he burnt dinner. Made for camp-tending, Sirius was not.
‘I tell ya, these might just be the best damn beans I ever tasted,’ he applauded, after scraping the inside of his bowl clean.
Remus shrugged. ‘They’re just beans.’
‘Leagues better than the soup anyway. That shit only ever tasted like watered down piss.’
‘Yeah… Reckon that might be thanks to your old friend Blotts.’
Sirius’ mouth dropped open, dribbling mashed maple beans till he wiped the corner of his lips. ‘Lupin, did you just make a joke?’
Remus’ silence was answer enough, and Sirius leapt to his feet immediately, hooting and hollering as though he’d just been awarded first in a championship bull-riding tournament.
‘We did it, ladies and gentlemen, we did it! Finally cracked him. Remus Lupin, sinner and saint, making his first joke—yee-haw!’
He surged forward and clapped Remus round either shoulder—then the cheek. Remus shoved him off.
‘My dad always used to say you rodeo-heads had a few screws loose. Looks like he was right.’
‘Oh yes, that’s us! Skin rubbing on skin, waving to the girls in the stands—clutching the air while he’s kicking me to high heaven! Sweat pouring outta every—’ Sirius waved his hand around with an invisible lasso, falling sideways and accidentally knocking down half the iron bracket and sending what was left of their dinner careening into the fire. It took the both of them to right it and even then Sirius nearly ended up with a charred back-end, but Remus laughed, and the smile Sirius gave him afterward was worth every bit of spilt supper.
It felt different watching him ride away on the fitful Padfoot to join the herd that night. Like they’d had some sort of break-through. They had, if Sirius were to be trusted. Remus shook his head. There goes a crazy man, he thought, as he rolled himself one smoke for the evening and a second for the morn.
It was a quiet life up on Brokeback, and most days Remus spent his time reading the few tattered books he’d brought up with him or else picking Sirius out amongst the great green landscape. He’d yet to show the budding cowboy his small stash, part proud, part afraid that he’d have something to say about it. Ropers don’t often need to know how to read, and Remus didn’t want Sirius to think he was slacking while he did the rough work of moving the herd by day and keeping wild animals away by night.
It wasn’t until a single evening in mid-June when Sirius reappeared at camp spitting and swearing that Remus found himself caught red-handed. Sirius wasn’t due back for several more hours, and Remus just assumed it to be a trick of the light until he spotted the other man clutching his right arm in pain.
‘Damn coyote!’ Sirius howled, tossing Padfoot’s reins next to Moony’s and stomping over to the fire. ‘Found the sumbitch trying to get at one of the runty ewes.’
‘He bite ya?’ Remus asked, already kneeling next to Sirius and pulling back the thick sleeve of his jean jacket.
‘Nah. Fell while I was chasing the bastard off. Cut myself on one of the rocks.’
'Slick fucker.' Remus surveyed the wound. It was a clean gash, beginning at the base of his palm and running horizontal up his forearm. The injury might have been cause for alarm had Sirius not made the smart decision to remove his shirt and wrap it around the wound to staunch the worst of the bleeding. It left him in naught but an undershirt, a thin sheen of sweat glistening across his chest and arms. It was funny; fully clothed Remus had assumed that Sirius’ upper body was as thin as his waist, but it made sense. Scrawny bird’s arms didn’t do much for rodeoing.
‘Here,’ Remus said, offering Sirius a slug from a bottle of rum—one of their few—to take away the worst of it. He could smell of the spice of it on Sirius’ breath after.
‘Think it’ll need stitches?’ He asked.
‘Nah. But it’ll smart for a few days.’
Sirius sighed like he was disappointed. Maybe he’d wanted an excuse for some time off and was annoyed his injury wasn’t worth a trip down to the hospital. Remus got his answer a moment later.
‘You ever been stuck in sheep traffic? Shit’s like watching paint dry. I swear, I spend half the day commuting and the other half making sure those dozy dogs are doing their damn job. Other guys don’t gotta deal with this shit—they just move the herd, but Moody’s too cheap to hire more hands. By all rights I should be sleeping up here, that’d be the lawful thing. Left everything behind after I fell, didn't want to bleed all over my shit. Hell, I’m just lucky I didn’t hit my head. Come sundown you’d be left to wonder where I was, with piss-all around to tell ya what happened.’
Sirius winced as Remus pulled the dressing tight. He flexed his hand after to ensure he still had a decent range of motion.
'Gotta make sure I can still keep myself company,' he said, making a rubbing motion ahead of his crotch. Remus scoffed, tossing a fistful of dirt at him.
'What?' Sirius laughed. 'Not like there's much else to do up here alone. Don't tell me you've gone celibate, Lupin.'
'Shut up.' Remus kept himself balanced on the balls of his feet, eyes sliding back to his bicep, still covered in sweat and glinting under the sun. He wasn’t stupid; they were too far up in the mountains. Sirius may have been sweating now, but come nightfall he’d be shivering without his tent. After he’d finished packing up the sorry excuse for a first-aid kit, Remus scooped up his tattered canvas jacket and dropped it down over Sirius’ shoulders.
‘Won’t you be cold?’
‘Got them blankets.’
Sirius cracked another smile. This time a grateful one. ‘Say, thanks, friend.’
Remus grunted in reply and went around to the opposite side of the cook pot to begin preparing their supper. ‘Maybe I should take a turn out there,’ he suggested, stoking the fire. It must’ve surprised Sirius, who arched a handsome brow.
‘You wanna switch?’
‘About time, I reckon… You're injured and I bet the sheep are tired of waking up to your mug everyday.’
‘Calling me ugly?’
'If the hat fits.'
Sirius chuckled, adjusting the rim on his own so that it shielded his eyes from the sun. That was when he noticed the poorly-concealed book tucked hastily beneath Remus' bedroll. He reached for it with his bandages hand, and turning the cover over, began to smile again.
‘ “And I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my early life and the West of my future”.’
Remus’ mouth dropped open. ‘You've read Kerouac?’
‘You act like you’re so surprised.’ Sirius quirked his shoulders, as though it couldn’t be helped. ‘Farm life’s a lonely one. A boy finds friends where he can. Even the imaginary sort.’ Sirius began flipping through its pages. ‘My daddy never thought much of school. I dropped out young and me and my brother, we’s were gonna run the ranch after he got too old to do it himself. But I wanted to try my hand at rodeoing first—see if I couldn’t make something of myself that way.’
‘Sounds glamorous.’
‘It was, for a while. Plan to go back in the fall, after I’m done here. I prefer the Texas winters.’
‘And your brother? Suppose he’s stuck running the farm while you fuck off south.’
‘Nah. He’s dead.’
Remus looked up from the fire sharply. Sometime between binding Sirius' wound and taking over the fire, Sirius had rediscovered the rum. Taking a deep swig, he traced the edges of the book with his fingers and began flipping through the book's pages as though he were looking for something. Turns out he were.
‘ “I was surprised”,’ he quoted, ‘ “as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility”.’
‘My daddy always said it was dangerous to quote other men while drinking screech,’ Remus said.
‘Your daddy,’ Sirius said, ‘sounds like a smart man.’ Then he raised the rum bottle in cheers.
Dipping his head, Remus stoked the fire until he got a steady flame. After they’d eaten, Remus switched the cook pot out for the water pot and allowed Sirius to lie back on his bedroll with the novel. Bellies full and satisfied, the two of them lapsed into an easy silence, allowing the sounds of the mountain to carry them away.
‘I’ll take a turn,’ Remus said finally, as though he were speaking to the sky. ‘Up on the mountain, I mean. I won’t mind the herding—just tell me where you left the tent and I’ll camp there for the night and move the flock in the morning.’
‘You sure? Like I said, I ain’t no good with cooking.’
‘You can use a can opener, can’t you?’
Sirius laughed. ‘Sure, friend.’
Satisfied, Remus stood up from the fire. ‘In that case, m’gonna warsh everything I can reach.’
‘Save me some of that water?’
‘Mhm.’
Shucking off his shirt and boots, Remus wandered over to the far side of camp and removed the last of his clothes, scrubbing himself with the rough washcloth until his skin had turned raw. With Sirius distracted by the book he’d forgotten to be bashful until a finger tapped him on the back.
‘I said I’d save you some of the water, didn’t I?’
‘I know.’ Sirius looked sly. ‘It’s just—bit hard to wash the sweat from my back looking like this.’ He raised his hand, still bound in a thick wad of cotton bandage, and Remus scoffed.
‘You’ve got a left hand, don’tcha?’
‘Harder to reach,’ Sirius cooed. ‘Come on, friend. “You warsh my back, I’ll warsh yers”, ain’t that how it go?’
Remus sighed. ‘Turn around then.’
A few moments later both men were bare as the day they’d been born. Sirius’ jeans had come off in a single motion, revealing not only a lack of socks but a lack of drawers as well. Trying not to stare, Remus slopped the cloth over his back, dipping as low down to his crack as he dared. Sirius had several moles running the length of his back, the biggest of which seemed to come together like a constellation. He had a tattoo too, just below his ribs on his left side, but before Remus could make out what it was, Sirius was turning back to smirk at him.
‘Shall I turn around so you can reach the rest?’ He asked.
‘No way. I ain’t warshing your balls for ya.’
‘What? All the bits are the same, cowboy, or don’t you know that al—ack!’ Sirius choked on washcloth as Remus slapped him around the mouth with it. ‘Now that’s just nasty.’
Remus chuckled, eventually finding himself faced-front as Sirius brought the cloth down across his shoulders and spine, paying special attention to any scar and freckle he came across like it was a piece of filth he didn’t care to wipe away. Remus kept catching the faint brush of his knuckles along his skin. He was close enough that every wisp of wind could’ve been a breath—every caresse a small kiss.
‘Tall one, aren’t you,’ Sirius was mumbling. ‘Your momma must be proud. I’ll bet she says, ‘would ya take a look at my son. Never did ya see a man so handsome in all the world’.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about my mother while we both are standing here naked.’
‘Why? … You thinking dirty thoughts, Lupin?’
Remus cussed at him, but Sirius only gave a giddy laugh. Then he reached around with the cloth and wiped it across Remus’ stomach, aiming downwards toward his semi-erect cock.
‘Oh shit! Think you got a bit excited there, cowboy. Water’s a bit cold for that, ain’t it?’
Suddenly Remus remembered the innate shame of it all. He pushed Sirius away sharply, a red anger rising in his blood the same way it used to when he was a kid. What usually followed was a swing or two, and sometimes Remus would win—sometimes he would lose. Luckily for Sirius he was as close to a friend as Remus had had these many years.
‘Quit pissing around, you!’
Looking part-stunned, Sirius backed away with his arms raised in placation.
‘Sorry, friend,’ he was saying, ‘only meant to tease. Nothing more…’
Face warm, Remus tugged on his jeans and boots and neither of them said anything more on the subject. By the time the sun was turning lavender on the horizon, Remus had tacked up Moony and was ready to set out on his first night in the field.
‘Left everything down near that ridge. Tent should already be set unless some animal come by and mess with it, and canteen’s half-full. You can fill it from the little stream due south,’ Sirius instructed, pointing out a spot to him that lay several miles down the mountain from camp. Remus could just make out the mottled black and white splotches of sheep between the trees.
‘See you tomorrow then,’ he replied gruffly, one hand on the rim of his hat. Sirius nodded, then voicelessly tossed him his jacket and the Kerouac novel and turned back to camp.
For a week Remus lived quietly with the sheep. It wouldn’t be time to move the flock for a few weeks more, and so by day he sat himself beneath the shade of the mountain’s heavy pines and simply watched them graze. At night he laid with the tent flaps open, rifle in hand as he listened to the sound of coyote laughter echo up and down the mountainside. He watched the two blue heelers, Jack and Ennis, nip at the testier ewes ankles and lick each other in the face, and some days he glanced up the mountain—across forest and meadow—until he could just make out the black speck that was Sirius moving about the camp.
Most days he wished for a radio. He and Sirius had taken to trading the few books Remus had thought to bring with him back and forth. They’d read during the day and compare thoughts by the fire, and once those had run out they’d keep the talk going with tales of horses, ranching, and rodeo. They compared past injuries—Sirius had broken his arm in a competition the year before and Remus was able to match the scar from that time he’d been kicked by a horse—and shared what it was like growing up in either flat; salt or Lightning.
'I fell on a combine,' Remus said eventually, because he knew Sirius wanted to ask. 'I was... up high in the barn. Horsing around. The blades got me in the face. It was an accident.'
Sirius looked at him. 'Well... you ain't the lesser for it.'
It was about all the compliment Remus could handle.
They never did mention much about family. Sirius knew Remus’ daddy had bit it when he was a boy and that now his momma was sick, and Remus knew that both of Sirius’ folks were still stubbornly mulling about back on the family ranch. As far as Sirius saw it, they’d never leave.
‘We got a family plot,’ Sirius explained. ‘Some days I think they’re rushing headlong toward it. But not me.’
He’d scooped up a handful of pebbles and was busying himself by flicking them toward the cook pot where it dangled over the fire. Most missed but every now and then Remus would hear the satisfactory ting of stone on cast iron.
‘Dad used to ride bulls too,’ Sirius went on. ‘Was damn good too, supposedly. Not that he’d put a word ‘a stock into it. Bastard’s always refused to come see me ride. Not a lick of advice neither. Says I’d be better spent on the ranch… Fucking hypocrite.’
Sirius never did make mention of his dead brother, but he was all too eager to ask after Dora. Remus said little apart from how they’d met in school, Dora a few years younger than he was. He hadn’t really known she existed back then apart from the occasional tale of a boy-faced, knobby-kneed girl who could sometimes be counted upon to give a guy twice her size a good licking. But Dora was stubborn, and good at making herself known. Not one day after she’d graduated from school she—still in her gown—walked straight up to Remus’ door and proposed they get married. They’d only been seeing each other for half a year before then, but for all his brains Remus looked down at his plain self and couldn’t think of a reason to say no.
‘She sounds like a sweet’un,’ Sirius said, which felt to Remus like anything one man should say about the girl the other was hankering to marry. Except there wasn’t much of a hankering for home left in him these days. Remus blamed the mountain air. It made him forget the rush of his old life. Up on Brokeback, everything else felt like radio static; background noise.
‘Dora’s a good girl,' he said flatly. 'Deserves better than me.’
Suddenly Remus yanked his hand back. He’d been reaching for the whiskey bottle when the white flesh of his forearm grazed across the still-hot cook pot Sirius had left sitting on the gravel between them. At the sight of Remus’ distress, Sirius snatched him by the wrist, turning his arm over and laving his tongue across the would-be wound.
All the world fell away like static. It was as if Sirius’ tongue had a direct connection to Remus’ insides. Every flex of that wet muscle made his gut twist and tug, and when Sirius pulled away he smacked his lips.
‘Still hurt?’
Remus was tempted to say yes, but all that came out was, 'You bind my wounds, I bind yers', is it?'
Sirius released him, looking smug. Reflected in his eyes, the small campfire was an inferno.
‘Yes, well. Can’t be too careful up here, friend.’
On his eighth morning back, Remus brought good news.
‘Hey, Black, think I shot your coyote.’
Sirius leaned away from Padfoot, whose coat he was brushing to a shine. He was back in the white undershirt, arms tanned from days spent in the sun.
‘Did you now? I hope you at least brought the bastard back with ya. Reckon I could use a new hat.’
Remus felt victorious as he raised the severed foxtail. ‘Figured you could hang it from the mirror of that shit truck ‘a yours.’
Surprise momentarily stunting him, Sirius nearly dropped the bristle brush as he bent himself in half with a deep laugh.
‘Remus Lupin, you’re a crazy sumbitch.’
It was a peaceful ride back to the sheep that night, and Remus, warmed by the whiskey and the sound of Sirius’ laughter on the hills, thought about how excited he was to wake up and do it all over again. By all accounts, he looked up and felt he could paw the white from the moon.
There was a learning curve that came with moving the sheep up to new pastures, but after several weeks in the same spot the knoll was starting to look barren and that’s when they knew it was time to move the herd on. The morning after Remus had shot the coyote, the pair of them tacked up their horses and set off.
It took the both of them working in coordination, whistling and hooting at the animals as they guided them further up the mountain. Jack and Ennis shot back and forth, narrowly avoiding tripping up the horses but doing a fine enough job of nipping at the heels of any sheep who strayed too far from the herding path. It made for a further ride to and from camp, but Remus wasn’t worried. He’d gotten good at filling his time on his long marches back, and had even taken to keeping a small journal to fill the emptier parts of the day.
The journal had come up with the small collection of books Sirius had sent for along with their usual list of supplies. They were risking Moody thinking them slackers by asking for 'em, but whether by his will or the packer's the books came anyway—a welcome comfort for the hours spent apart.
Remus doubted Moody’s man had so much as glanced at the books when he tossed them into the packs and loaded them up onto the mules along with their usual supplies. One of the novels, as it turned out, was little more than a ratty bodice-ripper. On its cover was a portrait of a man cradling a damsel with black hair wearing a flossy blue dress. Remus rebuffed it at first and was surprised to return for supper one evening to find it left open along one of the logs next to the fire pit.
‘You’re reading that?’ He asked, as Sirius kindly set to unsaddling Moony. The smile he gave him was just crooked enough to tell Remus that he was pleased by the question.
‘What’s that? Don’t tell me you’re opposed to a little romance, Lupin.’
That night after Remus had set off to rejoin the sheep he found the tattered romance novel tucked into one of his saddle bags. Against all odds, it weren’t bad.
Sirius had a harmonica he liked to play on quiet nights. Sometimes when Remus was drifting back to camp astride Moony, sleeping with his eyes open, he would hear its high-pitched twang drifting down the gulf, screeching like a loon strung up by its neck. Remus knew Sirius liked music because he was always trying to steamroll his way through some familiar radio song and the like. Sirius had played ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ about half a dozen times before Remus was able to sort out what it was, and then he’d had to argue that it was Carl Perkins who wrote the damn thing, not Presley. He knew he was right, but Sirius—stubborn as ever—played the song until his ears rang just to spite him.
‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ Remus moaned finally. The harmonica was flattened on one side after a nasty spill Sirius had taken off Padfoot’s back weeks back, but he had a feeling the would-be pickup rider would’ve been just as horrible without it.
Mercifully, Sirius set the brass instrument aside. ‘I could always howl instead.’
Leaping up, barefoot and all in the late summer air, Sirius ran breakneck toward the very edge of the camp platform. Wind rose up from the valley below to meet him, tousling that thick black mane as he held both hands to the corners of his open mouth without the slightest bit of trepidation and let out his best wolf-call.
‘Ahwow—woooooooooo!’
Remus sputtered into the lip of his shade-chilled beer. ‘You’re a crazy sumbitch.’
‘Come on!’ Sirius called, waving him over. ‘Give it a try. Bet you’re a natural.’
‘Bet I ain’t.’
‘Sure you are! It’s in your name, ain’t it? Looooooopin—ah-wow-wow-wow!’
‘I forgot you were an educated bastard.’ Setting the beer aside, Remus kicked aside the gravel with his boots and came to stand next to Sirius over the cliffside.
Sirius sighed happily. ‘Not educated, just well-read.’ He elbowed Remus then and made a show of cupping his mouth as if he were teaching an eager child a new trick. ‘Go on. Try it—ah-wooooo!’
Remus shook his head and Sirius grabbed him, hauling his face downwards until he could cup his hands around Remus’ mouth for him. ‘Get along, cowboy! Ahh—wooo!’
‘Damnnit—woooo.’
‘There you are! Got lungs on 'im after all!’
Remus wrenched away, hands already around his mouth. Around them the wind trembled.
‘Ah—wooooo!’
‘Yee-haw!’ Sirius leapt at the sky. ‘Ow—wow—woooooooooow!’
Their cries carried, and the two of them howled until the last sliver of evening sun had barely begun to slip down over the western trees. Remus staggered away from the edge, worried one stray stone would send him careening down into the jagged rocks below. It was as though the valley had stolen his breath; he panted as Sirius whirled around and clapped him on the back.
‘You did good, Lupin. Bet your daddy’d be proud.’
Remus looked at him and suddenly his throat felt very parched. Without waiting, he wandered back over to the old log and threw himself down next to the fire, now died now to ashes. He found the quart of whiskey they’d been passing back and forth over supper and flicked the cap into the fire.
‘You don’t know shit about my daddy.’
Sirius looked lost where he stood by the edge of the cliffs. His shirt was left open and billowing in the wind while the orange glow of the setting sun turned his black hair to fire at the ends and Remus was reminded of the woman on the front of the romance novel. Only—when Sirius came to him and set hands on the front of his jacket Remus felt the man's strength in every finger.
‘What’re you—’
‘Shhh.’
He could feel himself slipping, curving up into him so that he might be able to run his hands through that flaming black hair and see if it burned. The two of them fought for a moment like a man and a thrashing bull and Sirius’ hands—seasoned by his true love of rodeo—held firm. A knee found its way between Remus' legs, pressing down to feel the strain in his jeans. Remus felt like hand-washing being rung out to dry. He’d slid to his back in the dirt by the time their teeth first smashed together, and to him it sounded like gunfire. There was no time for lips to touch; before Sirius could make that choice for the both of them, Remus raised a fist and instantly the weight was gone from his chest.
‘Found ‘em.’
Sirius held up a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes—the same carton Remus had been holding for him in his breast pocket. He’d forgotten they were there, but the blitheness with which Sirius stifled his true intentions shocked Remus more than motions of it. He wanted his own excuse, something to hide the need aching in his gut. But Sirius’ pockets were empty and there was nothing left to reach for.
‘Need to take a piss,’ Sirius grunted, pulling a cigarette free with his teeth. Hand at his crotch, he began to meander toward the trees before stopping, tossing the cigarettes back at Remus’ lap. Hold onto those for me, will ya, it said.
Perhaps just in case.
By the time Sirius returned Remus had stoked up the fire and broken into the second bottle of red-eye on shares, from which the two of them partook generously. An invisible line had been drawn in the gravel and dust between them which neither dared to cross, but Sirius managed to break the tension with yet another rendition of “Blue Suede Shoes”.
‘So what exactly is the Pentecost?’ Remus asked. Above him the sky was a mess of lights, twinkling and eyeing them from their place in the night.
‘The Pentecost… the Pentecost… well, damn—I dunno.’ Tossing the busted harmonica aside, Sirius adjusted his hat so it blocked most of his face from view. ‘Momma never bothered ‘splaining much. Figured she suspected me to join them other honest fellars on their march into Hell. Not much use in ‘splaining God to a damned man.’
Remus grunted, ‘You ain’t no help.’
‘You worried about your sins, Lupin?’
‘Fuck no. Ain’t got no sins.’
‘Everyone’s got sins.’
‘Not me.’ Remus pulled his coat closer to himself. If he concentrated he could just make out the line of his chilled breath in the dark. ‘Ain't had the chance. Besides… my folks were Methodist.’
A chuckle, and Sirius fell silent. For a moment Remus was able to fool himself into thinking he were asleep. It weren’t a sin to watch a good man sleep—all them sins happened only when they were awake. But then Sirius stirred and Remus was called back into action. Scrambling up onto all fours he muttered something about tacking up his horse and that was when Sirius tossed his hat aside to join him, a-wobbling next to the dying fire.
‘Friend, it’s too late to go back to them sheep tonight,' he said, checking the leather watch on his wrist. 'You’ll kill our poor Moony trying.’
'I'll make it.'
'You're piss-drunk, friend.'
Sirius was right, and truthfully Remus felt no urge to risk his horse. Peering out over the valley, he was able to make out what he thought was the moving white mass of the flock. Surely Jack and Ennis could do their job for one night.
‘Got you an extra blanket then? I’ll pitch a spot right here. Ride out firs’ thing tomorrow.’
Sirius shook his head. ‘Freeze your ass off when that fire dies down. There’s plenty of room in the tent, come on.’
Remus refused, on account of the Pentecost, and Sirius fetched him a blanket made of wool and itch. It didn’t take long to wake the both of them with the clacking sound of his shivering teeth and at Sirius’ insistence, a desperate Remus scooped up his hat and blanket and crawled into the old canvas tent.
There was only one bedroll, which they shared in earnest. Blue darkness covered everything and in what little light there was to be had Remus watched as Sirius’ back rose and fell in a single steady rhythm. The drink made his eyelids heavy, enough so that when Sirius turned onto his side and gently tugged his arm around him Remus was just grateful for the warmth. Later, when Sirius pulled that hand lower, into the loosened waistband of his jeans, Remus felt his fingertips brush against clammy skin and pubic hair and—
He was right then. Fire does burn.
Sirius was almost faster than him in sitting up. He grasped Remus by the face, thumbs finding the hollow divots in his cheeks and drawing them back together.
‘Easy, easy,’ he cooed, as though speaking to a spooked horse. Remus bucked like one, moving himself into his knees in an attempt to ground himself. Sirius took advantage and slid himself forward until he was straddling one of Remus’ thighs. Too big a breath and Remus could feel their bellies touch.
When they kissed Remus felt like a screw wound too tight—stiff against the hot, wet tongue pressed deep into his mouth. Sirius’ skin was rough where their faces rubbed together, irritating each other like frayed saddle cloth. His fingers found the hinge behind Remus’ jaw—dropping it open. From then on everything was hard and fast, and when Remus pulled away it took Sirius to guide him back again.
Suddenly all their layers felt stifling. After tossing off the bedroll, Sirius peeled back his bear-skin jacket and Remus did the same with his own. Sirius' jeans were already open at the fly, tin belt buckle clinking back and forth in the darkness. It being dark was probably what made it tolerable. When Sirius brought his hand back down to wrap around his stiff cock Remus was able to shut his eyes and forget that this ain’t what he should be wanting.
But he did want, didn’t he? And so while his breath rattled around in his chest like a stray stone caught in a tire’s wheel well, he focused on the feeling of those calloused roper’s hands as they brought him closer and closer to the edge. It must’ve been a common enough response, if Sirius’ words were anything to go by.
‘There you go,’ he said, ‘Ain’t so hard now is it, cowboy?’
Suddenly the urge to prove himself surged up inside Remus, and he yanked Sirius’ hands from his pants, shoving him back against the bedroll. With the other hand he lifted the man onto his knees, forcing his jeans and drawers down. Sirius didn’t stop him, instead he rose up onto his elbows, reaching down to fondle himself as Remus spat into his palm. Around them the canvas sweltered and when Remus had worked up enough of a slick he entered him without any preamble. Sirius groaned deeply in response, head bowed, dark hair split down the middle of his neck save where sweat had stuck it in place. From then on it was all instinct, a fact that would shake Remus come morning—how he knew exactly what would happen should he rock just that way. How Sirius reaching back and squeezing his wrist meant to slow down. How good it felt and how much better it would get.
Dumbly, Remus was surprised when he reached around Sirius to hug his chest to find all flat planes and rigid lines. There wasn't enough fat on him to fill a shirt let alone to cup a breast. And when Sirius felt him searching, he turned his face back to Remus and squeezed his jaw tight in one hand—as if warning him that he was a man as well, and ain’t no man better than another when they’re bent over on their backs.
In the morning Remus woke to find that the corners of his eyes had crusted over. His knees had an unfamiliar ache to them that made itself known as he turned himself over to face the golden light peeking in through the tent flaps. The surprise came when he realised that he was already alone. He’d fallen asleep on Sirius’ bearskin jacket but could tell from the lack of warmth left on Sirius’ side that his herding partner had been gone a good while.
After making his way outside, Remus found blue skies and a pot of oats slow cooking near the edge of the fire. In the dirt beside the pit, Sirius had carved out a message.
Gone to check on the sheep. Back for lunch.
Remus remembered the dried sweat on his skin as he took in the words and wondered if it would happen again. A bubbling feeling rose in his gut that could’ve been guilt or giddiness. Problem was, he weren’t sure how to tell the two apart.
With an old bucket of rain water and damp washcloth, Remus set to scrubbing himself clean. He might’ve missed it had he not been paying attention, but looking out over the valley—the black dot moved too quickly across the meadow and he knew it were a horse.
And so, in naught but his jeans, Remus clambered up to the edge of camp and cupped his hands tightly across his mouth, and took a deep breath.
‘Ah—woooo!’
Must’ve not been loud enough, he told himself, after several seconds had passed and little more than the wind had replied. Eyes pinched, he set himself back to looking for his little black horse again when it came back to him, in all its bold—wonderful glory.
‘Ah-wow-woooooooooooo!’
So that was how it would go then; for the rest of summer, maybe longer, it would be this way.
Glancing up at them blue skies, Remus squinted into the sun, tipping his hat as he said a small prayer.