Chapter Text
Professor Lupin was a thoughtful teacher—the definition of engaged, ready to meet students wherever they were at. His introductory courses always had a waitlist—so Sirius was told—and by the time you hit the upper-level courses, most people had him as a professor at least twice before. He must have cycled through hundreds of students over the years, but he seemed to remember details about each one. As he called out names on the first day of class, he’d ask questions and make comments about their lives—about Mary’s internship at the Whitney or about how nice it was to bump into Frank at the Park Slope Co-op over the summer.
In fact, Sirius was so enraptured by the immediate warmth and familiarity of the class that he hadn’t realized his own name hadn’t been called until Lupin’s gaze landed on him.
“And who might you be?” There was nothing accusatory or sharp in Lupin’s voice, but his brown eyes bore into Sirius with such intensity and curiosity that Sirius momentarily forgot to speak.
Sirius swallowed hard and found his voice. “It’s Sirius, Sir. Sirius Black. I’m a transfer student. Some of my paperwork ended up lost, so I had trouble registering for class until last night, but Dr. McGonagall said that she’d emailed you—”
“Ah, yes. So she did.” In fact, Sirius had been copied on the email thread between Lupin and the head of his department, and despite the fact that Lupin had acted as though he had no clue who Sirius was, something about his wry smile told Sirius that it had been some sort of test—and he had passed. “Welcome, Sirius Black. I look forward to getting to know you.”
Staring at Lupin, Sirius couldn’t help but think the same thing.
★ ★ ★
“—so, suddenly all these people at the fancy dress party, wearing Darth Vader or Princess Diana costumes or what have you, were stumbling about, high out of their minds.”
“And no one suspected your biscuits?”
“It wasn’t my finest moment,” Lupin says. Nonetheless, he laughs and creases form at the corner of his eyes. “I aim not to give people drugs without their knowledge or consent these days. Find it to be a much better practice.”
“It’s just weed.”
“Even still.”
Silence temporarily settles over them, and Sirius places one foot on the edge of the chair before bringing a knee up to his chest. Lupin’s eyes follow. He loves the way it feels to have Lupin’s attention—good or bad. It’s all-encompassing, and it gives Sirius an excuse to stare. Not that he needs one. If someone asked him to describe Lupin’s face with his eyes closed, he’s sure he could. From the faint scar across his nose to the way his jaw is slightly crooked to the mole on his right cheek and each gray hair in his curls—Sirius has them all committed to memory.
In any case, Sirius plays along, as if he doesn’t know what the issue is. “What?”
“I don’t let all my students put their dirty shoes on my armchair.” He motions toward Sirius’s boot.
“Are you saying I should feel special, Dr. Lupin?” Sirius leans forward, challenging Lupin with a smirk.
Lupin sucks in a sharp breath. “Is that what I said?” His voice warbles. Admittedly, he conceals it well, slipping only on the last syllable, but Sirius hears it.
Emboldened, Sirius asks, “You tell me.”
Lupin looks at him, hungry. There’s no doubt about it. His jaw tightens, and he looks at Sirius, unblinking, as if daring him to be the first one to move. But Sirius feels frozen in place, aware of how small Lupin’s office is. All he would have to do would be reach his hand out, and—
“It’s nice to have someone else from across the pond nearby. Granted, I think we grew up differently, but you’re not going to scoff when I say ‘fancy dress.’” Lupin turns his head and stares out the window, toward the sea of skyscrapers, and Sirius shrinks in his seat.
“I don’t know much about you.”
“I grew up south of Monmouth, towards Tintern. ‘Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs/That on a wild secluded scene impress/Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect/The landscape with the quiet of the sky.’” Sirius feels as though he should get the reference. As if sensing his confusion, Lupin adds, “Wordsworth. I thought all Oxford boys knew their Romantic poets.”
“Former Oxford boy.”
Lupin hums. “In any case, my dad was a doctor who spent a lot of time doing home visits in the small villages around us, and my mam had her hands full raising me.”
“Why? Were you some sort of trouble-maker?” The image almost makes Sirius laugh. He tries to picture Lupin as a rebellious teenager, though he isn’t sure what that might look like in the Welsh countryside.
“I was quite ill as a child. I still get the occasional flare-up, but it’s mostly manageable.” Finally, Lupin looks at him again. Just as Sirius finds himself at a loss for words again.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We all have our own things we’re dealing with. If your writing is anything to go off of, you’ve had your fair share of struggles.”
Sirius sucks in his cheek and rolls it between his teeth. “Who’s to say what I wrote has any basis in my own life. It is creative fiction, after all.”
“Oh, please. Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Black. The brooding, rich London boy whose father can’t stop referencing his Bullingdon Club days and whose mother wants better for him but just doesn’t know how to properly express it? You’re not exactly subtle with it. But I’ve learned a lot about you.”
Sirius flushes. Put so bluntly, it sounds pathetic. His eyes fall to the floor, and he picks at his cuticles, a heavy ball forming in the pit of his stomach. It strikes him that there are other aspects of his life he’s included in his short stories—his dalliances with older men, his own experiences with a variety of drugs, Regulus’s death. Inspired by Dennis Cooper and Brontez Purnell and William Burroughs, he’d claimed. In retrospect, it seems stupid to have included it at all.
A large, calloused hand settles on top of his, stilling him and keeping him from anxiously picking. Sirius jumps and looks up. Lupin has softened. “It’s not an insult. Nearly all writers leave traces of themselves in their art. I’ve liked getting to know you through your writing. I hope I can continue to do so next semester.” Lupin’s hand is warm on top of his, and perhaps on instinct, Sirius flips his own, entwining their fingers together.
They stay, frozen in time, both staring at their hands. Sirius isn’t sure if his heart has ever beaten so loudly.
And then there’s a knock at the door. Lupin pulls away before Sirius fully registers what happened and steps outside of his office. He speaks in a hushed whisper to whoever is outside, but even when he strains, Sirius can only make out a few words—not enough to piece together what they’re speaking out.
When returns, Lupin leaves the door open and moves his chair a few feet away from Sirius before sitting down.
★ ★ ★
Despite the fact that it’s winter in New York City, and Sirius can’t imagine being anywhere more magical, everyone Sirius knows leaves the city sometime in December. Some head home, others leave for family vacations in places like Vail or Québec City. Some friends he’d met at the Strand decide to spend their Christmas tripping on shrooms at someone’s uncle’s cabin in the Adirondacks. Even his strange, seemingly perpetually coked-up roommate, Barty, leaves to stay with his family in Long Island—though Sirius is not-so-secretly grateful for that.
He invites James to visit, but James has already planned a special trip with Lily—a ring tucked away in a box behind his scrum cap, where Lily is certain not to look. James apologizes profusely to the point that Sirius worries he’ll buy a ticket and throw the life he’s built away. So Sirius describes the charm of the city and his new life until James’s look of concern fades. James promises to visit in the spring instead.
By December 23rd, the city is comparatively empty. Snow lines the streets, promising a rare white Christmas, though it quickly begins to melt, turning to gray slush, unsuspectingly deep puddles forming by the curb. And after spending the past two weeks deep in the apps, swiping through what felt like every potentially compatible queer person in the neighborhood, Sirius decides to venture to Brooklyn.
Perhaps—he hopes—partaking in the city’s holiday spirit will get his mind away from the seemingly unquenchable (and undeniably unbearable) desire to fuck. He’d turned in his final paper to Lupin in his office, and when he’d handed it over, their hands had brushed against each other. Lupin’s had been warm, like it had been before when they’d briefly held hands. Lupin had been surprisingly absent outside of class since then, canceling the majority of his office hours. When he’d handed in his paper, however, Sirius could swear Lupin went out of his way to grab Sirius’s paper in a way that ensured their hands touched.
In any case, he’s tired of his mind drifting to sex in a way it hasn’t since he was a teenager. So, he follows the recommendation of a few TikToks, starting with a hot chocolate at Jacques Torres in Dumbo—notably touristy, he determines—and ending at the light show at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
Sirius is staring up at a canopy of twinkling chandeliers hanging from trees, an overpriced spiked hot cider warming his hand, when he hears a familiar voice behind him.
“...or whatever other bureaucratic bullshit they decide to throw our way next.”
He turns and nearly smacks his paper cup against Lupin’s chest. “Dr. Lupin, hey.”
Lupin takes a step back and looks at Sirius, lips parted and eyes wide. Sirius has never been one to consider a sherpa-lined jean jacket and tote bag hot, but he decides he’s willing to make an exception in this case. It’s all very Brooklyn, down to the scuffed Chelsea Boots and beanie. In fact, Sirius is so caught-up in taking in Lupin’s off-the-clock outfit that he nearly misses the person he’s with—a tall Black woman with box braids and a septum piercing who is impeccably dressed. Her gaze moves from Lupin to Sirius and back to Lupin.
“Sirius, I didn’t expect to see you here. I would have thought you’d have gone home to—” He catches himself midway through the thought. “I suppose not. Well, in any case, I didn’t know you lived in Brooklyn.”
Sirius shakes his head. “I don’t. I’ve been in New York for a few months, and I feel like I only really know Williamsburg and Bushwick, so I wanted to broaden my Brooklyn horizons.”
“How cute,” Lupin’s friend says, smirking. Subtly, Lupin nudges her.
“It’s nice,” Sirius says, gesturing at the chandeliers with his cup.
Lupin rubs his hands together. “They’ve put it on for the last few years.”
“The amount of energy needed to run it is, frankly, unforgivable, but a friend of mine got sick and didn’t want their tickets to go to waste, so I figured I’d invite this guy and make a night of it.”
They move to the side so others can pass by them, and Dorcas’s gaze settles once more on Sirius. Something about it makes him feel as though he’s under a microscope. But Sirius isn’t about to let years of his mother yelling at him about etiquette and manners go to waste. Putting on his best smile, Sirius straightens his back and asks, “What do you do?” If good impressions are what Dorcas is after, he’ll be sure to deliver.
“Community organizing, largely around tenant rights. I’m from Crown Heights. The way the neighborhood’s been moving the past ten years… people who’ve lived there my whole life are getting forced out or bought out way under market rate so developers can flip the buildings and rent apartments out to transplants who are willing to pay $3,000 for a soulless studio with marble countertops and exposed brick.” Sirius’s flat has both, but he doesn’t dare share that.
“She has a lot of thoughts about gentrification.” Quickly, perhaps seeing Dorcas’s raised eyebrow, Lupin adds, “Rightfully so!”
“So, what’s your deal? You’re one of Rem’s old students?”
“Current, actually.”
“You hit your forties, and everyone twenty-five and under looks ambiguously young,” Dorcas says apologetically.
“Sirius just took one of my upper-level courses this fall. Any chance I’ll be seeing you again come January?” It may be his imagination, but Sirius is almost certain he hears hope in Lupin’s voice. His heart races as he beams and nods.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
For a brief moment, the lights and everyone else melts away, and all Sirius can see is Lupin. Despite the biting cold, all he can feel is warmth. It has nothing to do with the drink in his hands. Here, away from the prying eyes of his classmates and the confines of the school, he feels free. Lupin’s smile—crooked and perfect—is better than any glowing note he’s received on his stories, written in blue ink. Sirius is sure that he could float away across the East River, back to his flat in the East Village, and this moment would sustain him until the spring semester.
Until Dorcas clears her throat.
She looks at Lupin with a furrowed brow and opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything, her phone rings. Any trace of a fight is gone as soon as she sees the name on her screen. “It’s Mar,” Dorcas says, and Lupin nods knowingly as Dorcas steps away, throwing a backward glance at them.
“How long have you known Dorcas?” Sirius asks.
“It’ll be eighteen years in a few months. She was one of the first people I met when I moved to the city. Not sure if I would be here without her. Actually, scratch that, I know I wouldn’t be here without her.”
“You’ve been here eighteen years?”
“Dorcas considers the fact that I was among the first wave of Flatbush gentrifiers one of my greatest sins, and I can’t really blame her. But it was where I could afford to live, and I didn’t quite understand the politics of the city.” Lupin chuckles.
“Eighteen years ago, I was four.” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. It’s hard to tell with the limited lighting around them, but Sirius is almost certain he sees the color drain from Lupin’s face.
“Yes, well…” They hit a lull in their conversation, and Lupin rubs the back of his neck. “So, any holiday plans?”
Relief floods Sirius’s body that they’re not lingering on his age, and his shoulders drop as he relaxes once more. So, he didn’t completely botch the conversation. “Not really. I feel like people in American films have Chinese takeout on Christmas for some reason, so maybe I’ll head to Chinatown.” It’s not the fanciest Christmas he’s had, but it’ll be his first alone, and that in itself is worth celebrating, he thinks. Sirius does his best to quash the growing dread in his stomach as thoughts of Regulus flicker in the corners of his mind.
But Lupin leans back and looks at Sirius with a mix of surprise and concern. “You aren’t going to spend it with any friends?”
“Anyone I’d want to spend it with is out of town or has other plans.” The way Lupin looks at him when he says that makes Sirius wish the ground would open up and swallow him whole. All his care throughout the semester to make Lupin think he’s cool, and he’s found a way to make himself sound like a friendless loser.
“That won’t do,” Lupin says, shaking his head. “No one should spend Christmas alone.” The words seem to imply an invitation of some sort, but Sirius doesn’t dare assume. The last thing he wants is to get his hopes up. Asking, however, would be rude.
“I…” He searches for words, but Lupin saves him the trouble.
“Give me your number. You’re coming over. I’m not much of a cook, but I always make traditional lamb cawl like my Nain used to cook on Christmas, and I like to think it turns out alright.” Sirius is almost certain Lupin is underselling his abilities, but that feels like the least notable thing about what Lupin just said. He wonders if this is a dream as he watches Lupin take his phone out of his pocket.
Sirius shares his number in a daze, though his surprise hardly seems to register with Lupin, who is off in his own world planning what to cook.
“It’ll just be the two of us, so I can’t promise a whole feast, but perhaps I can make some Yorkshire pudding as well. We didn’t really grow up eating it much, but I always was fond of it.”
“Yeah.” Sirius nods, and his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. There’s more he wants to say, but there’s no way to say it, and no concrete thoughts come to mind that he cares to share aloud. With each beat of his heart, the same thought echoes again and again: He’ll be in Lupin’s home on Christmas.
Miracles—Sirius decides—are real.
Sirius is about to thank Lupin when Dorcas returns. “Sorry, Mar had a quick question about—” But whatever Mar had asked gets lost as Dorcas looks between them. There’s something akin to disapproval in her face as she settles on Lupin. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing.” Lupin says, and Sirius doesn’t correct him. Dorcas hums, unconvinced, and her hand closes around Lupin’s arm as she starts to steer him away.
“It was nice to meet you, Sirius,” she says. “Merry Christmas.”
“You too,” Sirius says, and watches as they disappear, swallowed up by the crowd.
★ ★ ★
Unknown Number (10:51)
I should have checked if you have any food allergies or dietary restrictions.
Sirius (10:59)
Dr. Lupin?
Lupin (11:08)
We can go back to Dr. Lupin in January, but how does Remus sound for now? Since you’re coming over for Christmas and all.
Sirius (11:12)
No food allergies or restrictions, Remus.
Sirius (11:13)
But I do have a latex allergy.
Lupin Remus (11:27)
Then, I’ll make the lamb cowl and Yorkshire pudding, as planned. Don’t feel like you need to bring anything.
★ ★ ★
Sirius says Remus’s name aloud a dozen times before it flows naturally from his lips. The name suits him, he decides, and Sirius doesn’t know how he can possibly go back to Dr. Lupin when he knows what the alternative feels like. Although Remus insists again that he need not bring anything, on Christmas Eve, Sirius searches for a place that sells Penderyn whisky and buys a bottle.
He talks to James briefly over video in the late afternoon. Lily stands next to him and shows off the ring on her finger, cheeks bright red and arm wrapped around James’s shoulder. They each recount the story of how James proposed twice, interrupting each other to add details the other missed. For the first time in at least a month, Sirius’s heart aches for England and the life he left behind.
Yet when they ask if he has any plans for Christmas, finds himself following in Remus's footsteps. “Nothing special,” he lies. He’s not sure why. There’s no reason not to, yet he can’t bring himself to do it. Sirius’s stomach churns, and for a second, a dreadful thought passes through him that if James and Lily knew, it might ruin it in some way. He shoves it down and shakes his head. That’d be silly, he thinks. It has to be because he doesn’t want to detract from James and Lily’s special day.
He prepares what to wear as well, cycling through five outfits before landing on one—a sheer white button-up—partially unbuttoned—and burgundy trousers and a blazer that are part of a matching set. And he pairs them with a leather belt and boots, choosing his socks carefully as well. For all he knows, Remus is a shoes-off-in-the-home type of person.
For some time, Sirius lays in bed, restless. But eventually, he falls asleep. And when he wakes, it’s Christmas. The day both drags on and seems to pass in a blink of an eye, but before Sirius knows it, he finds himself on the stoop of Remus’s building, pressing a button marked with Remus’s apartment number.
He only knocks once on Remus’s door before it swings open, and it is immediately apparent that they went for very different styles.
Remus still has an apron on, but it’s over what looks like a vintage Christmas jumper—blue with a series of white patterns circling the torso and sleeves, including a band of snowflake-like shapes across the middle. Even as they lean in to hug, Sirius catches the way Remus scans him up and down, so any fear of being overdressed quickly evaporates.
What startles him more, however, is when he feels lips on his cheek. Remus has faint stubble as well, rough against Sirius’s skin, and he closes his eyes and lets Reus’s scent—cologne mixed with a faint array of spices—wash over him. “You look nice,” Remus murmurs, his voice low, and a shiver runs down Sirius’s spine.
“So you do.” The jumper is even softer than it looks—Merino wool, Sirius would guess. His fingers close slightly around it, and he can’t help but let out a small, satisfied hum. But the moment has to pass eventually, and they pull back. Sirius thinks he sees a flicker of disappointment on Remus’s face, but then it’s gone.
“Come on in,” Remus says, waving him in. He takes Sirius’s coat and hangs it up on a hook by the door. “Feel free to leave your shoes on if you’d like.” But when Sirius glances down, he sees that Remus isn’t wearing any—opting for thick, woolen socks instead—so Sirius follows suit and removes his, placing them gingerly by the front door.
“Thank you again for the invitation.” Sirius hands Remus the whisky, still in its box. Remus throws him an admonishing look before taking it.
“I told you not to get anything.” Still, Remus can’t hide the excitement when he sees the name. “This brings me back. You shouldn’t have.” Upon closer look he adds, “Six years old? It has a bottle number and everything. Sirius, this can’t have been cheap.”
Sirius motions to Remus’s apron. “You’re cooking for me. The least I can do is bring a taste of home with me, and I’m rubbish when it comes to cooking. The closest I’ll come is a cheese toastie.” Remus laughs.
Remus’s flat is gorgeous. Even from the threshold, Sirius can tell. It’s lived in, plants abound and endless art decorating the walls. A long, low wooden shelf lines the hallway, and Sirius has to resist stopping to look at the books in it. He passes by a bathroom and a shut door—my office, Remus explains—before it leads into a large, open space with both the living room and kitchen, separated by a counter. It’s clearly the center of the home. A row of windows look outward onto the street. During the day, he can imagine the place bathed in light. A corner shelf is decorated in plants of various sizes, green leaves dangling down the side. On the far left, there’s a record console.
To the right is the entrance to what Sirius assumes is the bedroom is there as well, though the door is closed. And it takes him a moment to notice it, but just beyond it is its own nook with a small round table and an armchair. There are two plates set up on the table, along with what looks like bread and a charcuterie board.
Following his gaze, Remus says, “It’s not as fancy as it looks. Most of that is from Trader Joe’s.” He removes his apron, folds it, and leaves it on the counter.
Sirius hasn’t had a home-cooked meal like this in some time—not since he’d stayed with Lily and James after Regulus had passed. Gratitude blends with a sea of other, less defined emotions, and a lump forms at the back of his throat. His eyes burn, and he rapidly blinks, willing away tears. The last thing he wants is to cry in front of Remus. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
Remus places a hand on Sirius’s shoulder and squeezes. “My first holiday in New York was harder than I expected. I wasn’t very outgoing. Dorcas was my only good friend, and she went down to Nashville to visit Marlene, who was living there at the time. And I couldn’t afford to go home to visit my parents.”
Sirius nods, and the lump in his throat begins to gradually lessen. “It means a lot.”
Remus clasps his hands together. “Nothing soothes the soul like food. Let’s eat. You must be hungry.”
Remus’s words must awaken some sort of hunger within him, for his stomach growls. Sirius realizes the last thing he ate was a cold, questionably old slice of pizza in the morning. “That sounds great. If it isn’t a bother, could I wash my hands first?”
“Such a bother,” Remus teases. “Feel free to use the kitchen sink or bathroom—whichever is more convenient for you.”
After he washes up, they sit down, and Remus pours Sirius a glass of red wine. “Iechyd da,” Remus says, and he tips his own back.
Everything is incredible, particularly the bread when paired with the fig jam, but as he returns to grab his third helping of manchego, prosciutto, and olives, Sirius has to remind himself that more food is coming. Besides, he’s already outpaced Remus with how quickly he’s eaten, and he doesn’t want to be rude.
A timer goes off, saving him the trouble of restraining himself from a fourth helping. Grabbing a small handful of nuts, he follows Remus to the kitchen. He leans against the counter and watches Remus pull a full tray of Yorkshire puddings from the oven.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” Sirius asks and pops an almond in his mouth.
“Hush.” Judging by the faint, pink tinge to his cheeks, Sirius has managed to make Remus feel flustered. Perhaps hoping Sirius won’t notice, Remus keeps his eyes on the task at hand with great determination, tossing his oven mitt to the side and carefully removing the puddings from their cups.
A rush runs through him, and Sirius grins. “Smart, funny, kind, a good cook.” It’s now or never. Sirius rolls his lower lip between his teeth and adds, “Hot.”
Remus’s hand slips, coming in contact with the hot metal tray, and he hisses in pain as he moves immediately to the sink and runs it under the cold water. His cheeks turn pinker still. “Sirius.” His voice is more breathy than admonishing, and he keeps his attention on his hand. “I’m your professor. You can’t go saying things like that.”
“Dr. Lupin is my professor, but you told me to call you Remus over break.” It’s undeniably bold, bordering on risky. Remus sucks in a sharp breath and shudders but doesn’t say anything. Nonetheless, not wanting to test his luck, Sirius perfunctorily adds, “Sorry.” He doesn’t even sound like he means it, but Remus nods as though the apology is genuine.
“It’s fine. But let’s maybe keep the excessive praise to a minimum.”
“Fair enough. I haven’t even tried your cooking yet. For all I know it’s terrible. Smart, kind, and a hopefully adequate cook—is that better?”
At that, Remus laughs, and the tension breaks. “Much. Though, you have. The bread’s mine.”
Sirius gawks. “You baked that?”
“Sure did. A decent loaf of bread around here costs $12, which is absolutely criminal. ’Sides, used to make it with my mam when I was younger.” For some reason, it feels easy to picture Remus, young and bright-eyed, by his mother’s side in the kitchen, kneading dough.
Sirius smiles. “That’s adorable.”
“Oh, good, just what I was going for.” Remus turns the water off and reaches for a ladle resting on a spoon rest. “Cawl’s done as well. Finished right before you came, but it should still be hot.”
“Homemade bread, cawl, Yorkshire pudding—you’re spoiling me.”
“It’s good to have a taste of home on Christmas.”
Remus serves both of them, topping off the meal with roast potatoes and parsnips, and they head back to the table. When Sirius tries the cawl, he lets out an involuntary moan.
Remus hardly bites back a smile. “Like it, do you?”
“It’s heavenly. Your nain was onto something.”
“I thought so too.” They focus their attention on the food for a few minutes, the sound of silverware against the dishes filling the silence. But eventually, Sirius’s stomach starts to fill, and his attention turns back to Remus.
“What brought you to the city?” Sirius asks.
Remus laughs and shakes his head, as though it’s a funny question. “A bit of fate and a bit of impulsive decision-making. It sounds more self-aggrandizing than I mean it to, but my first book made a bit of a splash.”
“I saw. The Guardian called you the voice of a generation.” Sirius has admittedly spent a good deal of time Googling Remus this past semester—more than he wants to let on. He’d read reviews of Remus’s books and discovered old poetry published in anthologies. He’d even found Remus’s defunct last.fm account, which he had to look up to figure out what it was. But quoting the Guardian still seems outside the realm of what one might consider creepy—at least Sirius hopes. After all, the quote had made it onto the cover of the book.
“Ah, so you read it.”
“I did.”
“At the risk of sounding like an egotistical arse, what did you think?” Remus clasps his hands and rests his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. He looks at Sirius with a mix of shame and curiosity.
It’s a question Sirius had hoped to never be asked. For a brief, frantic moment, he debates lying, but something tells him it’s not what Remus wants. So, he takes a deep breath and opts for honesty. “It wasn’t bad, but I didn’t see you in it. It felt like it was written by someone trying to write ‘capital-l’ literature. Technically beautiful, well-executed but… I don’t know. Something was missing.”
When Remus doesn’t immediately react, a bubble of panic starts to swell in Sirius’s gut. But then, Remus nods and offers Sirius a slight, tired smile. “You’re not wrong. I was genuinely interested in climate fiction, but I was too focused on what I was trying to say with it, on sounding profound. I prioritized that over finding my voice.”
“It worked. Margaret Atwood also praised your book.”
“You did your research, I see.” Remus chuckles, and the back of Sirius’s neck warms up. “It’s flattering.”
Not wanting to expose himself too much, Sirius pivots slightly. “I much preferred your second novel and your collection of short stories.”
“I’m not surprised.” There’s an amused twinkle in Remus’s eye. The next wave of Remus’s writing had been queer and messy. The novel had featured a relationship between a younger man—similar in some ways to Remus—and an older man who was undoubtedly abusive and controlling, but when seen through the younger man’s perspective was described with such tender care. It’d been as political as his first, if not more so—grounded in the landscape of the 90s and grappling with complicated class dynamics. It had also gotten panned by critics.
“It felt real. I think the only reason people didn’t like it is because they were expecting something along the lines of speculative fiction. Also, homophobia.”
Remus shakes his head and laughs. “You just say whatever you want, don’t you?”
“It’s a blessing and a curse.” Sirius dunks a piece of bread in the cawl. “But none of this explains why you moved to New York.” He pops it in his mouth and chews, savoring the taste.
“Ah, right.” All Sirius can hear is the sound of his own chewing as Remus thinks. His eyes glaze over as a distant look overtakes him. “I’ve spent a good deal of my life running. I’m not proud of it, but it is what it is. At a certain point, I just wanted to settle somewhere far away, in a big city where no one knew my name. I’d met Minerva at a conference two years prior, and we’d struck up a conversation where I’d mentioned I’d wanted to teach after I graduated. She reached out to let me know of an opening in the department, told me it was a long shot but that my novel’s popularity might give me an edge. New York was far away, and I much preferred it to London, so I applied. And the rest is, as they say, history.”
It feels nostalgic to hear Remus describe it, as though he were there himself. And the pointed gaps in the story only make Sirius more curious. But it feels in poor taste to ask questions like what were you running from when Remus hasn’t offered it himself. Remus, for his part, stares at the table, brow furrowed, lost in thought.
After half a minute, Sirius clears his throat. Trying his best to ease into the conversation, he says, “Well, I’m glad you’re here and we met. My life is better for it.” He means each word of it. His chest tightens at the thought of a universe where he and Remus don’t know each other.
It does the trick and pulls Remus out of his head, back in the present. He smiles and reaches for his wine glass, finishing it off. “Same here. Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite student.”
“What a coincidence. You’re my favorite teacher.” Remus reaches for the bottle to pour them both more, only to find it empty. When he sets it back down, Sirius asks, “What’s wrong with London, though?”
“I had a teacher in secondary school from London. He’d studied at Balliol College and acted as though he was doing some great humanitarian aid teaching in a small, Welsh town.” The table shakes slightly as Remus bounces his leg and his knee knocks against the underside. “Honestly, I’m not sure myself what he was doing there. The best thing Wales had going for it—he’d say—was the scenery, and even that couldn’t compare to his time spent in Grasmere for his dissertation.”
It takes Sirius a second to place why the name of the town is so familiar. “You quoted Wordsworth in your office a few months back.”
Remus’s face contorts and he lets out a bitter laugh. “He was a fan of the Romantics and spent some time studying Wordsworth’s manuscripts in Dove Cottage, so we each had to memorize and recite one of his poems. I chose Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey. Never forgot it. In any case, I always thought of him when I thought of London. I know it’s silly.”
Sirius shakes his head. “Not at all. I’m so sorry. He sounds like a fucking prick. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to teach.”
“In a funny way, he helped me realize why I wanted to teach—so I could be everything he wasn’t.”
“You are. I’ll stand on this table and quote Whitman to prove it.” He raises his hand in a mock salute. “O Captain! My Captain!” The words accomplish what he hopes they will, and Remus rests a hand on his shoulder and laughs.
“Let’s keep the poor table out of this.” The words must inspire him to look at it. Remus’s hand lifts, and he motions toward their empty plates. “Speaking of which, I’ll clear the table. If you could just grab the box on the counter and bring it to the living room. We can sit on the couch and try the whisky you so kindly bought.”
“You don’t have to open it on my account. I got it for you to enjoy.”
But Remus waves a hand dismissively and stacks their plates up. He doesn’t know the kitchen well enough to be helpful in putting things away, but Sirius grabs the charcuterie board and places what’s left of the bread on it, bringing it with him to the kitchen and setting it on the counter.
“Sure I can’t do anything to help?”
“Just make yourself comfortable on the couch. I’m going to wash a few dishes so there isn’t as much mess, but I’ll be there in a few. Sorry to be a bad host.”
Sirius barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “You couldn’t be a bad host if you tried.” He takes the box of what he assumes are pastries—judging by the bakery’s name on the title—and sets it down on the coffee table by the couch before heading to the bathroom. Now that he’s standing, he can feel the wine’s warm, comforting effect. But it also makes his mind wander toward dangerous territory.
Sirius can’t help but think that the invitation itself seems like an indication where the night is headed, but perhaps that’s wishful thinking. He stares at himself in the mirror. His cheeks are pink, and his hair is beginning to fall from the tie. Before he can second-guess his decision, he takes it down, pockets the tie, and runs his hands through his hair. When he’s satisfied with it, he glances around for the toothpaste. Even with whisky and biscuits awaiting him in the other room, it never hurts to freshen up.
The toothpaste, however, is nowhere in sight. Given that the mirror doubles as a cabinet, Sirius has a sneaking suspicion where he might find it. He chews on his lower lip as his stomach flips. No doubt, it’d be invasive, and with his breath smelling minty, Remus might suspect him. In the end, curiosity wins out.
The first thing he spots are three orange pill bottles, and despite the fact that he knows it isn’t right to look, Sirius can’t help but lean in and read the small text—sertraline, hydroxychloroquine, and methotrexate. The only one he knows off the top of his head is the first, but searching the pills on his phone feels like a step too far.
The second thing he sees is far more interesting. Tucked behind Vitamin D supplements is an unopened box of Skyn condoms. The words on the corner of the box seem to stare back at him: non-latex lubricated condoms. Sirius swallows thickly, suddenly dizzy.
He reaches for the toothpaste in a daze, squeezing some onto his pointer finger and using it as a makeshift toothbrush. By the time he’s rinsing, Sirius’s heart pounds in his chest, and his mind is moving a mile a minute until he practically trips over his own thoughts. Sirius grips the sink and stares at himself once more.
“Get a grip, Black.” Nerves rarely get the better of him in situations like this, so why now? He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before letting it out. And then he heads back to the living room.
No sooner has Sirius settled on the couch than does the sink in the kitchen turn off. After some shifting through the cabinets and the freezer, Remus returns with plates and glasses for the both of them, as well as the bottle of whisky and a small bowl with some ice in it. “Wasn’t sure if you liked yours chilled.”
“Thanks.” Sirius smiles and uses the small metal tongs to drop a few ice cubes into his glasses. This time, Sirius lifts the glass and offers a toast. “Cheers. Thank you for making sure I wasn’t alone on Christmas and cooking the best meal I’ve had in who knows how long. You didn’t have to do that, and I’m not sure how to repay you, but it means more than I can put into words.”
Remus clinks their glasses together. “You can repay me by making sure you don’t give up on writing. You’ve got real talent, Sirius.”
The whisky burns but soothes his nerves. Coupled with the wine, he knows it’s sure to settle in his body and make him heavy, but it feels like a small price to pay to quell the anxious thoughts in the back of his mind. “Well, thanks.”
Now that they’re on the couch, Sirius is aware of how close they are. Their bodies tilt to face each other without quite touching. He can almost feel the heat radiating from Remus’s body and resists leaning toward it.
Remus takes a large sip and lets out a satisfied sigh. “This tastes like home. A posh version of it, to be sure, but still.” Carefully, he swirls it and stares at the legs that form on the inside of the glass. “What about you? How did you come to New York?”
Despite how much bits of it have made it into his stories, it’s not a part of his life Sirius cares to recount. But for some reason, he feels comfortable sharing with Remus. “I needed a fresh start somewhere far away from home, and New York seemed like a good place to do that.” He rests his hands in his lap, does his best to ground himself, and starts, “My brother passed away about a year and a half ago.”
Remus breathes in sharply through his teeth. “I’d wondered when I read your stories, but I’d hoped I was mistaken. I’m so sorry.”
Sirius shakes his head. “My mate James and I had just crashed the Brasenose ball when I got the call that they’d found him.” Saying it, Sirius can feel the lump in his throat grow. That night is seared into his brain. He swallows thickly. “We’re not sure if he… There wasn’t a note. I’m not convinced he would have left one anyway.” His eyes burn, and this time, he doesn’t try to stop the tears. “I didn’t even know he was self-medicating or struggling with those sorts of things. Reg was always the good one, the put together one.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”
“I’m not sure how, but I kept it together by the world’s most delicate thread until the wake. My mother was more drunk than I’d ever seen her. We hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms, so it was the first time in a while I was home. She was spilling wine all over the floor and making a scene, which is unlike her. My mother is many things, but appearances matter to her. Which is why I was trying to help her, but she kept pushing me off. I was persistent, so finally, she leaned in and said, ‘If it’d been you, it would have been easier.’”
By now, he’s recounted the moment to James and Lily and a variety of therapists enough times that he finds himself feeling oddly distanced from it, as though it’s nothing more than a story. Still, there’s a dull ache in Sirius’s gut, and he feels depleted. Finally, he looks up at Remus. Remus stares back with a mix of care and horror.
“Someone says that exact thing in one of your stories.”
“Yes, well, what was it you said? We all leave traces of ourselves in our art.” Sirius laughs bitterly and runs his hands over his face, wiping away the tears.
“I’m so sorry she said that to you.”
“She tried to claim later that she just meant it would have been less surprising, given my history, but I saw the way she looked at me before she said it. She wanted it to hurt.”
There’s a slight pause and then Remus asks, each syllable slow and careful, “You said you held yourself together until the wake. What happened after that?”
Sirius has alluded to versions of it in his stories, and he’s certain Remus knows. His chest feels tight as he searches for the right words to describe it. “I stopped taking my meds and had a manic episode. It probably didn’t help that I was… on a few things as well, but the line between when I was dreaming and awake felt really porous. So, I started sleeping less and became paranoid. I’d see things moving out of the corners of my eyes, and when I’d turn, they wouldn’t be there. I’d be alone in my flat and hear faint, muffled voices.”
As he speaks, Sirius’s skin begins to crawl. Even though those days are lost in a hazy blur, he can remember what it felt like, how every choice seemed wrong—being asleep or awake, staying in his home or going out, drowning his thoughts in a pill-and-powder cocktail of his choice or staying sober. The restlessness had felt unbearable. “I was convinced someone was in my flat watching me and started trying to look up if that was possible, which, of course, was a bad idea because all the internet showed me were stories about people living in walls. I’d knock on the walls and swear they were hollow. And then…” He stops. He doesn’t know how to share the last part without sounding like a maniac. Shame has kept him from incorporating it into his writing. Even if fictional, it feels like too much. Surely, if Remus hears it, he’ll usher him out the door.
He waits for Remus to push, but it doesn’t happen.
So Sirius takes a deep breath and finishes. “I took a hammer to the walls. Knocked holes in several rooms, just to be sure. And not small ones, holes that were two or three feet across.” He stares blankly down at his lap. “James had to break the door down because I wouldn’t let him in or respond to his texts. There wasn’t much he could do for me in that state, so I was sectioned, and well…”
The silence feels unbearably loud in his ears, but he doesn’t dare look at Remus. He doesn’t want to see the unsettled look people have whenever he talks about the more prickly parts of his brain—the parts he can’t make sense of. After what feels like a full minute, though is surely less, Remus speaks. “That’s awful. I had no idea you went through all of that. Of course your brain couldn’t handle that much at once.”
The words wash over him, along with a wave of relief. And when Sirius looks at him, there is no pity in his eyes, nor fear. If anything, there’s a look of understanding. As though to offer additional reassurance, Remus shifts closer to him until their legs touch.
A jolt runs through Sirius, and weight he’d felt so viscerally on his chest and shoulders all but evaporates. There’s no room to second-guess himself or Remus’s intentions—this is deliberate. Trying to shake any lingering discomfort, Sirius smiles at Remus and leans over, knocking their shoulders together. “Thanks for listening.”
“Sirius, I don’t mean to overstep, but you do have a therapist here, correct?”
Sirius nods. “And I’m back to taking meds.”
Remus nods. “There’s no shame in It. If I wasn’t taking mine, who knows if I’d still be here.” He sighs. “The things you’ve gone through at your age… it’s awful.” He waits a beat and then blurts out, “Would you be open to a hug? Obviously, I understand if not. I know some people don’t like to be touched when—”
Before Remus can talk himself into changing his mind, Sirius interrupts. “I’d love a hug.”
It's as though the world around him slows down a moment. Remus leans forward, bringing with him the spiced smell of whisky, and suddenly, Sirius is swaddled in warmth. Unlike their hug when he first walked in, Remus's hand rubs up and down Sirius's back, large and warm, even through Sirius's blazer.
And Sirius melts.
The wine and whisky wash over him, making everything softer around the edges, and he breathes in deeply, burying his head in the crook of Remus's neck. He'd never imagined himself here, never imagined he’d know what Remus’s skin felt like against his own, what he would smell like. His heart thumps loudly, and his own arms wrap around Remus, one hand clutching Remus’s jumper as though to let go would be to risk life itself. A small, needy whine bubbles up his throat and escapes his lips. Against his ear, Sirius hears Remus’s breaths speed up. His hand trails up Sirius’s back and neck until his thumb grazes against Sirius’s hairline, and all Sirius wants is to know what it’s like to feel Remus’s hand woven in his hair.
Desire pools in his gut, hot and sharp, and he shuts his eyes. This isn’t enough. He needs more—more skin, more of Remus. Slowly, terrified that moving too quickly will shatter everything, he pulls back and tilts his head until their noses bump against each other and his foreheads rests against Remus’s. Remus’s breath is hot against his lips, and his fingers tighten around Sirius’s hair. All he has to do is lean in and—
“Wait.”
Not now, when there are no prying eyes, when there’s no one to knock on the door and interrupt them. Sirius doesn’t want to. He whines, his body aching as he stays put.
“We can’t. I can’t.” Remus hardly sounds convinced himself, and he makes no move to pull away.
“Remus—”
“I’m your professor.” The weight of his words must land because his hands slip from Sirius. With a ragged breath, he rips himself away from Sirius and stands by the couch. He looks away from him, cheeks pink, and squeezes the bridge of his nose.
But they haven’t come this far for Sirius to give up. Desire blurs with desperation, verging on delirious, and he stumbles forward, off the couch as well. “Do you not want me? Did I misread the whole thing?”
Remus’s face falls. “It’s not that, I just can’t…” His mouth opens and closes several times before he gives up. “Don’t be absurd. Of course, I do. That’s the problem.”
“How is that a problem?” He knows the answer Remus wants to give but won’t humor it—won’t let him go down that road. So he takes one step forward. And another. Remus stands still and looks past him, doubt turning to defeat. “It’s just us. Don’t overthink it.”
Remus nods. “Just us?” he repeats.
Blood rushes in Sirius’s ears, and his mouth goes dry. “Just us.” As far back as he can remember, Sirius has never kept anything from James, but he’s willing to make an exception.
“Fuck.” Remus whispers the word low enough that Sirius almost thinks he imagined it. But before he can consider it any further, Remus steps forward, placing his hand on the back of Sirius’s neck once more, and leans in.
The kiss isn’t gentle, not that Sirius wants it to be. There’s too much pent up in both of them—need feeding into hunger. Certainly, for Sirius, it feels bottomless, and judging by the force with which Remus bites Sirius’s lower lip it’s the same for him. Remus tastes like whisky, and his lips are slightly chapped. When Remus’s tongue flicks out, coaxing Sirius’s lips apart, Sirius gasps and reaches up, burying his hand in Remus’s curls, nails scraping against the scalp.
Remus sighs as he dips his tongue in, tasting the inside of Sirius’s mouth before pulling back. Instead, he leaves a trail of kisses down Sirius’s jaw until he finds his neck. With a satisfied grunt, he drags his tongue down it and tugs at Sirius’s hair, holding his head back and leaving him further exposed. It’s enough to make Sirius swallow thickly, anticipation seeping into every pore. His head spins, and he feels suddenly dizzy as Remus’s tongue traces his Adam's apple, then down further until it finds the spot where Sirius’s neck and shoulder meet.
Sirius whimpers and shifts, rolling his hips forward, but Remus must sense it because he pulls slightly back, denying him any relief. It’s like Sirius is thirteen again, his body burning, desperation seeping into every pore. So he tries to roll his hips again, earning a muffled uh-uh that vibrates against his neck. Remus gently grazes his teeth against the skin before biting down. He sucks at it, hard enough to leave a mark, before soothing the area with his tongue, and Sirius flushes, almost wishing it was during the semester, so he could show up to class with his new brand exposed, no one the wiser about what it meant but Remus.
“Too many layers,” Remus says. His hand loosens its grip on Sirius’s hair and drops to his shoulder, where he dips it under Sirius’s shirt and blazer. The calloused pads of his fingers trace along Sirius’s collar, and he leans back, panting.
Remus looks a mess, lips red and puffy, pupils blown. His eyes fall to Sirius’s neck, and although Sirius can’t see it, he can feel a bruise forming. Remus’s fingers trace his gaze, and his thumb presses against it until pain blossoms and Sirius gasps. “Look at you. You’re so young.” Remus seems to say it more to himself than to Sirius, but Sirius bristles regardless. He’s twenty-two, not some child. Besides, he’s always been called mature for his age by older men who would know better.
“Who are you calling young, old man?” Sirius challenges. He lifts his chin and gives Remus a defiant smirk as he subtly turns their bodies until Remus’s back is facing the couch. With no warning, he places his hands against Remus’s chest and pushes.
Remus gasps, falling backward gracelessly onto the couch. “Hey!” he starts, but his complaints die on his lips as Sirius takes off his blazer, tossing it unceremoniously on the couch beside them.
It hardly feels real, Remus staring up at him, open with his desire. Sirius has dreamt of this moment. Stared at Remus in class, searching his face for some confirmation of what he felt echoed back in Remus’s features. They’d come close to it once during Remus’s office hours, but he’d never deluded himself into thinking it’d be anything more than a fantasy. Still, a part of him had hoped…
Sirius knocks his knee against Remus’s, closing his legs, and straddles him. He rolls his hips together, sending a jolt through him, and his head drops back as he groans. Remus is just as hard as he is. All he wants to do is rut against Remus until they both come. Not wanting to rush things, however, he resists the urge. Under him, Remus gasps, his hands finding their way to Sirius’s waist. His fingers dig in, and he grips Sirius with such intensity that Sirius wonders if it’ll leave a mark as well.
“Fuck, oh, Jesus.” Despite his brief attempt at taking charge, Remus sinks into the couch and stares up at Sirius, his chest rising and falling rapidly. If the pink tinge of his cheeks and hungry expression are anything to go by, he wants more.
So Sirius bends down and presses his lips to Remus’s ear. Instinct tells him that it might be a sensitive area, so he traces along the shell of it with his tongue, past the silver of his earring, and nips at the lobe as he slowly continues to rock against him. Remus’s eyes flutter shut. Sirius’s heart pounds in his chest, each thump rising in his throat until it almost chokes him.
Before he can change his mind, Sirius whispers, “Every time I was in your office, I pictured you bending me over that desk and fucking me. You don’t know how many times I’ve jerked off to that.”
Remus’s nails dig into Sirius’s hips, and he lets out a long, low whine. “Fuck. I… I wanted to. Oh, God.” He looks like he can hardly believe he’s admitted it. But there’s no taking the words back, and knowing it emboldens Sirius, sending a thrill through him.
“Thought about blowing you before class. Then when you taught, you’d get hard every time you looked at me, picturing my lips around your cock.” There are whole movies of scenarios Sirius has dreamt up in his head. Ones under desks, in class, around his apartment. But none of them compare to the real thing.
Remus squirms . “You can’t say things like that.”
“Maybe one day, we'll be workshopping each other's pieces in class, and I'll read something aloud, and it'll strike you from the way I describe one of the characters licking come off of his face that it’s us I’m writing about.” Remus opens his mouth to protest, but Sirius continues before Remus can interrupt. “You’d be furious, looking around to see if anyone else put together the pieces. No one would, of course, because I’m not a fucking amateur. But you’d still take me to your office afterward and punish me.” Sirius grinds down harder, and Remus whines. His mouth opens, but no words come from it. “How would you punish me, Dr. Lupin?” Sirius hisses against Remus’s ear.
A hand shoots out, closing around his throat. Remus is careful not to choke him—not like this, at least. Slowly, Remus presses, guiding Sirius until he’s leaning slightly back, his face a few inches away from Remus’s. Remus stares at Sirius wordlessly, eyes boring into him, and for a brief, terrible second, Sirius wonders if he’s finally crossed into forbidden territory.
And then, Remus nods, as if to ask that this is okay, and Sirius nods back, groaning when the movements make Remus’s hand bump against the front of his neck. Remus’s pressure slightly tightens, squeezing from both sides until Sirius can no longer breathe, and his gaze falls to the buttons on Sirius’s shirt. It takes Sirius a moment to understand what Remus is getting at, but when he does, he barely chokes back a moan. His fingers close around the top one, and he fumbles with it before it unbuttons. He works on the next, and the next until his shirt falls open. All the while, Remus keeps a firm grip on Sirius’s neck, eyes tracing shamelessly up and down his body. By the time he’s finished, Sirius begins to splutter.
Remus lets go, and Sirius sways backward, nearly toppling. Deep gulps of air fill his lungs, and he steadies himself, aware of how exposed he is. Remus places a hand on Sirius’s hip, holding him upright. “Was that okay?” There’s a nervous edge to Remus’s voice that doesn’t match the boldness with which he’d acted, and Sirius can’t help but let out a strained laugh. “I mean, I didn’t hurt you?”
“So worried,” Sirius says. He reaches a hand up and runs it through his hair to fix it. “I’m fine.”
Remus hums and runs his hand up from Sirius’s hip to chest. “Good.” Gently, his thumb brushes over Sirius’s nipple. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Sirius jerks as he takes the nub between two fingers and twists. “I’m not a bad person.” A crease forms on Remus’s forehead, and his eyes glaze over in a faraway look, despite the fact that they never leave Sirius’s chest.
“That’s the last thing I’d ever accuse you of.” He bends down and presses his lips against Remus’s, kissing him hard until his head spins. The alcohol gives him the last bit of courage he needs to ask, “Do I get to see your bedroom now? Or would you prefer to fuck me in your office?”
Remus’s hand slips, and his eyes widen. Sirius rolls their hips together one last time, and Remus’s head falls back. “Okay, bedroom.” Sirius swings one leg over and stands. All he wants is to teleport to the bedroom, but Remus stands slowly, hands on his knees. “You can get comfortable. I’m going to wash up quickly.”
It takes everything Sirius has in him not to whine and pout. The last thing he wants is to wait even longer. He wants to know what Remus’s hands feel like against his cock and what Remus’s cock feels like on his tongue. But petulance, he’s learned, will get him nowhere. And if he’s waited this long, another few minutes won’t be the end of him.
Remus’s room isn’t large, hardly fitting more than a queen-sized bed and a desk. Still, much like the living room, plants cover most surfaces and art decorates the walls. An acoustic guitar sits in the corner on a stand. Perhaps that’s where the calluses come from, Sirius thinks, and he can’t help but picture Remus playing. On the desk sits a stack of books, precariously placed. Under other circumstances, he might make more of an effort to look at the titles, but his attention now is drawn toward the bed.
The green waffle weave comforter gives the room a warm feel and looks soft. Before Sirius sits, however, he does himself a favor, taking off his shirt and trousers. He folds them and places them over the chair by the desk. Even with the radiator on, humming in the background, the room is still a little chilly, so he makes his way to the bed. As suspected, it’s comfortable, and Sirius sinks into it, letting out a satisfied sigh. With his nose buried in it, he can smell the detergent, vaguely reminiscent of lavender.
He’s hardly had time to sprawl out when the door creaks open again. Sirius turns and sees Remus standing in the doorframe, eyes transfixed on him. “I see you got comfortable.” Remus wets his lips and lets out a breathy laugh.
“Your bed is as nice as it looks.” Sirius waggles his eyebrows suggestively and rolls on his side. “Care to join me?”
Instead of responding, Remus glances away and pulls two condoms out of his pocket. “You’re allergic to latex right?” He drops them on the bedside table, continuing to avoid eye contact. “I had an old box of latex-free condoms lying around. Think they should still be fine.” He’s not quite sure why Remus is lying, but he doesn’t care to call him out on it either.
Instead, Sirius simply grins. “Lucky me.”
“And the lube is—” Remus opens the nightstand and pulls out a small, glass bottle. “Here you are.” There’s a stiffness to him that wasn’t there before he’d gone to the bathroom, and judging by the way his eyes dart about, he’s in his head. It won’t do.
“And the tea and biscuits?” Sirius teases. He reaches out, closing his fingers around Remus’s wrist and tugs him onto the bed. “Come on.”
Remus lets himself be pulled down, which is precisely the problem. He’s lost in his thoughts, away from here. So Sirius bends down, pressing his lips against a mole on Remus’s neck and kisses it. The tension seeps out of Remus’s shoulders, and they drop as a small moan fills the space between them. The kiss is all the encouragement Remus needs to be spurred into action. He wraps an arm around Sirius and runs a hand up and down Sirius’s back. “You feel so nice.” His hand slips lower until it cups Sirius’s ass. He squeezes it, nails digging into Sirius’s skin, before giving it a light smack.
Sirius groans, letting his teeth graze lightly against the soft skin of Remus’s neck before he soothes it gently with his tongue. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”
They linger a moment longer—Sirius delighted by how suddenly eager Remus is—before Sirius reaches for the lube. He’s grateful he decided upon wearing a jockstrap, and judging by Remus’s red cheeks, glazed eyes, and parted lips, he is too. Remus extends a hand, as though Sirius will pump the lube onto his fingers. Who is he to say no?
He pumps three times and adjusts himself, ass facing Remus, knees spread as wide as he can comfortably go. He looks over his shoulder at Remus, in a haze as he admires the view in front of him, and smirks. “How long have you wanted to do this?” he asks.
Remus sucks in a sharp breath, and a brief flicker of shame crosses his features. How he can feel it even now is beyond Sirius. Given the circumstances, he’d imagine they’d be past it. “Longer than I care to admit,” is what Remus settles on. He runs two cold fingers from Sirius’s perineum to the rim, and Sirius jerks.
It’ll be harder to stay smug the longer Remus touches him. Sirius lets out a soft whine and rocks his hips backward, feeling the slick slide of Remus’s fingers against his hole. “Did you ever jerk off thinking about me?”
Remus grunts. It hardly sounds like a noise of affirmation, but Sirius knows him well enough to know it’s meant to be a yes. Then, perhaps to avoid any further questioning, he positions his finger carefully and slides the tip of it in, just past the tight muscle. He doesn’t give Sirius much—just to the first knuckle, before he pulls out and teases the skin around it.
As much as he wants to watch the way Remus’s eyes darken—the way he looks at Sirius with such hunger and want that it makes Sirius’s whole body burn—he can’t concentrate. So, Sirius drops his head to the bed, resting it against the sheets. “Fuck.”
Taking advantage of Sirius’s momentary distraction, Remus bends forward, his tongue following the path of his fingers over the sensitive skin. Sirius jerks, fingers gripping the sheets, and Remus chuckles, the noise vibrating against him before he dips his finger back in, sinking in past the first and second knuckle, down to his palm.
There’s a slight burn and stretch with it, one that Sirius loves. Remus sets an agonizingly slow pace, pulling his finger partially out before pressing back in. And when Sirius tries to rock backward, Remus’s hand falls, settling on his hips and stilling him. He must be set on torturing him, Sirius thinks. Eventually, however, desire must win out, as a second finger presses in with the first.
Even with a second finger, Remus doesn’t stop teasing. He sinks them both in slowly, centimeter by centimeter. But Sirius’s self-restrraint has worn thin. He reaches behind him, blindly searching until his hand closes around Remus’s forearm, and he pulls him closer until both of Remus’s fingers fill him. “Fuck.”
“You have no patience,” Remus says. He clicks his tongue and curls his fingers.
“I thought you’d have learned that about me by now. When I want something, I get it.” It’s easy being brave now that he’s here, but Sirius has always been ambitious, desired more than his fair share. Perhaps he’s followed Icarus’s path on multiple occasions, but moments like this make it worth it.
“Am I just a prize to be won by you?” Remus adds a third finger, not bothering to tease anymore. He fucks Sirius, his long fingers reaching deep, stretching him until he feels full—close to sated. Remus drops his hand from Sirius’s hip and lets Sirius thrust back as he pleases. Sirius’s body burns, and he pants as he tilts his head, looking over his shoulder at Remus.
“I’m the prize.”
Remus stares for a moment, lips parted. Sirius is sure he looks like a mess, hair sticking to his forehead with swear. “Want to come from my fingers or my cock?”
“Do I have to choose?” Remus twists his fingers, and Sirius gasps. “Wanna come riding you.”
He hears a sharp intake of air, and Remus’s hand stills a moment before he slips his fingers out. The loss is immediate. Sirius whimpers, his hole clenching around nothing. Before he can fully orient himself, he feels Remus’s breath against his it, and Remus's tongue passes over it, warm and wet. “Turn to face the edge of the bed and keep your eyes closed.”
Sirius grins and mutters a cheeky “yes, Sir,” before obliging. The bed shifts as Remus stands, and Sirius hears the rustle of fabric and the sound of a zipper. There are a few footsteps back and forth, and then Remus stills. For a moment, he can hear nothing but his pounding heart. “Remus?”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Remus mutters, all nerves, as though he’s trying to convince himself. “You can open them.” Sirius does so and hardly bites back a moan. Remus stands before him, gorgeous and utterly naked. His cock is flushed and hard enough to nearly rest against his stomach. It may just be the hottest thing Sirius has ever seen. “Okay?” This time Remus poses it as a question, and Sirius wants to laugh. How could it possibly be anything else?
“Of course, it’s okay. It’s better than okay. Way better. Incredible.” He’s rambling now, but judging by the way Remus’s cheeks turn pink, he doesn’t mind. “Jesus, you’re so fucking hot.”
“It’s Remus, not Je—”
Sirius doesn’t let him finish. Instead, he leans over and opens his mouth, licking a stripe along Remus’s cock, and groans happily. “I won’t let you ruin our moment with a dad joke, old man.”
“Ouch,” Remus says, the corner of his lip curling up in a smile despite his best attempt at looking serious. “You wound me.”
“What could I do to help you forgive me?”
“I can think of a few things.” Remus raises an eyebrow. “Put that pretty mouth of yours to work.”
“Yes, Professor Lupin,” Sirius mutters, relishing in the way Remus turns a deeper shade of red and gapes. And then he runs his tongue over the slit of Remus’s cock. It’s salty and bitter and everything he’s dreamed of. He grabs the base with his hand and takes him down until his lips meet his fingers and the head of it hits the back of his throat. He swallows and adjusts to the weight of it on his tongue. Then, he sets a steady pace. He bobs up and down, eyes fixed on Remus, his hand moving in tandem.
At this pace, it won’t take Remus long, and they both know it.
With a wet pop, he pulls back. He must look obscene, lips puffy, a trail of spit still connecting him to Remus’s cock. Remus stares down at him, hungry, chest rising and falling rapidly. When Sirius bends back down, however, Remus takes a fistful of his hair in his hand, stopping him. Sirius whines.
“Wanna fuck you.”
Sirius isn’t going to argue with that. He moves back, leaving space for Remus to get on the bed. The alcohol has hit him full-force now, and the room spins slightly as he does so. His body feels warm and floats. Seemingly, he blinks, and Remus is next to him, half-propped up on the pillows. Judging by the pink glow on his cheeks, he can feel the effects of the alcohol as well.
Sirius places his hands on either side of Remus and moves on top of him with as much grace as he can muster, until his legs are straddling Remus. He stays elevated for a moment. The angle is awkward, but he manages to slide a condom on and pumps a generous amount of lube on Remus’s cock.
He’s fucked himself countless times picturing this moment, toys acting as a stand-in for the real thing. With a roll of his hips, he feels Remus slide against him, hard and hot even through the condom. They both groan. Sirius reaches around, hand around the base of Remus’s cock as he guides it until the head rests against his hole.
And then sinks down.
He moves slowly, deliberately, burning from the stretch of Remus’s cock in him, until his ass is flush with Remus’s hips. Until he’s full. Sirius’s eyes shut, and his head falls back as he pants. The alcohol cradles him, leaving him dizzy and overwhelmed in the best way possible, and he reaches behind, gripping the back of his calf to steady himself. He stays like that for a moment, adjusting to the feeling.
“Bet I could warm your cock just like this as you grade papers.” The words slip out, any sense of a filter gone, but Remus doesn’t seem to mind. He groans and places his hands on Sirius’s hips, fingers digging in.
Sirius gives an experimental roll and moans as he feels Remus shift inside of him. With bated breath, he shifts his hand from his calf to Remus’s chest and begins to move in earnest. He lifts himself slightly up before dropping back down, setting as steady of a pace as he can manage.
“Fuck.” The word catches in Remus’s throat and comes out shaky and garbled. “You feel—” But Sirius grinds down, preventing Remus from finishing his thought. His cheeks flush, and his head falls back as he looks at Sirius through heavy lids. His hands tighten their grip on Sirius’s hips, and he thrusts upward as much as he can, sinking somehow deeper.
Sirius whimpers.
Slowly, he lifts himself, but he hardly notices the way his thighs ache. Instead, he feels the drag of the cock inside of him, inch by inch, until only the tip remains. He hovers for a second, empty, legs quivering. And drops back down.
The sensation of being filled so quickly is both overwhelming and exquisite.
He stares at Remus—flushed and desperate, eyes glazed over—and fucks him in earnest. Sweat sticks to the hair on Remus’s chest, and Sirius runs his hand down through it, into the happy trail, and back up. At first, Remus does his best to meet Sirius’s pace, bucking up into him until pleasure surges through Sirius’s body. But soon, he gives up and lays there, a whimpering mess.
“I’m gonna come,” he rasps, and then he does, gripping onto Sirius for dear life. Sirius slows, riding him until Remus is depleted and lies, chest heaving and eyes closed. A pink flush spreads down his neck to his chest. If Sirius could capture this moment for the rest of time, he would.
He settles back down, Remus’s softening cock still in him, and ignores Remus’s half-hearted whine of protest. With one hand, he reaches for his own cock. It won’t take him long. Eyes fixed on Remus, he strokes himself, pressure building in him until he comes in white streaks across his and Remus’s chests. It’s a sight to behold,
After he comes down, he lifts his hips, groaning as Remus slips out of him. He bends down, licking a stripe up Remus’s chest, collecting sweat and come, salty and bitter, and shifts off of Remus.
“Fuck, you’re incredible.” Remus props himself up and reaches for the back of Sirius’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. He moans as he tastes the come on Sirius’s lips.
“You aren’t so bad yourself.” Sirius looks down at his chest and back up. Past Remus, he can see the clock, the time glowing in red: 10:48, and he feels his chest constrict. As much as he wants to linger, he knows better than to test his luck and overstay his welcome. “Should I clean up and get out of your hair?” He sees hurt flicker across Remus’s face, and he realizes belatedly how his question must have come across. “I don’t want to. It’s just late, and I feel like I’m being rude. You’ve already been so kind inviting me in.”
“You don’t want to?” Relief mixes with a slight edge of skepticism.
“Fuck no.” Sirius shakes his head emphatically, trying his best to convey how much he means it. “This has been the best night I’ve had in a long, long time. I don’t want it to end.”
Remus regards him a moment and then nods, satisfied by his sincerity. “I’ll pull out a new toothbrush for you.” He stands and motions toward the dresser. “Top drawer has underwear and middle one’s shirts. Feel free to grab any. Think I have some spare joggers on the bottom too if they fit. That okay?”
Somehow, Sirius thinks he’s asking about more than the clothes or toothbrush. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks.”
He waits until Remus leaves and flops backward on the bed. As he stares at the ceiling, cradled by alcohol, his body buzzes and his mind quiets. Sirius sprawls out and smiles.