When the World Goes Quiet

by madefortherain

Summary:

Sometimes, the world is loud for Sirius Black. His friends help. And his art, and rugby. They dull the noise, muffle it to a faint hum.

But for two hours every Tuesday, Sirius has his Latin lecture. For two hours every Tuesday, he stares at a boy with soft curls and a crooked nose. And for two hours every Tuesday, the world finally goes quiet.

Notes:

if you're here from an email, that's cool as fuck, HI!! and ofc hello, too, if you're new :) thank you for being here!

first thing's first, a couple of quick disclaimers:
1. sirius does, at the beginning of this fic, believe himself to be straight. it's not explicitly mentioned in the first few chapters, so just in case it was missed in the tags, i don't want anyone to be taken by surprise when it does come up. he has his reasons and they'll all make sense in the end! <3
2. i have zero actual knowledge of rugby. i suffered through two youtube videos on the general rules and have tried my very best, but please bear that in mind with any of the descriptions LMAO

now, i have prewritten chapters, but this is very much a WIP, so no promises on any sort of update schedule. everything is pretty thoroughly outlined though :) also unsure of an exact chapter count, but going off my planning, i'm estimating somewhere between 15-20

and lastly, but very importantly, fuck jkr. i do not support her, nor her abhorrent views. protect trans lives.

Chapter 1: Golden

Summary:

But that had all been before. Before the boy.

Sirius is sweating. The sun beats down fiercely against the back of his neck, exposed where he’s tied his hair up in a knot. He’s probably burning; he tends to do that. Blame the inbreeding. Harsh rays shine bright in his eyes as he squints up at the offending light, overtaking his vision with gold.

Tanned skin glowing golden, dark freckles scattered like stars of bronze.

“Oi, Black!” a voice yells, and Sirius snaps his head back down just in time to dive for the ball headed his way. He runs, wind whipping against his face as he scans the field, looking, looking, looking. Aha. James is right where Sirius knew he’d be, just a little behind him, brow furrowed with determination.

Teeth biting gently on a lip, tiny frown tugging at a forehead.

Sirius tosses the ball, watching in satisfaction as James catches it and continues running without breaking stride. From across the pitch, Sirius follows, falling back and away from the cluster of people crowding James, fading into the background for once. He knows James will know; an inexplicable string tying them together, even across the distance.

Sunlight weaving through messy brown curls; an almost imperceptibly glinting, aureate thread.

James smiles something smug, not even looking at Sirius before the ball is soaring sideways towards him. Sirius grins, catching it against his chest with a muffled grunt, stumbling a little with the force of it.

Long limbs floundering to regain their footing, cheeks blooming a rosy pink.

Sirius rights himself, heart pounding as he hears increasingly heavy footfalls right on his heels. He’s so close. He adds a final burst of speed, launching himself forwards. Something grazes his calf, but he’s diving, shooting through the air with outstretched arms, the ball and the try-line flashing through his mind like a premonition.

A crooked smile of embarrassment, a head ducked in apology.

The ball hits the ground first, still gripped firmly by Sirius’ hands. His body is next, sliding along the mud-slick grass. There is one single moment of stillness, and he smiles. 

Amber eyes meeting grey; quiet, quiet, quiet.

Something slams into his back and the world rushes back into motion. Yelling in his ear—the all-too-familiar screech of James Potter after victory. Sirius wriggles underneath James’ heavy weight, laughing as he’s jostled in excitement.

“Pads, Pads, Pads!”

“Fuck off, Prongs,” Sirius wheezes, shoving at James’ sweaty arms. 

He squirms enough to roll onto his back, kneeing James somewhere intentionally south of his stomach. There’s a rather inelegant squawk that Sirius snickers at, but then, harsh fingers suddenly jab into his sides, and Sirius is quickly reduced to outraged yelps of ticklish laughter. 

“You—wanker,” he gasps, flailing for James’ wrists and trying desperately to wrench them away. James just swats at his hands and keeps jabbing with a grin on his face that reads far too self-satisfied to Sirius. The sight fuelling his own one-upmanship, Sirius manages to hook his feet around James’ thighs and, with considerable effort, flips them over so he’s sitting triumphantly—albeit rather uncomfortably—on top of James’ knees, wrists finally clasped in Sirius’ hands. “Didn’t realise tackling extended past the end of the game.”

James grins up at him, round glasses askew from their tussle. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

Sirius snorts. “On the ground, more like it.” But he’s grinning, too, head buzzing with the high of adrenaline. “Nice pass.”

“Nice try.”

“Cheers, Captain.”

James laughs. “Yeah, yeah. You reek, by the way.”

Sirius raises a brow. There are unpleasant odours rolling off of both of them, thank you very much. “Sure you aren’t smelling yourself there?”

“Har har. Showers?”

“Showers,” Sirius agrees, untangling his legs from James’ and hauling himself upright.

“If you can score like that at the match,” James starts, dragging his fingers through his hair so the messy tufts stick out even worse than usual, “we’ll have it in the bag.”

“Please,” Sirius scoffs. “Of course I can score like that at the match.”

James grins, the rich brown of his skin gleaming bronze beneath the sunlight, and sets off towards the change rooms. “Good. I think I’d have to drop out if the Snakes won again.”

“Aren’t we playing Badgers next?” Sirius asks, frowning a little as he falls into step next to James.

“Yeah, but...you know.”

“Yeah.” Sirius grimaces at the memory of their last match against their rival team. “I know.”

The two of them walk through the door, the thick scent of sweat, dirt, and an entire rugby team’s worth of body odour assaulting Sirius’ nostrils. He wrinkles his nose. The rest of their teammates are already changed or changing, knowing better than to get in between James and Sirius’ various antics on the pitch. Besides, most people like to have washed off before sitting to listen to James’ post-practice debrief—he’s a brilliant captain, but sometimes his passion manifests in...lengthy strategy talks. Especially when it’s one of his additionally scheduled practices, without their coach, Minerva, to rein him in.

“Nice score, Black,” Gideon calls from one of the benches, nodding to Sirius with an easy smile.

“Yeah, that was a beauty,” Fabian chimes in from behind his twin, the shorter length of his flaming red hair the only distinguishable feature between him and Gideon.

Sirius grins. “Cheers, lads.”

There are a few murmured agreements and additional compliments from the rest of the team as they emerge from inside shower cubicles or behind lockers. 

“You were amazing!” A hand claps onto Sirius’ shoulder and he has to grit his teeth. He knows that hand. And that voice. Reedy in a way that grates at his ears. Caradoc fucking Dearborn. 

He’s new to the team this year—new to the uni as a whole; a first-year—and even though it’s barely been three weeks of the new semester, Sirius just— Well. Cannot fucking stand the bloke. It’s not that he’s done anything in particular, he’s just annoying. He’s clearly trying—trying to be nice, trying to be a part of the team, trying to be everybody’s friend, especially Sirius’. And Sirius really, really needs him to stop. He’s just— He’s everywhere, all the time. He’s touching and talking and laughing too loud, and he’s not even that good of a rugby player. Sirius doesn’t know why James picked him, honestly. He’s said as much to him, on multiple occasions since their first practice after tryouts, but James has remained steadfast in his decision. Loyal bastard.

Sirius forces a smile onto his face, fairly certain it looks more like a grimace, but not trusting himself to open his mouth any further to actually say anything. He promised James he’d play nice. He’s regretting that now. Sure enough, when he turns his head, Caradoc is right there, hand still on Sirius’ shoulder—his sweaty, mud-covered shoulder—still smiling, mouth opening like he’s about to start fucking talking again. And Sirius will genuinely have to kill someone if that happens. It wouldn’t even be his fault! He’s quite sure it would count as justifiable homicide, actually; so long as he brought a recording of Caradoc’s obnoxious bloody voice along to court, anybody possessing at least half a modicum of rationality would understand—would sympathise, even.

“James,” he calls suddenly, wrenching his shoulder away from Caradoc’s grip lest he really does use it for something violent. “Shall we get this going?”

“Right, right, yes!” James claps, and rubs his palms together eagerly. “So, I’ll keep this brief—”

His statement is met with snickers from the rest of the team, Sirius included. James says this every single practice, without fail, and every single practice, without fail, he proceeds to ramble on for a length of time that is...decidedly not brief. 

A fond smile on his face, Sirius (respectfully) tunes out. James is gesticulating with increasing wildness as he talks strengths and weaknesses and strategy. It’s nothing Sirius hasn’t heard a hundred times by now, nothing he won’t hear again at home tonight, and he doesn’t really need to be listening. He catches words here and there—‘ruck,’ and ‘conversion,’ and ‘Snakes’—but mostly lets his mind wander.

Head propped against a hand, cheek squished and glasses a little lopsided.

Sirius might try to head to the studio for a bit, a little later. He’s not working on a piece for anything specific yet, but he’s got that itch to get his hands on some clay again, the one that lives under his sternum, telling him that it’s been too long. It’s Tuesday, so he doesn’t have many classes today. Well, aside from Latin.

Pen tapping softly against a mouth, blue ink smudged on a crooked nose.

He and James will have Peter over tonight and they’ll all cook something together while they plan the final few things for the weekend. Maybe paella, they haven’t made that in ages. Or Effie’s new curry they’d tried over the summer holidays; Sirius has a photo of the recipe on his phone.

Teeth chewing on a lip, chewing on a nail, chewing on the end of a pen. 

It’s a rare day of nice weather in London. Perhaps they should grab a few things and make a picnic of it down in the communal courtyard of their flat building. That might be a nice option—something quick and easy. They could sit beneath the sun and watch it set, soaking up the pitiful few rays the city will have to offer.

A beam of sunlight painting soft browns in warm gold, long fingers squeezing behind glasses lenses, scrubbing at tired eyes. 

A tap on a shoulder. He startles a little as he turns his head away, to the left, looking up and breaking out into a small, kind smile; always a smile, always kind. Nodding as he listens, quiet replies so softly-spoken they’re inaudible from across the hall. A question. An answer. He laughs, ducking his head and turning back to the right as though to obscure the act from view, but Sirius can see it. He’s hiding it, but Sirius can see. He’s laughing, and Sirius can see. Eyes with crinkled corners, a toothy smile so wide it presses soft dimples into pink cheeks, face brightening even without the light of the sun. He’s hiding, but Sirius can see. He’s laughing, and Sirius sees.

A hand lifting, knuckles nudging glasses back up and over the bump in his nose where they’ve slipped too low. The same hand swipes over his mouth, wiping away the laughter, replacing it with that smile: small, kind, reserved. He looks back up and nods, curls bouncing with the movement, ruffling beneath the gentle breeze of the ceiling fans. More quiet words. A departure. He returns to his notebook, pen moving automatically back between his teeth, still smiling softly. 

Sirius smiles, too. He feels like he’s been let in on a secret. Granted, perhaps unknowingly, but he’ll keep it. He can keep a secret. Especially one this nice. 

The pen moves to write something down, its place between teeth replaced by a lower lip, brow tugging down in a tiny frown. The lip is released as the mouth opens to speak. “Sirius.”

Sirius frowns. The voice sounds...wrong. Not that he knows what it sounds like, but it’s— It shouldn’t be like—

“Sirius?”

Sirius startles, the noise of the change room as the team gets themselves together to leave flooding his previously quiet mind. James is looking at him with mild concern, the expression only magnified by the circular lenses of his glasses. “Alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius dismisses, deliberately blinking a few times to wash away the lingering streams of gold. “Just thinking. Showers? Wormy’ll be waiting.”

“Right, yeah,” James says, but he keeps looking at Sirius sideways as they gather their things to wash off. Sirius does his level best to ignore it. He’s usually better at keeping himself at least halfway-present. It’s probably just because he’s eager for Latin. The days since last Tuesday have dragged, and he’s craving the peace. 

They shower quickly, rinsing off the now-dried dirt and sweat. Sirius doesn’t love morning practices for this reason. Aside from the obvious lack of a sleep-in, he prefers finishing in the evening, getting all his pent up energy from the day out of his system, and then being able to shower at home. But it’s hard to find times when everyone on the team is free—what with their vast array of majors—especially outside of their three regularly scheduled afternoon practices. 

Also, Sirius’ hair just never looks as good after a change room shower. 

He towels off and changes, pulling on a loose pair of jeans and a slightly-faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt before shoving his feet into his favourite battered pair of Docs. He’s just slinging his bag over his shoulder when James reappears, also fully changed. 

“Good to go?”

“Yep.” Sirius nods, twisting his damp hair up and sticking one of the spare pencils that perpetually float around in his bag through the knot, so that when he lets it down in an hour or so, it’ll at least be a little wavy. They make for the door. “You’re heading to Rip, too, yeah?”

Rip is the nickname everyone at Hogwarts uses for the art building, The Ripple. It had been renamed that after huge refurbishments a few years back where the building was reconstructed in the wavy—rippling—design that it displays now. With its shape and many glass windows, when the sun shines, the building almost does look like it’s rippling through the air. The only problem is that it’s really not sunny all that often. So. Anyway, somehow, Rip was landed on; Sirius isn’t really sure why.

“Yeah, I’m not there ’til half ten though,” James says as they step back outside, squinting against the sudden rays of sun. “Dunno what I’m gonna do in my half hour without you.”

“A tragedy, I know,” Sirius laments.

“What’s a tragedy?” Peter chimes in, looking up from where he’s been scrolling on his phone while waiting, leant against the wall of the change rooms. 

“That haircut,” Sirius says immediately, laughing as he dodges the sharp flick that Pete aims to the side of his head.

“Prick,” Pete mutters, shaking his head so the sandy hair in question flops around his face. “Besides, we all know Prongs’ mop is the true tragedy here.”

“Oi!” James cries, instantly running his fingers through his own hair as Sirius cackles, and slyly high-fives a very smug looking Pete. “Why am I getting brought into this?”

“Because, I’m afraid it’s true,” Sirius sighs, patting James on the shoulder in an over-the-top show of sympathy. “It’s alright though; you make up for it with your boyish charm. Unfortunately, not everyone can be blessed with both. Well, except for m—”

James clamps a hand over Sirius’ mouth, huffing out a laugh. “Oh, shut it, you.”

He removes his hand just before Sirius moves to lick it, his tongue instead landing against empty air. Rude.

“Shall we go then?” Pete asks, glancing down to his watch and then up again. 

James and Sirius nod their assent, and the three of them begin making the journey across campus.

“You’re still coming ’round tonight, right, Wormy?” Sirius checks.

“Yep.” Pete nods, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder. “I’ll swing by mine first to drop my stuff, but then I’ll be there.”

“Easy. I’m probably gonna head to the studio for a while this afternoon, so no rush.”

“Al-so,” James cuts in, drawing out the word in a way that Sirius knows means he’s about to bring up something potentially annoying, “I managed to convince Remus to come this weekend.”

Ah. There it is. Sirius makes a concerted effort not to roll his eyes.

“Oh, you did?” Pete jumps in excitedly. “That’s great! He never comes to anything, I’m always telling him he should.”

Sirius whips his head towards Pete. “Wait— What the fuck? You’re friends with Remus, too?”

“I swear, you never listen to me,” Pete grumbles, though without any real hurt in his tone.

“Oi, I listened to you go on about the demonic nature of birds for the better part of two hours yesterday.”

“Padfoot,” Pete says gravely, his blue eyes filled with earnest, “have you seen their fucking beaks?”

Sirius, because he’s nice to his friends, suppresses his snort. “Yes, yes, you mentioned those. But see? I listen. Now, what’s this about your betrayal?”

Peter, because he’s rude to his friends, does snort. “It’s hardly a betrayal, Christ. We just have gender studies together—which I’ve told you before.”

“It’s hardly my fault if Prongs goes on about him so much that I’ve learnt to tune out whenever I hear ‘Remus,’ regardless of who’s talking.”

James makes an indignant noise. “I don’t go on about him! You’re just stubborn for no reason.”

“You so do,” Sirius argues. “If I didn’t have years-long, disgustingly solid evidence of your devotion to Evans, I’d be half concerned you fancied the bloke.”

James blinks, seemingly in shock for a moment, before bursting out laughing, and Peter uses the opportunity to jump in again. 

“Anyway,” he starts back up, rolling his eyes, “We got paired up for a group assignment about halfway through freshers—and you know I can’t stand groupwork, usually. I don’t think we spoke to each other for the whole first class of the assignment, but then he made this joke under his breath—I don’t even think I was meant to hear it—and bloody hell, it was hilarious. Anyway, I lost it and he looked so embarrassed that I’d heard, but we ended up actually talking after that, and he was really great to work with. We still study together sometimes; it’s nice to have someone else who actually has to work to do well, unlike you prats.”

“Yeah, but—” Sirius wrinkles his nose. “He majors in ethics.”

“So?”

“So, it’s—it’s pretentious!”

“Oi, watch what you’re calling pretentious!” James interjects with a squawk.

“You do law, James, that’s different.”

“Not that different; more than half our subjects overlap.”

“Yeah, but law is...” Sirius gestures with his hands as if he can craft the word he’s looking for like one of his sculptures. “Acceptable,” he settles on.

“Wow, cheers,” James says drily.

Sirius shoves him. “You know what I mean. It’s respectable.”

James raises a brow. “And ethics isn’t?”

“Since when do you care about respectability, anyway?” Pete interjects slyly.

“No! It isn’t. And since always, Wormy,” Sirius huffs in mock-affront. “Why do you think I’m doing fine arts?”

“Because...you’re actually pretentious?”

Sirius gasps in outrage, lunging for Pete, who has—very wisely—started high-tailing it away from him, laughing far too gleefully. 

“You take that back, Wormtail!” Sirius cries, chasing after him. He jumps, aiming to latch on to Pete’s back until the other boy relents. Only, what with the force of Pete’s fleeing propelling him forwards already, plus the weight of Sirius colliding into his back—and the additional six inches of height that Sirius has on him on top of all that—the two of them go tumbling to the ground in a yelping heap.

Sirius grunts as his stomach falls on Pete’s elbow, bent where he’s caught himself on the grass. To be fair, Sirius probably deserves the winding.

“You rugby lads,” Pete pants into the ground. “Bloody menaces.”

Sirius laughs breathlessly, rolling off of him with a wince. “Serves you right, Mr Film Studies. Talk about pretentious.”

Peter spits out a tuft of grass, his round cheeks pink from the impact. “Not my fault you can’t appreciate good media when it’s shown to you.”

Sirius is just brushing himself off to stand when James reaches them, obviously having strolled behind them, an amused expression on his face. “You two finished?”

Sirius grins. “Aw, are you feeling left out, Prongsie?”

“I’m just wondering if we can get back to my original topic?”

“What topic?” Sirius frowns, hauling himself up and offering a hand out for Pete.

“Remus coming to our flat-warming!” James says exasperatedly, flinging his arms up like this should’ve been obvious to Sirius.

Sirius scrunches his nose as they start walking again. “You mean there was more to that?”

“Well,” James ventures, “will you at least meet him?”

“Hm...” Sirius pretends to think about it. “No.”

“Padfoot!”

“What?!”

James frowns. “I just think you’d get along.”

“I appreciate that, Prongs, but I really don’t see the need for any more friends.”

“That’s what you said right before Lily introduced us to Mary and Marlene, too, though,” Pete reasons.

“Yeah,” Sirius drawls, “so now there’s the six of us, I really don’t need more.”

Six is...a good number. There’s no awkward third wheel—or, seventh wheel, more like. Nobody gets left out. There’s two established trios for when they do want to break things up a bit, or three duos for even smaller options. It’s good. Adding another would throw everything into disarray. Seven is...annoying. It’s prime; it doesn’t divide nicely. And, well. Alright, maybe Sirius is just being particularly stubborn about this. But really, James has been on about this ‘Remus’ for the better part of a year now. And Sirius knows James wouldn’t be this insistent about someone if he wasn’t sure about them; he knows Sirius far too well for that. But still, the point stands. It’s just a lot. Sirius is mostly refusing on principle at this point.

“Well, nobody needs more friends,” James says, “but it’s still nice, innit?”

“I think you just love everyone, James,” Sirius teases.

“That’s not true!” 

Sirius and Pete exchange an amused look. 

James quickly turns sheepish. “Okay, maybe it’s a little bit true, but still.”

“He’s right, Padfoot,” Pete says. “I don’t know what your real issue is, but if you actually gave him a chance, I reckon you’d really like him.”

Sirius groans. “I can’t believe you’re both on me about this.”

“He takes Latin, you know,” James continues.

“So?”

“So,” James drawls, in a totally inaccurate impression of Sirius, “you already have something in common. You’ve probably seen him before.”

“And I told you already,” Sirius sighs, “I don’t need another friend.” Especially not in Latin. I’ve already got him in Latin. 

“I know,” James says, more gently now. “I’m not asking you to fall in love with him, Pads. Just—maybe try talking to him this weekend?”

Sirius stays quiet, his slowly-building irritation beginning to simmer more intensely. Obviously, James isn’t asking that. He needs to get to the studio. He needs his headphones and some clay. He needs it to be 10am, actually; he needs Latin. 

“At least think about it, yeah?” Pete tries.

Sirius closes his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

He expects cheers, or a ragging for always being so dramatic, but when he opens his eyes, his friends are only sharing a small smile. 

“Thank you,” James says gratefully, and Sirius wonders if, perhaps, he’s been a bit more of a prick about this whole thing than he’d intended. Perhaps it’s spiralled just a little further than is really reasonable. Maybe, if he gets drunk enough, he can suffer through one conversation. Maybe he can try. For James.

Sirius checks his phone to avoid any further conversation. “Well,” he says, “I should head in.”

“Oh, yeah—me too,” Pete agrees. “See you lot whenever tonight.”

“Bye, Pete,” Sirius and James chorus as the other boy heads off.

“Well,” Sirius says, turning back to James. “See you later, Prongs.”

James pouts. “No, don’t go yet. You still have twenty minutes!”

Sirius shrugs, slowly walking backwards. “Sorry, I’m very committed to my studies, as you know.”

“I remember the days you said you were gonna skive off every Latin lecture,” James laments with a sigh.

“Yes, well. You know what they say: times change and all that.”

“You mean you’re a swot now?”

“Hey!” Sirius points an exaggeratedly stern finger. “That’s low. I made no such implication.”

James just snorts, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. See you for lunch, at least?”

“Yeah, alright. Meet you back here?”

“Easy.”

Sirius finally turns around, making his way inside the building and up the three floors to find his lecture hall. It’s true that he’d never intended to truly attend Latin. He was never even supposed to take it in the first place. Or, well, he was—it’s a requirement of his course to take at least one language elective—but he never really wanted to. However, apparently you can’t just not take a required unit if you want to pass your course and gain a degree. Which Sirius found—and still finds—rather inconvenient, to be frank. He isn’t even that concerned with the whole degree thing, but alas. Here he is. When given the elective options for his course (French, Italian, German, Japanese, or Latin), Sirius had, rather disgruntled as he’d been, settled for Latin. At least it isn’t one his family speaks, isn’t one they’d approve of—the dead language not exactly useful for the type of ‘business networking’ they take part in. 

So, Latin it was, and Latin it still is. Like James said, Sirius had been fully prepared to just skive off the majority (if not all) of the lectures after showing face for the first one. He’d been pretty sure he’d be able to scrape a pass if he just gave the slides a quick skim before exams. It’s not like Latin will actually be of much use to his art, after all. It’s only for the degree. Sirius just hadn’t really been all that interested.

But that had all been before. Before the boy.

Sirius turns into the hall, walking across to the far side of the room and climbing the stairs to find his seat—four rows from the back, at the very edge of the row, on the right-hand side when facing the front. It was luck, probably, that made him sit in this chair on the very first lecture, way back a year ago. But it’s stuck. It has the best vantage point. For what he likes to watch, anyway. 

Dropping his bag on the floor, Sirius plops himself down, pulling out his things. There’s barely three other people in the hall, it’s so early. Most will rush in with mere minutes to spare (or even a little late), taking the closest free seat they can find. But not Sirius. And not him either. 

Sirius doesn’t really have a name for him—this boy—doesn’t know his real name. It’s the fourth week of classes in second year. He’s had a whole year of this, but still he doesn’t know the boy’s name. He’s just...the boy. Sirius’ boy.

Setting his laptop down atop the small desk, Sirius pulls out his phone to check the time again. Fourteen minutes to go. He’ll be any second now. 

As if summoned by the thought, in walks his boy. The effect on Sirius is near-instantaneous. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so good.

Now, Sirius has done a lot of watching over the past year and a bit. He’s done a lot of noticing. So, he’s pretty familiar with how this is going to go. Still, it makes him smile into his palm when the boy, head ducked like always, trips and stumbles over the extension cord that runs along the wooden floor, held down by miles of black masking tape. Still, Sirius huffs out a little laugh when the boy whips his head around towards the offending cord, as though he hasn’t been tripping over it every single week since the beginning of last year. Still, Sirius delights when the boy’s cheeks flood with an embarrassed shade of pink, ducking his head again as though he might be able to turn invisible so long as he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. 

He’s early, like always, and yet he moves as if he’s running late; all long strides and hurried movements. His seat—for he also sticks with the same one each week—is in the second row, a few places to the left of centre. The seating is tiered, so Sirius has the perfect amount of height to be able to see over any of the other heads that sit between him and the boy.

He watches as the boy gets his laptop out, opening it up and pushing it to the corner of his desk where Sirius knows it will remain untouched for the entirety of the lecture in favour of the notebook he’s now setting down in the middle of the desk. The boy rummages in his bag, frowning like he can’t find whatever it is he’s looking for (pens, Sirius knows). He shoves his arm in deeper, biting on his lip for a second before his face smooths out happily, and he pulls out a few different coloured biros (see?) that also get set on the desk. 

In a moment, he’ll open the notebook and start scribbling away in it, hunching so his spine curves over the desk and his curls flop over his forehead, brushing the dark top of his glasses frames. Another moment or so later, and the sun will begin to trickle in from the skylight, like it was waiting for him to arrive just so it could paint him so. It’ll draw a warm line over his hair, down his right cheek and the small scar that cuts across his cheekbone. It’ll set him alight.

The boy turns golden in the sunlight, always has. It’s Sirius’ favourite thing to watch. It makes him seem warm, like he soaks in all the sun offers, and it absorbs into his very being. He’s a bit like the moon in that regard, particularly when it looks all golden yellow—reserved and unassuming, reflecting the bright, loud light of the sun and quietly glowing with it. Shining a soft light in the dark of night, taming the burning stars. 

Well...alright, perhaps Sirius does have one name for him. It’s a bit silly, but he likes it. It’s not like anyone else has to know anyway; it’s just for him. Secret.

He’s wearing an (objectively) ugly jumper again today: faded sage green and severely pilling, frayed cuffs, and a hole in the neckline. All his jumpers are quite hideous, really. Sirius is...rather fascinated by them. 

This boy is the whole reason Sirius comes to Latin nowadays. It’s all a bit ironic really; Sirius cares least about Latin out of all his subjects, yet it’s the one he’s able to focus best in. He’ll take it though. He’ll greedily hoard any pocket of this calm he can get his hands on, regardless of when or where it happens. These two hours every week are like his recharge time. None of his friends are in the class; it’s just him. Him and the boy he stares at. The one who, unknowingly, lets Sirius absorb some of his quiet. Who lets him take enough to last until the next week.

Even the nasal voice of their professor as he enters the lecture hall doesn’t scrape at Sirius’ brain like it ordinarily would. Even the boy two seats down from him who, after a whole year, still hasn’t learnt how to keep his bloody mouth shut when he chews can’t fray Sirius’ nerves anymore.

Smiling to himself, he opens his laptop, kicking his feet out in front of him as he settles comfortably back in his chair, ready for his weekly dose of watching. It’s not that he’s creepy about it. Yes, he watches. Yes, he waits for the sun to land over the boy, painting him into a golden moon and setting him aglow. But it’s not like that. It’s just—

The world is loud for Sirius sometimes. Most of the time, if he’s honest. Some days are worse than others. It’s just how it is. He’s fine. He deals with it. He’s fine. But, when he finds things that muffle the noise a bit, he’s going to chase them. It would be stupid not to. And though he might do the occasional stupid thing, it’s never been something Sirius is.

The noise is why he loves sculpting. So much of it falls away when he has clay beneath his hands, moulding and shaping it how he pleases. He can destroy and start again. He can build, and break, and rebuild.

It’s why he loves rugby, though he’s not fussed on doing it professionally or anything. It’s just fun. It helps him focus. There’s a lot going on to keep his attention. And so it distracts him from everything else. Plus, you know—James is the team captain, so. That’s reason enough, really.

And speaking of James, it’s why Sirius loves his friends. His close friends. Because, yeah, there are lots of people who like to say they’re friends with Sirius Black. Everyone, really. He and James are popular like that. Only, all those people just want the idea of Sirius. If they really knew him...well, that’s another thing, for another day. But his actual friends, they help. They know him—to varying degrees, sure—and they can be a balm to the grating noise in his mind.

All of these things help. A lot. Sirius doesn’t think he’d be in one piece without them if he’s really, truly honest with himself. But the noise never goes away. Nothing’s ever really quiet.

Or at least it wasn’t. Not until Sirius barged angrily through the door to Latin last year, running late and irritated. Not until he threw himself down in this fateful seat, huffing and puffing and being altogether rather dramatic about the whole thing. Not until he’d turned his head halfway through the lecture to glare at the boy two seats down from him who was chewing so fucking loudly. Not until his gaze caught on the way, falling on a different boy. A boy like the moon, with soft curls and a crooked nose. A boy who chewed on the end of his pen as he thought, his lip as he wrote, his nail as he listened. A boy who smiled kindly whenever spoken to, and frowned when something confused him. Who came to brilliant, golden life beneath the sun. 

A boy who’d finally made the world go quiet.

 

Notes:

i'll be eagerly awaiting any thoughts you have in the comments! i looove a chat so find me down there or on tumblr! <3

Chapter 2: Punch

Summary:

He sways forwards, closer. “I’m Sirius.”

Notes:

thank you sm for the sweet comments on the first chapter!! i was quite nervous to post this fic, so they're extra appreciated <33

now, may i present... the first proper r/s interaction... ;)

“Alright, your turn.”

Sirius spins around delightedly, scanning the array of various liquors and mixers that are lined up atop the kitchen island. Beside him, Peter covers his eyes with his hands, leaning back against the fridge. 

Sirius hums, considering, before zeroing in on the bottle of blue curaçao. Perfect. He’d added pineapple juice on his last turn and is really hoping Pete hasn’t added anything that will stop their punch from turning a (hopefully) very vibrant green. The liquid still looks decidedly piss-coloured, so Sirius feels as though it’s safe to assume Pete either added lemonade or one of the clear liquors they have; he always does seem to be partial to vodka when they make one of these. Pouring in just a small amount to start, Sirius grins as the blue liquor seeps into the abomination inside their punch bowl, gradually mixing to an absolutely atrociously fluorescent shade of lime. He adds a dash more for good measure.

Grabbing a stirrer, Sirius swirls everything around, promptly bursting into thrilled laughter.

“Good god, what have you done to our punch?” Pete laments, voice muffled by the hands over his face.

Sirius tuts. “Have some faith, Wormy. Look.”

Peter slowly lowers his hands, cracking one eye open warily, so only a sliver of blue is visible. Sirius watches his gaze dart towards him in suspicion before flicking down to the punch. His eyes snap fully open in an instant, jaw dropping.

It’s their thing, the punch is. Whenever the Marauders host a party of any kind, Sirius and Pete make their signature punch. Or—well—‘signature’ may be being a tad generous. It winds up different every time, but it’s more the process of it. They first gather every bottle of liquor that they have lying around the flat (or have just restocked for this very purpose), along with anything that can reasonably be used as a mixer, and lay them out on the bench. Then, the two of them take turns choosing something to add to the bowl while the other covers their eyes, so that they eventually end up with a monstrous, mystery concoction. Sometimes it barely ends up alcoholic at all because the two of them end up favouring the mixers, and other times it ends up such an ungodly blend of liquors that it’s probably bordering on unsafe. They’d ended up having to instate a rule whereby they each have to add something non-alcoholic for at least two of their turns to avoid anything catastrophic. And, well, so far, so good. Since the new rule, at least.

“Well, shit,” Pete laughs. “All doubts rescinded; consider me impressed.”

“That’s more like it.”

“What did you even...ah.” His eyes find the newly half empty bottle of blue liquor, grinning in approval. “Nice one.”

Sirius grins. “Thank you.” He pulls two plastic cups off one of the stacks on the bench, wiggling them. “Shall we?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Pete nods, reaching for the ladle. He leans sideways, in the vague direction of the stairs. “Prongs! Get down here!”

There’s a clattering sound, a yelp, and then James’ voice calls: “Coming!”

Sirius and Pete share a snicker, James’ clumsiness around the house now an all-too-familiar soundtrack to their evenings after so many years of friendship, even though Pete no longer lives with them nowadays. Sirius gets a third cup as Pete begins to pour ladles full of violently green punch into the first two cups, and turns around to open the fridge door, rummaging for a moment behind all the extra things for that night that have been haphazardly shoved wherever a sliver of free space could be found. Eventually, he’s able to locate James’ favourite apple and blackcurrant flavoured squash—banned from being used for the punch as it’s solely reserved for James, who doesn’t drink—which Sirius sets to mixing with (because it’s James, and he likes things strong, less than the recommended amount of) water in the third cup. 

“Oh, cheers, Pads,” James chirps with a smile as he walks in and sees Sirius has made his beloved squash for him, complete with his favourite loopy straw. “A man after my heart, I see.” He careens to a halt as he takes in the shade of the punch, suddenly bursting into a fit of disbelieving laughter. “Christ, what the hell have you done this time? That’s got to be your most offensive-looking one yet—by far.”

Sirius grins. “I know, isn’t it beautiful?” 

James looks at him sideways, accepting his (rather boring-coloured) drink from Sirius’ extended hand. “Sure, mate.”

“Well, happy flat warming!” Pete interjects, lifting his (much more fun-coloured) drink towards them over the centre of the island bench.

Sirius and James follow suit, clacking their plastic cups together so the liquid sloshes slightly dangerously. “Cheers!”

They all take a sip. Sirius nearly gags on the taste of the punch, but smiles as the burn slides down his throat and he can feel the warmth of its path down, down, down, until it pools somewhere in his stomach. By the end of this cup, Sirius is pretty sure he’ll start thinking it tastes good for real. Pete has one eye squinted in a slight wince, and they exchange a look.

“Well?” James prompts.

“Vile,” Pete says.

“Foul,” Sirius agrees.

They both grin, and then add: “Perfect.”

James laughs. “You’re both mad, but I respect it. Safe to say, I don’t reckon you’ll have to try very hard to keep people away from that one tonight.”

It’s sort of an unspoken rule at these parties. It’s an understanding you come to should you find yourself invited to a party hosted by any of the Marauders. The punch is Sirius and Peter’s. It may be set out on the bench with everything else, but it’s not to be drunk unless you’re one of the four other people known to be part of their group (James, Lily, Mary, and Marlene. Though, obviously James doesn’t drink it, he’d still be allowed). The only other way you may be permitted to have any is by the personal offering of one of those six people. It’s just the way of things.

Sirius is looking forward to everybody arriving. He likes parties, likes having people come around, likes the music, likes dancing—how he can lose himself in the feel of the bass thrumming through his body as he moves, drowning out the background noise and melting time into something gooey and stretchy. He likes getting a bit dressed up—putting in the effort of something more than what he wears to class, using the excuse to do his hair nicely, sometimes even stealing some of Marlene’s makeup when the mood strikes. Quite often, she ends up running late and barrels into their bathroom to speedily smudge things onto her face. Everyone knows not to disturb her when she’s in one of those frenzies, but Sirius has discovered that if he hovers in the doorway long enough, she’ll eventually notice, grinning and motioning him in with a jerk of her head, setting him down on top of the closed toilet seat, and working some sort of magic on his face. 

Sure enough, just as Sirius is considering whether tonight is one of those nights for him or not, there’s an insistent knock at the door that he knows can only be Marlene. 

“It’s unlocked!” James yells as he starts towards the entrance, hardly getting the words out before the door is thrown open.

“Hi, hi, hi! And sorry, sorry, sorry,” Marlene chants as she darts through the flat, making a beeline for the downstairs bathroom. Sirius barely catches a glimpse of the pink ends of her blonde hair before she’s disappeared from view.

He laughs. “Hi, Marls.”

“Hellooo,” calls another voice, and Sirius sets his cup down with a grin before bounding into the living room, Pete on his heels.

“Mary!” Sirius throws his arms around her, resting his chin happily on top of her dark coils, the only one of the girls tall enough that he doesn’t have to stoop. Not that he particularly minds either way.

“Well, hello,” she mumbles, laughing as she squeezes him back. “This is nice.”

“Yeah, where’s my hello hug?” 

Sirius darts his eyes over to see Lily standing with her arms crossed over her chest, one of James’ arms slung over her shoulder. She’s frowning, but there’s a sparkle to her green eyes that means she’s not really put out.

“Well, you’ve got a boyfriend to give you cuddles, Evans,” Sirius jests, shrugging a shoulder, and stifling a laugh as James immediately leaps to smother Lily in a tighter embrace.

Mary pulls back a little to glare at him, though her mouth seems to be fighting a smile. “Oh, so this is just a pity hug, is it?”

Sirius huffs dramatically. “You’re all ungrateful sods. Look, nobody’s hugging Wormy and I don’t hear him complaining.”

“That’s because I’m a saint,” Peter chimes cheerily, taking a smug sip of his drink.

“Too right you are, Pete,” Mary says, pushing off of Sirius and skipping over to pull Pete into a hug instead. “You’ve always been my favourite.”

Sirius throws his arms up, huffing again. “What does that make me? Fuckin’ second-best?”

“No, that’s James,” Mary quips, grinning slyly. She tilts her head. “You’re more like...fourth.”

“There’s only three of us!” Sirius exclaims, scrunching his face up at Mary’s laughter and reaching out to jab her in the side. “Bloody hell. Next time I’ll not bother saying hello at all.”

He walks over to the tangle of rich brown and pale, freckled limbs that appears to be James and Lily, relenting. “Hi, Lils,” he says, bending to kiss the tiny bit of flaming red hair he can see peeking out from in amongst all the James.

“Padfoot, save me,” she says, muffled by James’ shirt.

“Sorry, I’m not getting involved in your little domestic,” Sirius laughs, backing away as James pulls back indignantly.

“You look nice,” Mary chimes in again, one arm still slung around Peter.

Sirius grins and does a spin, arms outstretched. “Why, thank you.” 

He’s dressed simply tonight—his favourite loose black jeans, held up by a thick belt; a charcoal-grey vest that clings to his skin, effortlessly showing off the tattoos scattering his arms, some of them new from over the summer; and then the thick-soled, burgundy Doc Martens that he and Marlene had found (and subsequently fought over until they realised the boots would only fit Sirius’ feet) at a charity shop a few months ago. He’s slipped a few rings on, too—knowing he can quickly get extra fidgety at parties—and a simple chain around his neck.

Aside from that, he’s letting his hair do most of the work; it’s quite good at that. Especially since he’d gotten Effie to cut layers into it over the holidays, and with the way he’s taken time to properly style it for tonight, he knows it looks particularly good. He even took the time to paint a little something on the blank easel tattoo that he has on the inside of his left arm, just above the crease of his elbow. It’s one of the first tattoos he ever got (not counting the few drunken stick-and-poke ones that he, James, and Pete did right before graduation), and it’s stayed as one of his favourites over the years. He likes that it’s functional, that he can change it up whenever he pleases, can wash one thing off for another. Tonight, he’s painted a fairly basic nighttime landscape—deep green hills, tiny flecked stars and the like. Other people love it too; he always gets comments when he’s got something new on there. 

Sirius tips his head, taking in Mary’s denim skirt and sleeveless purple top, nicely complementing the patchy light and dark brown of her skin. “As do you.”

She winks. “Cheers, darling.”

Marlene emerges from the bathroom with a loud clap of her hands, eyes framed with thick, dark liner and choppy hair mussed. She takes Sirius’ arm, stretching it out to look at the art. “Ooh, this is nice.” 

Sirius barely has time to try thanking her before she’s shoving his arm back at him and clapping her hands together.

“Alright, shall we get this show on the fucking road then?” 

They do just that.

 

---

 

It’s not long before people start arriving, the flat steadily filling with more and more bodies. There are people Sirius knows vaguely from here and there, but he’s most enthusiastic to greet his teammates from rugby—or, really just Gideon and Fabian, actually. They’re probably the only people outside of his main group that he would also consider his friends. They’re not quite as close, but Sirius is always happy to see them at things like this.

They’ve pushed the living room furniture to the edges of the room, creating a space to dance, and turned off the main lights in favour of the little revolving party one that Pete got Sirius and James half as a joke. It sits on the mantle, spinning and splashing bursts of colour across the flat: temporary paint splattered over the walls and the floor and the ceiling. Music thrums through the speakers they’ve set up, and it feels like the party has really started now.

Sirius chats to a few people as they arrive: greetings, filling drinks, offering food. Eventually, he finds himself standing in one corner with Marlene, his body buzzing pleasantly from the...three? four? cups of punch he’s had. She’s complaining to him about some prick in her microbiology unit, and Sirius is at that stage where all he can manage are vacant nods, scraping by on a few well-timed, ‘oh, god’s, and, ‘that’s so annoying’s. He is listening, he’s just not quite able to contribute anything of actual substance, getting easily distracted by other various goings-on. Besides, he’s pretty sure Marlene just wants to vent.

It’s then that Sirius’ eye is caught by a flock of new arrivals at the door, glancing over with mild disinterest, just to see for the sake of seeing. Only, his gaze immediately snags on its way, doubling back to land on something—someone—impossible. An all-too-familiar face stands amongst the group by the door, one wearing a nervous smile, long fingers curled so their knuckles can nudge wire-bottomed glasses up a crooked nose, a faint flush splashed beneath freckle-dusted cheeks. Sirius blinks, sure that he’s seeing things. Because that’s—that’s his boy. From Latin. Here. In his flat. Which, just— Well, it can’t be right. Sirius has had a fair amount to drink by this point. Maybe the alcohol has gotten to him worse than he thought. Who’s to say what Pete added while he had his eyes closed?

But no. No matter how hard Sirius blinks, his vision doesn’t change. The boy is definitely there, here, real. He’s ducking his head to hide a laugh as he’s greeted enthusiastically by—James. Which— How does he know James? How does James know him? And why did Sirius not know this?

He feels his grip tighten subconsciously around his cup, the plastic bending under his fingers, as a ridiculous sense of betrayal floods him. As stupid as it might seem, Sirius had sort of thought of the boy as only existing inside that one lecture hall. Like maybe he was some mirage conjured just for Sirius—to survive the class, to survive the world. His and his alone. He isn’t supposed to exist for other people, too. 

It almost feels as though this boy was a character on TV, like he played this role for Sirius week after week. But Sirius had forgotten that he would be someone outside of that, too, that there’s always an actor behind a character, a person beyond the screen. It’s jarring—wrong—to see him here, now, as somebody entirely new, somebody who exists for everyone, and yet, still so unmistakably that special, private boy from Latin. 

Sirius doesn’t know how to feel about it all.

The boy is wearing a cardigan. It’s navy, with a little light blue pattern knitted across the chest, and the sight makes something flop around weirdly in Sirius’ chest—or that could just be the alcohol. He’s almost warmed enough for the icy feeling in his chest to thaw out a little. The boy is obviously nervous, too. He’s looking down a lot—more than usual—his curls flopping over his glasses, soft clouds obscuring the sunlight of his eyes. His hands are clasped together, long fingers twisting and tapping in a way that Sirius has never seen before in their lecture hall. He gets the sudden, strong urge to reach out and still them. Even though he’s on the opposite end of the flat.

He looks different here, under the low lighting, colours flashing over his face, his hair, the lenses of his glasses. He seems almost more mysterious, hidden without the sun to single him out, but maybe softer, too—the scar on his cheek imperceptible in the dim, the sharp edges of his face slightly blurred. He looks...approachable. So very, very real.

And Sirius is just still stuck on the fact that he’s here, he’s here, he’s here. He can’t decide whether to give in to the sour taste of betrayal still lingering in his gut, or be pulled into the well of giddy wonder at the boy’s indisputable existence that he can feel tugging at him, too. He’s suspended on a pointy precipice, each feeling awaiting him on either side of it, the slightest gust of wind all it will take to send him tumbling into one or the other.

The boy’s eyes dart around the flat searchingly and suddenly Sirius is right there, deep in the pit of wonder, hardly registering having fallen, his brain burning with me, me, me; look at me. He’s staring, he knows he is, and he wonders if the boy can feel it, wonders if he can feel it during Latin, if he knows. Hopes he does. Hopes he doesn’t.

The eyes drop to the floor in something that looks like resignation and a sharp stab of disappointment follows them down in Sirius’ stomach. But then. Then, then, then— His head is lifting, his gaze sliding over the people dancing, across the flat once again—seeking—and finally landing on Sirius, warm amber burning into cold grey.

Sirius sees the boy’s mouth part just a little, his chest lifting in what looks to be a tiny, sharp inhale. With a record scratch, the entire world comes careening to a halt. Sirius is fairly certain time has stopped, everything freezing in place the moment his and this boy’s eyes connect, so much so that he can’t even breathe—forgets how. The only thing he hears is his heart thundering in his chest, so heavily that he feels it in his head, right behind his eyes, by his ears, as though it’s beating at him, trying to escape the structure of his ribs that contain it, rattling his whole body like a cage. 

Something snaps right in front of his face. “Sirius!”

He startles, wrenching his eyes away as everything tears back into motion, the noise of the party rushing into his head again, pulsating loudly all around him. Marlene is staring at him, eyes narrowed. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Erm—” He smiles a bit sheepishly. Okay, maybe his little interjections were more appreciated than he’d realised. He doesn’t know how long he’s gone without saying anything, and the last thing he remembers is her talking about something to do with...unnoted plagiarism, he thinks. But did they move on from that? He can’t be sure. His brain is still tripping and stumbling over the boy. Being here. A stray rock in his path, sending him toppling off balance, scrapes on his knees.

Marlene sighs, laughing. “Don’t worry, I know what that face means. Let’s find Mary. Enough talking, time for dancing.”

And with that, she plucks his cup from his hand, setting it down next to hers in their go-to drink hiding spot and half-drags, half-is-pushed by him, into the centre of the room to get the dance-floor properly started.

He decides then, quite firmly, that he will not, under any circumstance, approach the boy to talk. He’ll look, as he so often does, but he won’t go over. He won’t risk anything that might upset or shatter his weekly two hours of quiet. He can’t afford to give that up. Or maybe, more importantly, he doesn’t want to. It’s safer to avoid and ignore the boy now, so he can keep the other time safe. 

So, Sirius dances. With Marlene and Mary. With Lily, and with Pete. With James and Gideon and Fabian, with whoever happens to be near him at the time—lucky enough to be pulled into his orbit. He dances in the middle of a group of people, and he dances by himself in rare pockets of empty space. 

The air feels hot and heavy from all the moving bodies, and Sirius feels warm from alcohol and dancing and laughing. This is his favourite part of it all—when the drinks have really started to hit and there’s no expectations, there’s just the music and bodies and sharing in one space. 

He can feel eyes on him. Which is honestly fairly normal for him. People watch him, always, but especially in a setting like this. Sirius is aware of how he looks and he’s aware of how it affects the majority of people. He’s constantly being perceived. It’s...fine. It doesn’t bother him, really. The attention is actually quite nice, most of the time. He doesn’t actively seek it out—he’s not dancing right now so that people will look at him—but he’s sort of come to realise the inevitability of it all. It’s not going to stop him from doing things, nor push him into them. He’s learnt to only ever do things for himself.

So, he can feel eyes on him. Which, in itself, isn’t unusual. But there’s something different now. It feels different. It’s not the general feeling of eyes roaming over him, but something more specific, more intense—prickly on the back of his head, his neck, his shoulders. It feels, not like people are looking, but like he’s being watched. Specifically. Intently. Only, every time Sirius twists his head to look around the room for the culprit, he can’t find anyone watching like that. 

It also probably doesn’t help that he’s just slightly distracted. That every time his gaze sweeps over all the faces in the flat, it always keeps landing on one specific face, lingering helplessly. Sirius just can’t get over it. He keeps double-checking, confirming, making sure. And every time, he’s there. He’s never looking at Sirius, never watching. Which—is fine. It’s not at all infuriating. Sirius definitely has not spent the past four songs discreetly dancing his way closer to where the boy is, until he reached the edge of the main crowd of people. He’s certainly not resorted to lifting his hair off the back of his neck, head tipped back and elbows wide as he sways his hips this way and that—the move that always has people looking. He’s being completely, perfectly normal. 

People are looking, but whenever Sirius (absolutely does not) subtly check, the boy still isn’t. 

Whatever. Sirius isn’t bothered by it. He doesn’t care if he’s—if people are looking or not. 

He sighs, mouth feeling a bit dry again, and seeks out his latest drink, kept safely hidden behind the heavy pot that houses their indoor weeping fig. He takes a refreshing sip, eyes once again sliding across the room without his permission. They pause for a second on Mary and Marlene, huddled together in a corner, whispering and laughing. He smiles at them, but his gaze is tugged insistently away. To where it’s been going the entire evening.

The boy is leaning his hips against the kitchen counter—the one by the window, against the side wall, not the island in the middle—a bit away from the jumping bodies and the speakers pumping music, the party light on the mantle not strong enough to illuminate him with colour all the way over there. He’s a smudged silhouette attempting to sink into the shadows, though the subtle glow of moonlight that seeps through the window won’t let him, demands that he be seen. He’s looking down at his drink, spinning the bottle around and around between his fingers. He looks casual, if slightly out of place. Sirius wonders what it is he’s drinking. 

He has the sudden, overwhelmingly intense urge to go over to him. Sirius wants to talk to him. He doesn’t even know what the boy sounds like when he speaks. And he’s right there. He’s here, he’s real. Sirius could know, he could find out. He wants to know the person behind the screen, just the same as he knows the one on it. He isn’t really sure why he hasn’t gone over already, actually. There was a reason, he thinks. Something he told himself roughly three drinks ago. He can’t fathom what it could’ve been, though. It’s his boy. His boy from Latin. He’s right there. Sirius doesn’t understand why he isn’t over there, too.

He should fix that. He’s going to fix that. Yes. He’s fixing it. He’s—going to...to go over. Right now, in fact. He’s going to say hi. Saying hi is fine. It’s normal—polite, even. Being polite is nice. Sirius isn’t polite all that often; he may as well take advantage of the urge while it’s here. It’s only logical, really. The boy is a guest in his flat, and Sirius should greet him. Multiple hours after his arrival is...maybe not exactly that polite, but. Well, it’s nonchalant of him. He’ll greet the boy now, late as it may be, because he’s casual. Laid back. But still polite, of course. Yes, it’s just logical, really. The whole thing makes complete and utter sense, if one honestly stops to think about it. Sirius is simply being a good host. Being polite. Saying a casual hi. 

Glancing down into his cup, Sirius confirms he still has plenty of drink left, and so he walks towards the boy, running his free hand through his hair as he goes, rings snagging on a few tangles. He’s approaching from the side, the boy’s head now turned away from him.

Sirius stops and drops a hand on the counter right next to the boy’s hip, leaning his weight into his arm. Casual. Nonchalant. He’s here to say... “Hi.”

The boy doesn’t startle, almost like he’d known Sirius was coming, like he’d been waiting. He just turns his head slowly, smiling a bit crookedly—something looser than that small, kind one Sirius always sees him wearing in class. Something a bit bigger.

“Hi.” The boy’s voice comes out soft-sounding, and perhaps a little unexpectedly deep, but Sirius thinks, somewhat vaguely, that it’s rather nice. Sort of...soothing.

When he turns, Sirius notices a tiny gold hoop threaded through his left ear. He’s never seen that before, only ever looking from the right side, too far away. He’s really quite tall, too, the boy. Maybe even taller than Sirius, though, what with the way he’s leaning back against the countertop, it’s hard to say for sure. 

The boy’s glasses are a bit square, but rounded at the corners, the tops of the frames a relatively thin, dark brown plastic, the bottom and sides a gold wire. Browline, Sirius thinks the style is called; James tried them once. They suit the boy better than they had James. They just suit him, generally. In an odd, swotty kind of way. 

Sirius takes a sip of his drink. Well. He said hi. He supposes...if he’s still being polite, that is—he should introduce himself. That would...make sense. It would be logical.  

He sways forwards, closer. “I’m Sirius.”

The boy’s smile turns amused. “I know.”

Sirius’ stomach swoops. It’s that moment of free falling on a rollercoaster; a little terrifying, a lot thrilling. I know.

“Do you?” he asks, feeling his lips curve upwards.

The boy hums a little and nods. “We have Latin together.” 

“I know,” Sirius echoes, smirking.

The boy’s mouth quirks. “Do you?” 

He’s got a bit of an accent. Sirius is too drunk to place it. It’s nice as well, though, he decides. Lyrical, in a way.

“Mhm.” Sirius grins. He feels invigorated. It was a good idea, this. It’s fun. “Second row, a bit to the left of centre.”

The boy’s cheeks wash a faint pink and Sirius feels a little thrill run through him. He did that. How easy. 

When the boy doesn’t say anything in response, Sirius tips his head expectantly, waiting.

The boy huffs an amused sounding breath out his nose. “I’m Remus.”

Sirius blinks. “You are?” That wasn’t part of this little script they’d been writing. He’s not allowed to be Remus. He can’t be. “No, you’re not.”

“Erm...” The boy—no, Remus—nods. “Yeah. I am.” His brow is furrowed, though he’s smiling. It’s a bit lopsided, like he’s bemused by Sirius’ reaction. 

Sirius is staring at the furrow. It’s only a small crease, just a bit above the bridge of Remus’ glasses. He wonders—weirdly—what would happen if he pressed a finger to it. Wonders if it would smooth out under his touch. He wants to smooth it out like he would clay. Like Remus is one of his sculptures, his to move and manipulate as he pleases. 

Sirius blinks again, hard, in an attempt to clear his mind. “You’re Ethics Remus?” he asks. “Remus Lupin? Who James is always going on about? You—can’t be.”

Remus laughs at that, ducking his head, which is a shame, because it means Sirius can’t see it. But oh, he likes the sound of it. It makes up for not seeing it—almost. It’s soft, and a little raspy, and it pulls at Sirius’ own lips—the sound flying across the space between them to infect him, spreading the quiet laughter like a virus. Sirius would quite like to hear it again, he thinks. Probably. He’d definitely like to hear it again when Remus isn’t hiding the visual of it.

“I major in ethics, yeah,” Remus confirms, still smiling. “And I really am Remus, sorry to disappoint. Though, I doubt James goes on as much about me as he does you.”

“Well...” Sirius grins, deciding the fact that his boy is Remus is something to unpack later, when he’s more sober. He thinks, vaguely, that he’s supposed to be mad about it, but the feeling is smothered somewhere deep in his stomach, buried under the buzz of his drink, the quiet in his mind, the sight of a crooked nose up close, a small scar slicing across it, right under the bridge of browline glasses. Whoever else he may be, he’s still Sirius’ boy from Latin. “I am rather fantastic.”

“I’m sure you are,” Remus says, and it sounds layered—a gift for Sirius to peel back the wrappings of, uncovering something just for him. 

He’s slightly different here, now, in Sirius’ flat rather than the lecture hall; Remus vs the boy. Or, maybe just sober vs tipsy. He’s not quite as blush-ridden and stumbling. He’s more...smooth. Sirius hadn’t expected that. 

Remus lifts his drink, taking a sip. Sirius isn’t sure why his eyes fix on the place where Remus’ lips wrap around the mouth of the bottle. He hadn’t expected a lot of things, it would seem. His stomach does that swoop again. Or maybe it’s more like a clench this time. It grips tightly, squeezes, hotter than before. 

Maybe Sirius just needs to throw up, actually.

“What’re you drinking?” he asks.

Remus spins the bottle, his long fingers wrapping around the neck so that Sirius can read the label. “Cider.” 

Sirius makes a face. Boring. 

He must’ve said that out loud, actually, because Remus laughs again. And, well, alright. Maybe Sirius can be glad it’s boring, if this is the reaction he gets. He wishes Remus wouldn’t hide his laugh, though. Sirius likes seeing it. But he can’t very well tell Remus he already knows what it looks like. At least, he thinks he shouldn’t. He gets to hear it now, at any rate. He gets to hear so much now.

“Well, what are you drinking, then?” Remus counters, raising a brow.

“Punch,” Sirius says, letting a slow grin spread across his lips. He lifts the cup towards Remus’ face. “Want some?”

Remus scrunches his nose, leaning his face away from the fluorescent liquid like it offends him. “No, thanks.”

“Sure?” Sirius wiggles the cup, feeling the liquid slosh around inside, dangerously close to spilling. “I made it.”

Remus tucks his lips between his teeth, a bit like he’s stifling a laugh. “Did you? I thought that was Peter.”

“Mm,” Sirius hums. “’Twas a team effort, you see.”

“Ah, I do see.”

“Yeah. S’nice, though, I promise.” 

Well, eventually, anyway. Sirius takes a sip, holding Remus’ gaze as though to prove the point, as though daring him to disagree.

Remus’ eyes feel heavy on him as Sirius lowers the cup from his mouth, and he can vaguely see himself reflected in the lens of his glasses. He likes that, he thinks. He likes Remus’ eyes on him. It’s always been the other way around. Always been Sirius’ eyes on Remus. He didn’t know it would feel just as good—maybe even better—when reversed.

“I actually already tried a bit,” Remus admits. “Though—” He smiles amusedly. “I’m not sure ‘nice’ is the word I’d use for it.”

“Well,” Sirius drawls, “I can’t speak to everyone else’s, but it’s certainly nice out of my cup.”

Remus doesn’t say anything for a second, just stays very still as he stares, gaze intense in a way that makes Sirius’ pulse race. “Is it now?”

Sirius feels locked in, the way he does during a match when his adrenaline is running high, or at the studio when he loses himself to everything but the clay beneath his hands, time and space and everything falling away. He’s never gotten the feeling just from...talking. “Mhm.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” Sirius says, words tumbling from his mouth before they’ve even rolled through his brain. He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, if he’s honest. He must be considerably more drunk than he’d thought. “You could always see for yourself.” 

What.

Remus’ eyes move for what feels like the first time in a long time, flicking to the cup in Sirius’ hand, then back to his face. When he speaks, his voice is just slightly lower than before. “Could I?”

“You could.”

“Alright then.” Remus’ knuckles are white where he’s gripping the counter tight beside his hips, the bottle of cider having been discarded to his right at some point. 

Sirius hasn’t held the cup out to him. He just takes another sip for himself, swallowing hard. “Yeah?”

Remus nods. “Yeah.”

Sirius moves the cup towards him, and he sees one of Remus’ hands loosen its grip on the counter, moving to take it from him, but, well— That’s no fun. Sirius jerks the cup away, towards himself, with a playfully disapproving, “Uh-uh-uh.” 

Remus’ breath stutters a bit. Sirius hears it. He can hear everything this close together. It’s a bit addictive. He waits for Remus to drop his hand back to the counter, and only then lifts the cup again, right up to Remus’ lips instead, smiling as a tiny thrill of victory runs through him. Again, he really has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but it’s...certainly something. He’s not thinking too hard about it. He’s not thinking too hard about anything, really.

“There you are,” Sirius murmurs approvingly, nudging Remus’ mouth with the edge of the cup.

He watches, heart pounding, as Remus’ lips part around it, and tips the cup up carefully. Remus tilts his head back, eyes locked on Sirius as he lets a little of the drink pour into Remus’ mouth before lowering the cup. When Remus swallows, Sirius’ eyes instinctively drop, a strange rush shooting through him as he watches the movement of Remus’ throat, the smooth slide of his Adam’s apple, the bob as it slips back into place. 

This is shaping up to be a night of supremely fucking weird sensations. Sirius really must ask Pete what he put in the punch.

He glances back up to find Remus still watching him, gaze warm and intense. His heart hasn’t stopped racing. His stomach is doing that clench thing again—or still; he’s not certain whether it ever stopped—gripping tightly and refusing to let go. He feels hot all over, his palms sweaty. He really is so drunk.

“Well?” he prompts, voice coming out slightly hoarse.

Remus licks his lips slowly. “Mm...” He smirks a little. “Nice.”

Sirius grins, lifting the cup back to his own mouth and taking another sip, even as his whole body feels like it’s vibrating with each beat of his heart, every pulse reverberating through his bones. He feels a bit giddy, the way he does when he scores a goal. “Told you so.”

Remus opens his mouth to reply, when he’s suddenly jolted as somebody crashes into his side, arms wrapping around his shoulders.

“Remus, there you are!” the newcomer says as Remus turns his head away from Sirius. “Al’s not feeling well, I think we’ll head home soon.”

The noise of the party comes crashing back into Sirius’ head, ricocheting off the walls of his skull and pounding against his temples. It’s so loud. Surely it hadn’t been that loud before. There’s the thrumming bass of the music, people chattering and yelling and drunkenly singing along off-key. Sirius feels the hot prickle of irritation in his stomach. Just who is this? They’ve got these big square glasses on, dirty-blonde hair, and a too-wide smile. They look completely ridiculous. And Remus is looking at them, saying something to them. He was looking at Sirius. He’s supposed to be looking at Sirius.

“Hi,” Sirius interrupts pointedly. Maybe (definitely) a little rudely, too, but he’s around about four drinks past caring. Besides, this stranger has been rude in interrupting what was the most fun Sirius had been having all night. He’s not about to reward that with the rarity of his politeness.

The newcomer startles at the sound of Sirius’ voice, and Remus looks quickly back at him. Good.

“Sorry,” Remus says sheepishly, as though it’s his fault and not this random stranger’s. “Frank, this is Sirius. Sirius—Frank; he’s my best mate.”

Fuck.

Frank’s eyes widen. “Oh, hi! It’s good to meet you.”

Sirius takes another long, slow sip of punch, purposefully drawing out the wait for his response before saying flatly, “Mm, hi.” 

He knows he’s being quite rude, but he can’t help it. It’s not ‘good’ to meet Frank. Sirius doesn’t like him, he’s decided. He’s annoying. His glasses are ugly. His smile is stupidly big. He’s too close to Remus right now. There are many reasons to dislike the bloke. Sirius has always been quick to decide how he feels about a person. And he’s decided that Frank really fucking irritates him. Remus should have a better best friend, he thinks. 

Frank falters, saying something else to Remus that Sirius deliberately doesn’t hear, busy turning his head away and ignoring Frank’s presence, tuning him out. He’s aware it’s somewhat immature. But his night is being all messed up, so it’s allowed. 

“Sorry,” Remus’ voice sounds again and Sirius turns back to see Frank gone. Finally. “That’s my lift.”

“Oh,” Sirius says, feeling more disappointment wash into his gut. He wasn’t finished with Remus yet. “You’re going then?”

“Yeah,” Remus says apologetically, nodding. He does look genuinely disappointed as well, at least. 

“Right,” Sirius says dumbly. He feels thrown off compared to before. Bloody Frank. It’s all his fault. Sirius had been having fun, and he’d ruined it.

Remus smiles, a bit shyer, a bit smaller than before. So like Sirius’ Latin boy. “It was nice to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” Sirius mumbles, sounding petulant even to his own drunk ears. He takes another swig of his drink just for something to do.

Remus laughs breathily, pushing himself off the counter. “Bye, Sirius.” He smiles again as he goes to move past, one hand grazing lightly against Sirius’ waist to step around him, touch lingering for just one fleeting—endless—second, before it’s gone.

Sirius’ heart takes off sprinting. He whips around, looking after Remus. “Bye—” he manages to choke out, wondering what the actual fuck is wrong with him tonight.

His mouth feels dry even though he’s literally just had a sip of punch. The skin of his waist is burning beneath his vest, as if the feather-light press of Remus’ palm could’ve somehow branded him. Sirius fights against the ludicrous urge to lift his shirt and check for a fucking seared-red handprint. 

He must be going insane; it’s the only explanation. That, or Remus has literal fire in his fingers. 

And, well, Sirius might just be ridiculously drunk, but he thinks insanity sounds more legitimate.

 

Notes:

hi remus :3

playlist here if that's your thing x

Chapter 3: Study

Summary:

Oh, he thinks. This might be fun.

Notes:

completely forgot to mention last chapter, but this video is to thank for sirius’ easel tattoo! ((picture here too)) xx

When Sirius wakes, it is to a throbbing headache, a dry mouth, and irritation itching unpleasantly at his skin—the kind that demands to be scratched. It takes a moment for his memories to come trickling back into his mind, more annoyance leaking in along with them, a steady, persistent drip, drip, drip.

And with each, a new image flashes behind his stubbornly closed eyes: punch, the party, drip, dancing, his boy, drip, his stomach swooping, clenching, squeezing—Remus. Drip, drip, dripdripdripdrip. 

Oh, right. Sirius is... Well, he feels pretty thoroughly irritated, actually. But he doesn’t particularly want to think about all the reasons, not with his head pounding the way it is. Also, he’s pretty sure if he thinks about it too much, he’ll find that he’s not actually annoyed with any of the people his brain is instantly supplying (Remus, James, Peter...), but rather just with himself. That’s usually how it goes, anyway.

So, he’s not thinking about it too hard. 

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’d had fun. For a while, at least. With Remus, at least.

Alright, maybe he’s thinking about it a little. He can’t help it. He’s thinking about it enough to feel his annoyance drip faster, harder, more insistently—like those first heavy drops of rain, harbingers of a storm.

Remus. He can’t stop the way that name swims up in his mind, images of the night before coming in bright flashes of colour, revolving like their shitty party light. Sirius feels almost cheated. That he knew Remus all along, yet nobody had told him. He’s upset that people had tried to tell him, but left out key, vital information about who he is—who he is to Sirius. Not that James or Pete or anybody could have known. But still. The point stands. 

Sirius is also, somewhat stupidly, a bit annoyed with Remus. For being one and the same as his Latin boy. For being just as great as everybody said—which Sirius knew; he just didn’t know that he knew. For waiting for Sirius to go over to him, when he knew—he said he knew—who Sirius was.

Remus is great. That’s fine—it’s good, even—but Sirius can’t help feeling a bit like it was supposed to be he who had discovered him. Sirius who—maybe, eventually, someday—introduced him to the group, who brought him along and got to say ‘look what I found.’ It wasn’t supposed to be James, who already found Lily, and thus Mary and Marlene by extension. It wasn’t supposed to be Peter, who had always struggled to make friends, Sirius and James being his only exceptions until now. And Sirius knows he had been first to find Remus. All the way back on the very second day of first year, he’d discovered him. But he was supposed to be able to do something with that. 

So, yeah, actually, he is angry. He’s angry at Remus, and he’s angry at James and at Peter, and—if he peels back those flimsy defences, looking honestly at the core of himself—Sirius is really just angry at himself. Exactly as he’d thought. He’s so bloody stubborn sometimes. Refusing to listen to anybody but himself, and even then, he somehow ends up cutting off his nose to spite his face. 

He’s not peeling the layers back, though. It’s much easier to be angry at everyone else. Much more comfortable. 

Sirius groans, turning his head to shove his face into his pillow. It’s going to be one of those days, he can feel it. One of the ones where his sour mood looms like a dark, heavy cloud, casting shadows over every spot of brightness. Sirius has always been a lot like the rain, and even more so on days like this. When he’s in a foul mood, it affects everyone around him. It doesn’t matter if he’s not having an explosive tantrum; it doesn’t need to storm for everything to get wet. All it takes is a steady drizzle—light, yet relentless. Everyone ends up soaked just the same in the end.

He allows himself another fifteen minutes of solid stewing, letting the frustration fester in his mind—sit tacky on the underside of his skin, a layer of grime he can’t seem to scrub off—before he drags himself out of bed with a string of mumbled curses. He groans again, scrubbing his hands down his face and then fumbling around for a hoodie to pull on. His mouth feels like a fucking desert. Water first. Maybe some painkillers. Then he can think about a shower. Perhaps. It does sound like rather a lot of effort, if he’s honest.

Shuffling out into the kitchen, Sirius is wholly unprepared for James’ chipper attitude, sitting on a stool at the kitchen island with a steaming mug of tea and a bloody book. He doesn’t have a hangover, the bastard. Sirius supposes there’s got to be some perks to having to deal with everyone else’s drunk antics whilst staying sober. Probably not making a complete arse out of yourself—going up to someone and fucking feeding them punch out of the blue—is another.

“Well, hello!” chirps James, a grin splitting his face as Sirius winces at the volume.

“Christ,” he mutters, rubbing firm circles into his temples. “About eighty percent less energy, if it’s not too much to ask.”

James only huffs out a laugh, letting Sirius fill a glass of water from the tap and guzzle it, then fill another and sip it slowly, turning around to lean against the bench. 

“Well, you’ll never believe what I saw last night,” James sings smugly.

Sirius closes his eyes wearily. “Not now, Prongs.” He’s not in the mood to hear about whatever else he did last night. He’s grumpy enough as it is.

“Someone managed,” James continues, rudely ignoring him, “all on his own, mind—to talk to Re—”

“I said not now, James,” Sirius snarls, slamming his glass down on the counter with rather more force than necessary, the water sloshing over the edge and spilling all over his hand. Which— Yeah, great.

There’s a beat of silence. Then James just says mildly, “Ah, so we’re doing that then.”

“Doing what?” Sirius snaps, wiping his wet hand roughly on the front of his jumper, irritation zinging along his every nerve.

“Throwing a strop about it.”

“M’not throwing a strop.”

“Mm, no, yeah,” James continues pleasantly. “You are.”

“I’m not.”

“No? Well, you’re acting awfully stroppy for someone who’s supposedly not in a—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sirius huffs, the bickering somehow managing to convince his face to toy with the idea of a smile. James is always good at getting it to do that. He pauses, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

James frowns. “Tell you what?”

“You know...” Sirius averts his eyes. “About—”

“Remus?” James asks, brows flying up above his glasses and disappearing beneath the tangle of hair over his forehead. “You’re not serious right now, are you?”

Sirius feels his mouth twitch, opening it only for James to cut in hastily.

“Don’t make that godforsaken joke, I know I walked into it,” he says, huffing a laugh. “But, Pads. I did tell you. I told you all the time that Remus is great, that you’d like him.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t...” Sirius breaks off with a huff. Tries again. “You didn’t tell me he was—” 

“What? I didn’t tell you what?”

You didn’t tell me he was already mine.  

“Nothing,” mumbles Sirius. “It’s stupid.”

“That’s certainly never stopped you before.”

Sirius snaps his head up, gasping at the shit-eating grin that James is wearing. “Rude.”

James laughs loudly, the bright sound a finger pressing carelessly on the tender bruise of Sirius’ headache. “Right, I’m calling Worms. You need some breakfast. Like, fifteen minutes ago.”

Sirius groans. “I need a shower; I feel disgusting.”

“Yeah.” James wrinkles his nose in Sirius’ direction. “You are a bit pongy, if I’m honest.”

Sirius yanks the tea towel down from its hook on the wall behind him, chucking it at James. “Twat.”

James just laughs again, making no move to remove the towel when it lands atop his head as he ducks from it. “Breakfast first, you’ll feel better. Then you can shower.” He pulls out his phone, presumably texting Peter. “Shall we go to Cauldron Brews?”

Sirius hums his assent, back turned as he refills his glass of water after the spillage. His head is throbbing too insistently to realise his rather rookie error, and so all of sudden, he’s being whacked in the back by the very tea towel he’d just thrown. He squawks, whipping around with a hand clutched dramatically to his spine. 

“For you to clean up your mess,” says James, smiling too-sweetly as he eyes the water still pooled on the counter and dripping into a puddle on the floor.

Sirius rolls his eyes and grumbles, but he does wipe up the spills. Eventually.

 

---

 

He’s feeling marginally better by the time they’re meeting Peter around the corner from the flat and on their way to get some breakfast (as well as the largest amount of caffeine Sirius can ask for). He took some painkillers, which are just starting to kick in, and though he’s still in his pyjama pants and the hoodie he pulled on that morning, he did tie his hair up so it’s not sticking uncomfortably to the back of his neck and the sides of his face anymore. He’s also feeling slightly vindicated by the state of Pete, who looks to be similarly corpse-like as himself—dark circles smudged under his eyes, sandy hair sticking up almost as bad as James’, and loudly mismatched sock-clad feet shoved (in the epitome of fashion) into a pair of sandals.

Sirius would almost go so far as to say that he’s feeling good. This cafe they’re heading to is his favourite, he’s with his best friends, he’s not thinking about Remus, the promise of something salty and slightly greasy is assuaging the gnawing in his stomach. Sometimes, in the depths of his hangover moods, he forgets that they usually only last until he eats. Or until James needles him out of them. Whichever comes first.

Unfortunately, his newly good (or, at least moderately good) mood is promptly overturned upon approaching the cafe. Sirius stops dead in his tracks.

“We need to go somewhere else,” he blurts.

Both James and Peter turn to him with matching furrowed brows.

“Erm...” the latter starts. “Why?”

They haven’t seen what Sirius has: the back of a head of brown curls, a soft jumper, two other people across the table, one of whom is definitely Frank... Sirius feels his jaw clench. It’s probably for the best, actually, that the others haven’t seen; he doesn’t need the ragging. “I don’t want to go there.”

James blinks, clearly confused. “But you love it here.”

“No,” Sirius lies. “Not really.”

“Since when?” 

Since I just saw who’s sitting in there. Since I’d never seen him outside of Latin until last night and now he’s here and he’s not supposed to be. Since I met Frank. Since I decided to wear my fucking pyjamas.  

“Since always.”

“Oh, come off it, Sirius, we all know that’s not true.”

“It is,” Sirius snaps.

James turns to Peter—who already looks wearied by the two of them—griping, “And he says he’s not in a strop.” 

“Fucking hell, Prongs, will you piss off about that?”

“Not while you’re acting like a complete and utter berk!”

“I’m not acting like a complete and utter anything—”

“Please,” Peter cuts in, swiping an exasperated hand down his face. “I don’t care where we go, as long as I have something far too salty to eat and an obscene amount of caffeine in front of me within the next fifteen minutes.”

“Fine,” Sirius huffs, folding his arms. “Just not here.”

James rolls his eyes. “Fine. Where then?”

Pete flicks his eyes hesitantly between the two of them. “How about that place on the corner? You know, the one we went to when they were renovating here. With the nice chilli eggs.”

“Fine,” Sirius and James both grumble.

They glare at each other, waiting to see who’ll crack first. Sirius knows it’ll be James; it’s always James. Sirius himself is far too stubborn, where James overflows forgiveness, handing it out like it’s an infinite resource he has to offer. He thinks it probably really is for James; he seems to have an abundance of just about everything—forgiveness, love, patience. Sirius has long since learnt to stop waiting for the day it all runs out.

Sure enough, James rolls his eyes, a smile tugging insistently at one side of his mouth. “You are a dramatic prick.”

“Oi.” Sirius scrunches up his face, reaching out to flick James on the nose. “You’re an incessant sod.”

James flinches his head back, smirking as he pinches Sirius in the side. “Hm, and you, a tosser.”

“You, a wanker.”

“Bastard.”

“Dickhead.”

“Arse—”

“O-kay,” Pete cuts in, stepping between them. “I think that’s enough. Can we go?”

That just sets the two of them off laughing as Pete physically drags them towards the new cafe, muttering something that sounds vaguely like, “Codependent gits.”

 

---

 

Despite feeling considerably better, Sirius’ bad mood still lurks at the fringes of his mind, waiting for any chance to roll in and pour down on everything. But—after they’ve sufficiently bickered, of course—James does a pretty good job of casting bright rays of sunlight around so that, even when Sirius is sulking a little, even when his mood drizzles miserably, it doesn’t turn dark and stormy. After all, rain always looks prettier in the sun, glittering like falling gems. Eventually, the sun will evaporate the water and together, they’ll make a rainbow in the end.

The thing that’s weird, that Sirius can’t understand, is that he keeps seeing Remus. Like, everywhere. Not in a way that warrants interaction—he’s pretty sure Remus doesn’t see him, thankfully—just enough for Sirius to wonder how in the ever-loving fuck he’s gone more than a year without ever seeing Remus anywhere but that one lecture hall. It’s like seeing him at the party whipped a blindfold off, and now he can’t look anywhere without seeing Remus and Remus and Remus. He’s browsing the grocery store with Frank and a short girl with even shorter hair on Sunday afternoon; he’s sitting at the park and reading when Sirius is going for a jog later that same evening; he’s waiting in line at Cauldron Brews when Sirius walks by on his way to the studio the following morning. He’s just everywhere. So much so that it’s disconcerting. 

By the time Tuesday rolls around, Sirius is almost nervous. Almost. He doesn’t want his time during Latin to be changed by this. If everything outside of the lecture hall is so different, it stands to reason that everything inside could be, too.

Sirius is so distracted by his thoughts, in fact, that he nearly completely misses Remus’ entrance, only noticing when he’s started climbing the stairs to get to his desk. Sirius watches, the anticipation of no longer knowing exactly how this will go anymore making his heart thud faster.

When Remus reaches his spot, he doesn’t sit down right away. Instead, his head turns, and his eyes barely flick over the hall before they’re landing on Sirius, warm amber searing into cold grey. Sirius freezes. He feels, a little ridiculously, like Remus is breaking the fourth wall. Because here, in the lecture hall, is that TV Sirius watches—something just slightly detached from himself, from reality—and now that he and Remus have seen each other somewhere else, somewhere real, Remus is looking straight down the camera lens, staring directly at Sirius as though he knows everything. Sirius feels caught red-handed, like some sort of voyeur who’s been peering unsanctioned into Remus’ life, never having considered that he could be seen here, too. 

But then, Remus smiles, something warm and private—different to his usual kind one, this one more similar to those of the party, if a little smaller—and he lifts a hand in a shy sort of half-wave. Sirius lifts a hand of his own to half-wave back, a matching small smile tugging at his mouth, too, though he does his best to shape it into more of a smirk. Remus’ lips twitch and then press together, like he’s trying to suppress something bigger, and he ducks his head, turning away to rummage in his bag.

Sirius can just make out a lingering hint of pink on Remus’ cheeks as he pulls out his laptop and sits down. 

Oh, he thinks. This might be fun. 

 

---

 

It is fun, until the next Tuesday, when Sirius returns to the lecture hall, properly prepared to meet Remus’ gaze this time, only for him to never show up. Sirius is distracted through the entire class, eyes flicking to the door at least every five minutes, as though if he looks at it hard enough, Remus will materialise at the edge of the room. As though Sirius might be able to summon him.

In the end, he forces himself to take meticulous notes, handwriting them all to keep his hands busy, to give them a purpose, just so he has a chance of getting through the rest of the two hours.

He’s never missed a class before—Remus. At least, Sirius doesn’t think he has, and he’s pretty certain that’s something he would know, something he would have noticed. And yes, the logical explanation would be that he’s ill or that he had an appointment or something, but Sirius can’t help feeling just a bit worried. He’s also never had to go a week without that quiet time, and it throws him more than he expected. He’s near-constantly distracted, his mind growing messier by the day, thoughts and memories tangling together, now competing for headspace with consistent wonderings of where Remus was on Tuesday. 

(“Where were you, Sirius? You can’t just—No, stop it. Where? Where were you?”) 

It’s only made worse when the Tuesday after that, Remus is absent again. 

(“Again, Sirius? Do you have any idea...? I—I can’t keep doing this with you.”)

Sirius is hopeless in rugby practices, missing passes and easily getting tackled. They play Badgers over the weekend, and though they do come away with the win, it’s alarmingly close, and through no help on Sirius’ part—he doesn’t score them any points whatsoever. He struggles to focus in almost all his classes, even a bit on sculpting—though it’s his best reprieve among everything—struggling to get his brain to properly cooperate with instructing his hands. Latin is the only thing he manages to get anything actually done in, if only by trying to distract himself from having a staring contest with the doorway. He feels a bit of a mess, to be perfectly honest. 

It’s just—he can’t stop thinking about it. And he’s worried. One week is one thing, but two seems...serious. By the time Friday rolls around, Sirius resolves to get to the bottom of whatever happened before the weekend arrives and he doesn’t even have the routine of uni to keep him at least somewhat busy. 

He’s spurred on in his mission when he sees Remus through the window of one of the lecture halls that morning, on his way to his own class. 

So, he’s back. Sirius needs to know.

He finishes all his classes a little after midday and heads straight to the library then, having thought long and hard about where Remus would most likely be (and possibly having—very subtly, of course—asked Pete where they usually studied together when they did so). Obviously, there’s always the chance that Remus won’t be there today, but Sirius wants to at least try.

He walks in, making a beeline for the main study area, eyes scanning the tables. No Remus. Sirius tries not to feel disappointed. Realistically, he could be anywhere.

Just in case, he walks around a bit, thinking maybe Remus is perusing the shelves or something; he seems the type. 

He’s not, in fact, perusing the shelves, but rather, is sitting tucked away at a singular desk beneath a tall, arched window, behind the very last row of shelves. Sirius huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head a little. He should’ve known. This is much more fitting for Remus. Even already secluded in the library, he hides himself further away. Secret. 

There’s four seats at the table: two on either side. Remus is sitting at the one farther from the wall, facing the shelves. He’s bent over a textbook, one long finger running along the page as he reads, his other hand holding a pen that is, predictably, also between his teeth. He’s got a pair of wired headphones in his ears, nodding softly along to whatever it is he’s listening to. Sirius wonders what. 

The sun isn’t shining quite at the right angle to land directly over him through the window, keeping him in the dark—a new moon lying in wait, glow stifled just for now. Instead, the light streams in just above his head, carving a wide slice of gold out of the grey air of the library. Tiny dust motes hang in its path, floating with a gentle shimmer and creating something of a halo above Remus—faux snow in a globe, fluttering over its centrepiece. 

The sunlight stops just shy of his hair, flirting with the suggestion of gilded threads Sirius knows it would trail through those brown curls. He can’t help stopping to stare. The whole scene almost looks like a painting. One of those so realistic it seems to be moving. 

And, well, Sirius is an artist. He’s always been drawn to visuals; his brain has always been wired that way. And so, he often thinks of people in terms of art, too. James, for example, is bold and bright, like a painting done with acrylics. Flexible, forgiving. Free. Peter is more like a photograph. You get what you see, but with the right angles, a thousand different stories can be told with the same subject. Grounded, realistic. Multi-faceted. Sirius himself is like an ink drawing. He’s all sharp lines and harsh angles, monochromatic in colour. Striking, strong. Intricate.

Remus, Sirius thinks, is something quieter, something gentler: a watercolour painting. Soft colours, edges blurring and bleeding into one another; textured cotton paper a bit bumpy under the watery paint so as to best absorb it. He’s fluid and seamless, transparent in some places and not in others. Understated, calming. Peaceful.

In that moment, there in the library, Sirius almost wishes he were more of a person painter so that he might attempt to replicate what he sees in front of him. He doesn’t know how to translate this onto clay. His sculptures are not soft and gentle. They’re harsh and oftentimes jarring, bordering on grotesque. And he likes them that way. But there’s something to be said for the quiet beauty of watercolour. 

Sirius approaches slowly, not wanting to startle Remus. Instead, he waits for him to realise, to notice. 

He doesn’t. He’s clearly engrossed in whatever it is he’s studying, alternating between chewing on his pen as he reads something, and hunching over further to scribble in his notebook, hair flopping over his forehead. 

Sirius stops at the side of the table, leaning his hips back against it and crossing one ankle casually over the other. “Hi.”

Remus jumps violently, pulling his earphones out and whipping his head up to see Sirius, his glasses crooked. His cheeks flood with colour and Sirius has to stifle a laugh. He’d forgotten how delightful it was to watch that blush. How easy it was to bring out.

“...Hi?” Remus manages eventually, the word coming out more like a question than a response.

And Sirius doesn’t know exactly what he’s going to say—didn’t really plan anything when he started walking over—but he’s here now and he’s opening his mouth and he’s asking, “What’re you listening to?”

Which—should really be the least of his concerns right now, but he’s curious. Sue him.

Remus stares at him in silence for a second. “Oh, er...” He glances down at his phone, strewn among his piles of books, then back up, pink still clinging stubbornly to his cheeks. “Elliott Smith? Erm...” He clears his throat. Pushes his glasses up his nose. “Waltz Number Two.”

“Ah, nice,” says Sirius, grinning. How apt, he thinks, for Remus. How fitting. 

There’s a pause. Sirius uncrosses his ankles. Recrosses them, swapped. And then, tumbling out of him in a rush: “I haven’t seen you in Latin recently.”

“Oh, yeah—” Remus blinks, almost like it’s surprising to him that Sirius noticed his absence. “I’ve, er...I’ve been ill.”

“Oh,” Sirius says, feeling his brow furrow a little. That should be a relief, really, but he can’t help thinking that it must’ve been bad to miss two weeks, especially when he’s never known Remus to miss a lesson before now. “Right.”

Remus is still looking at him like he’s not convinced Sirius is actually there, in the library. 

“Well—” Sirius coughs, pulling all the note pages he’d made copies of and brought with him out of his bag. “I brought some notes from what you missed.” He drops the papers onto the desk. “If you want them.”

Remus blinks down at them, looking surprised, eyes flitting between Sirius and the notes. “I... Oh. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

Sirius shrugs. As if he didn’t take the notes just so he might stop himself from going insane staring down the doorway. As if he hasn’t been burning for a reason to seek Remus out. “Wilson went into some stuff that wasn’t on the slides, so I figured you might want the extra info.”

“These are...like, really good, Sirius,” says Remus, sounding impressed as he rifles through the notes with wide eyes, one hand absently twisting the little hoop in his ear.

“Well, there’s no need to sound so surprised,” Sirius jokes. 

“No, I—” Remus shakes his head, looking up at Sirius and nudging his glasses back up his nose with a knuckle. “I just didn’t really think you took notes.”

Sirius raises his brows. “I’m not thick, you know, Remus.” 

He doesn’t take notes. Or—he does, just...not like this. 

Remus rolls his eyes. “No, I know. I only meant that you...never seemed to need them, I suppose.”

“Been keeping tabs on me, have you?” Sirius teases.

“Just whoever’s top of the class,” Remus mumbles, turning slightly pink in the face again. “Found it a bit irritating, actually, that you did so well without them. It’s nice to know I was maybe a little wrong.”

“Oh, now that’s a shame; I rather like being irritating,” Sirius sighs.

That startles a sudden, loud snort of laughter out of Remus and Sirius’ stomach does that weird swoop again. Is he getting ill now? He’d thought that had just been a drunk thing.

Remus claps a hand over his mouth, as if remembering they’re in the library. “Sorry,” he huffs.

Sirius grins. He finds himself stalling, reaching to grasp onto a reason to stay.

He twists his head to look at the empty seat behind him. “Anyone sitting here?”

Remus shakes his head. “No.”

“Can I?”

Remus blinks. “What?”

“Sit here,” Sirius clarifies, stifling a laugh. “Can I sit here?”

“Oh.” Remus’ blinking turns rather rapid then. “Oh—yeah, sure—go for it. Erm, I mean, if you’d like.” He’s nodding very fast, too.

Sirius’ laugh does slip out then, a sudden rush of breath from his nose as he pushes himself off the table and plops down in the seat opposite Remus. 

He pulls his laptop out from his bag and sets it atop the desk.

“What are you doing?” Remus blurts.

Sirius raises a brow. “Studying.”

“Oh.”

He bites the inside of his cheek against another laugh. “That’s what you’re doing, too, no?”

“Yes, I just—” Remus flushes a little, cotton paper and a paint spill. “—didn’t think you did that, either.”

“Well, I’m flattered, really,” Sirius teases, “but my assignments don’t write themselves.”

He’s pointedly not thinking about the fact that he only has one essay to write so far, and it’s not due for another two weeks. He never starts his essays until a couple of days before they’re due, working better under the pressure of little time and not particularly caring for submitting early. Why bother?

“Right,” says Remus, looking terribly embarrassed.

“I mean, not that it isn’t lovely to see you, Remus, but I didn’t come here just for that,” Sirius lies, delighting in the way Remus’ cheeks redden further, more colour than water.

“No, of course—I didn’t mean—” he stammers, eyes darting around.

This is what Sirius expected at the party: stumbling, blushing, messy.  

Remus seems to steel himself, his jaw tightening just slightly as he chances a glance at Sirius and then away again. “I’ve just never seen you in here before.”

Truthfully, he’s only been here twice before, both times with James, for the purposes of research for pranks. But Sirius continues his lie smoothly: “Well, you wouldn’t have, what with the way you’re all hidden back here, would you?”

He hadn’t thought it possible for Remus’ blush to get any deeper; he’s thrilled to discover he’d been wrong. 

“S’just...a bit quieter,” Remus mumbles, smiling sheepishly.

Sirius huffs a soft laugh, giving him a break. “It’s nice, I like it. Didn’t know this desk was here, to be honest.”

Remus smiles properly then, perking up. “Yeah, I found it last year, sort of by accident. I was looking for this book—poetry, so it should’ve been somewhere in that back shelf—but I couldn’t see it anywhere, and I was about to go back to ask Madam Pince about it—only, you know, I’d rather not have to interact with her if I can help it; terrifying woman, her—but anyway, I was sort of rummaging through the shelf in case it was wedged at the back or something, and it turns out there was a missing plank of wood at the backing—they’ve fixed it now so you can’t see—and I saw this desk, and—” He breaks off suddenly, face darkening again where the colour had begun to fade as he spoke. 

Sirius has had to turn his face into his palm where it’s been resting on his cheek, elbow propped up on the table, to hide his grin. Remus has gotten all animated and lit up as he spoke, pointing to the shelf and gesturing with his hands, and Sirius has never seen him so enthusiastic about something before. All over a desk. It’s quite endearing.

“Sorry, erm, you definitely do not care about how I found the desk,” Remus mumbles, averting his eyes and then squeezing them closed. “Please. Tell me to shut up.”

Sirius’ stomach is doing that odd gripping-thing again. He does his best to pay it no mind.

“No, keep going,” he encourages, not having it within himself to keep teasing Remus while he looks so mortified already. “Hole in the shelf, right? Like...Narnia, sort of. You know, just without the rest of the magic stuff.”

Remus’ eyes open wide. “Yes, exactly—that’s just what I thought!” He deflates a little again, nudging his glasses up his nose with a knuckle and then scratching awkwardly at his ear. “Well, erm, that was all, really. I saw the desk through the gap and...you know...walked around the shelf to get here.”

Sirius breathes out a laugh. Now that he isn’t drunk, he’s properly hearing Remus’ accent. It’s not particularly strong—not as strong as he remembers, either—but definitely still noticeable.

“Are you Welsh?” he blurts curiously.

Remus blinks. “What? Oh, yeah.” He nods, smiling. “Good catch.”

Sirius huffs a laugh. “Noticed the accent the other weekend, but I couldn’t place it at the time. It’s nice.”

Remus goes a little pink again. “Yeah, it’s, erm, not super strong, I know. I started at a relatively fancy boarding school here when I was eleven and then moved properly for uni, so...”

“Ah,” says Sirius knowingly. “All the rich brats rubbed off on you?”

Remus laughs softly. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Makes sense, though,” Sirius continues. “You know, like how we adapt our accents depending on where we are and how everyone else speaks to better fit in and be understood. I’d sound a right posh snob every time I first came back to school after seeing my family for the holidays, it was horrid, I—”

“You mean you think you don’t sound like a posh snob right now?” Remus interjects mildly, voice quiet and teasing.

Sirius’ mouth falls open, staring a little in shock, though it quickly morphs to amusement as he watches Remus look up with a sudden jerk of his head, eyes widening and a hand clapping over his mouth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Sirius can’t help but burst out laughing, trying hard to keep it quiet for the library, but essentially cutting him off. “Wow, so Remus Lupin’s got teeth. I didn’t know you had that in you.”

Remus grins sheepishly. “Sorry, I...didn’t really...erm—please, continue what you were saying.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” Sirius waves his hand in dismissal. “You’re funny,” he adds, grinning, too, when Remus blushes at the throwaway compliment. “I was just going to say, since you were so young, the accommodation would be more likely subconscious, so I’m honestly impressed it didn’t completely wipe out your accent.”

“To be fair, I don’t think anyone could understand me at all at first, my accent was so thick. It was probably hilarious, looking back on it.”

Sirius laughs, trying to imagine a tiny, eleven-year-old version of Remus attempting to make friends with his thick Welsh accent at a stuffy London boarding school. “I’d have loved to see that.”

“Dunno that there was much to see,” Remus admits, shaking his head with a small smile. “Wasn’t much of a talker.”

“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” muses Sirius, biting the inside of his cheek.

Remus blows an amused breath out his nose. “That predictable, am I?”

“No.” Sirius shakes his head, tilting it sideways as he feels one corner of his mouth tug upwards. “You’re far less predictable than I expected, actually.”

Remus’ face colours comically fast as he averts his gaze downwards, and Sirius has to press his lips together so as to not laugh. Some things are still very predictable.

“Sorry,” Remus says suddenly then, looking back up and gesturing to Sirius’ laptop, which is open, but with a black screen from disuse. “You came to study and I’ve been...erm, well. Prattling on at you.”

“No, no.” Sirius shakes his head. Studying is the furthest thing from his mind right now. “It’s my fault; I interrupted you in the first place.” 

Remus smiles, and it’s like that one from two weeks ago, the first Latin class after the party—small and somehow private. Not that kind one he always wears like a mask. This one feels like it’s just for Sirius. There goes his stomach. Squeeze.  

Remus shrugs, looking down again. “I didn’t mind...don’t mind.”

Sirius feels himself smile, too—a bit lopsided in a way that he can’t control. “Alright,” he murmurs. “That’s good.”

 

Notes:

yesss, waltz #2 (xo) is my favourite elliott smith song too... and, well. i must project these things onto remus, it’s just the rules!! :3

Chapter 4: Twenty

Summary:

“Happy Birthday, Sirius.”

Notes:

happy belated transgender day of visibility!! extra big hugs to my trans friends out there 🫂🫂

Sirius is quite certain he’s never been so on top of his coursework. Granted, he’s never actually set aside time to study like this, either. He usually finds himself furiously typing away at his laptop in bed, mere hours (sometimes even less) before his 11:59pm deadlines. Unless he’s working on something in the studio or sketching designs, in which case, he does set aside time. But that feels different. 

Nearly every day for the next two weeks finds Sirius in the library, sitting across from Remus as they both study. Well, when they manage to stop talking for long enough to study, that is. And during that time, Sirius comes to learn a great deal more about Remus: about his parents, Hope and Lyall, and how they sound so opposite to Walburga and Orion; about how Remus met Frank at school when they were eleven, and then Alice (the short girl Sirius had kept seeing earlier, who he now knows to be Frank’s girlfriend) a few years later; how he can almost always be found with his headphones in, Sirius now starting out each of their interactions with a “Whatcha listening to?” and Remus filling him in on the song of the moment. So far, there’s been a lot more Elliott Smith (who is, as it turns out, Remus’ favourite artist), a fair amount of Jeff Buckley, some Sufjan Stevens, The Smiths, Kate Bush, and once—causing him to turn bright red as he confessed, much to Sirius’ delight—even a Lady Gaga track. Sirius learns that he generally prefers tea over coffee, except for in the mornings when he has to nurse a huge mug of the latter as he wakes up or on his way to a lecture; that his mother taught him to knit a few years ago (she is the source of the few nicer jumpers in his extensive collection—namely, that blue cardigan he’d worn to the flat-warming party), and he’s currently knitting himself a pair of socks in his spare time; that he loves baking, but only cooks out of necessity. Inconsequential things, really, but somehow, that makes them feel especially important. Things not everyone gets to know, but Sirius does.

So today, Friday—the day before his twentieth birthday—finds the two of them back in the library. Sirius has discovered, to his great delight, that the quiet he finds with Remus in Latin extends to when they’re in the library together, too. He almost feels spoilt getting a dose of it so many days per week after surviving on two hour slices that seem so measly to him now. It’s quite astounding how easily he can focus here—on anything. 

That’s not to say he doesn’t get distracted in other ways, though. Talking, yes, but also looking. The thing is, Remus is just— He’s interesting. It’s not a new revelation to Sirius; he’s been looking at Remus for ages, after all. It’s just, now they’re so much closer. At a new angle. There’s so much more to notice. 

And notice, Sirius has. He’s noticed the way Remus is so effortlessly interesting. So naturally—so easily. The way he’s interesting without even having to move, interesting everywhere Sirius is not, everywhere Sirius has had to create interest with tattoos and piercings and layers in his hair. And Sirius likes interesting. So, he likes looking at Remus. At his hair, which loops and swirls all on its own, tangling itself together: cursive written in a language Sirius doesn’t quite yet know how to read, though he is spending hours trying and trying and trying. At Remus’ skin, peppered with freckles, so different from the few small dark moles that dot Sirius’ own skin, harsh and stark in contrast to the otherwise pale expanse. Remus’ are much subtler, their edges bleeding into one another, blurring into the tawny background of his skin. They’re dense in some areas, more sparse in others, mapping out the places on his face the sun likes to kiss the most, each dot a tiny signal of here and here and look: here, too. His nose has the top spot, tightly packed brown and beige marks clamouring for space, little villagers climbing the hill of it, crowding the peak to admire the views it affords. Sirius has to agree; he thinks Remus’ nose is really quite nice. Where his own is just one straight line, Remus’ is large and crooked, a big bump in the bridge where his glasses often slip to rest against before a long finger curled in on itself gently nudges them back up. Sometimes, that same knobbly knuckle swipes across the bottom of his nose, tugging the skin briefly so it pinkens when it springs back into place. Or other times, the fingers unfurl slightly, scratching over the bridge, over the bump, over the bustling village of freckles, the barely-there scar under the bridge of his glasses. 

Next most populated are the long mounds of his cheekbones, splashes blotted across them, watercolour flicked from the bristles of a paintbrush to spray over him, interrupted only by that second small scar slicing across his right cheek. The flecks scatter a little more distantly further down his face, dipping into the gentle valleys of his cheeks, between their bones and the ones of his jaw. There’s one freckle darker than all the rest, a few paces to the right of his mouth, and Sirius is quite certain it’s in the exact right place to be swallowed by one of his dimples if only he were to smile that big toothy grin he always hides. And he’s quite determined to be proven right. It’s only that he’s yet to successfully pull that smile out of Remus without it being covered by a hand, or pressed into a shoulder, or ducked out of sight. Sirius wants it. And he’s usually good at getting the things that he wants. It feels...strange to not immediately be handed this. It’s like a challenge now. Because, for some reason, it feels wrong to ask for it, demand it, insist that Remus give it over. Sirius finds himself unusually hesitant. And he doesn’t quite know what to do with hesitance. He’s always been all act first, think later. Hesitance is odd. For him.

Remus makes him odd, he thinks. Makes him hesitant; makes him sit in the library day after day, just so he might get a glimpse of that one smile again; makes his stomach do strange things every time he gets close to doing so, and even when he doesn’t, even when Remus is doing seemingly nothing at all. Remus just sits there chewing on anything that comes within ten centimetres of his mouth, and Sirius’ stomach tugs, yanks, flips and flops, buzzes like a fly he can’t seem to swat. 

He doesn’t quite know what to make of it all. Just—it’s odd. Yeah. He feels odd. It’s a new feeling. The whole lot of it; the stomach stuff and the hesitance and all the other oddness. He doesn’t know what it means—if it even means anything at all. Part of him wants to just write everything off as some sort of a set of personal foibles or something, but the fact of the matter is, none of it happens around anyone other than Remus. 

And that’s it, the big roadblock in any explanation Sirius tries to reach: Remus. 

It could be a coincidence, he supposes. He’s just not sure. And it’s so unlike him to not be sure. He doesn’t quite know how to feel about not knowing. Sirius likes to know things; he usually knows things. 

Well, he reckons he can add ‘not knowing’ to his new, near-constantly growing list of oddities.

Anyway, it’s not as though any of that matters especially. Sirius is in the library with Remus, only thinking in these spirals after running into a slight problem. Which is that he’s officially run out of assignments or exam study to do. He’s so far ahead of where he would ordinarily be that he hardly knows what to do with himself. There’s not even any need to sketch potential sculpture designs and plans, because he’s already halfway through a major clay project for the year, and he has seven new ideas currently in his sketchbook as it is. So he’s... Well, he’s bored. He’s taken to drawing random things that he might eventually come back to for a new tattoo design when he’s in the mood for another. He wishes he’d brought something he could use to fill in his easel tattoo; it’s perfect for when finds himself restless or fidgety, giving him something to do, with the added bonus of then being worn around for the rest of the day. But he doesn’t have anything here aside from the odd ballpoint pen, and he hates the way those feel on his skin. At home he would usually use paint—it’s much smoother, the bristled brushes soft on his skin. He thinks, vaguely, that he should invest in one of those brush pens he’s used for adding finer details to a project before. More convenient than a whole bunch of paints, and then he’d have something for when he’s not at home but still wants to fill in the canvas. He’ll pop out later. Maybe this evening. Or over the weekend sometime.

Bouncing a knee under the table, Sirius pretends to read something on his laptop while he just sneaks glances at Remus studying instead. Remus, who is, predictably, chewing on his lip as he writes whatever it is he’s working on at the moment. He has a funny grip on his pen, Sirius has noticed—a bit like a fist: long fingers crowding each other, his thumb tucking itself beneath all the others, the thin stick of pen nearly swallowed where it sits pressed right up against the join between his thumb and index finger. He grasps it tight as he scribbles in that way of his, knuckles white, like it might make him go faster. 

He pauses then, sticking the pen between his teeth as he shifts the textbook that’s sitting above his notebook, rifling through the loose papers he’s wedged beneath it. Sirius’ eye snags on something—a familiar black-and-white grid.

“What’s that?”

Remus startles, quickly looking towards him. He takes the pen back into his fingers, scratching the side of his mouth awkwardly. “What?”

“What’s that?” Sirius repeats, pointing towards the magazine with an amused smile.

“Oh.” Remus blushes a little as he pulls it out fully from the bottom of his stack of things. “It’s the...erm—the student newsletter.”

Sirius blinks. “We have one of those?”

Remus laughs, ducking his head down like usual. “Yes, we have one.”

“And does it always have that big crossword?”

Remus looks at him in surprise. “It does, yeah. Can’t say I’ve ever done it, so...I’m not sure if it’s any good.”

“Oh. Can I...” Sirius hesitates. “Would you mind if I did it?”

“You—” Remus looks down at the newsletter and the full-page-sized crossword it’s open on, then back up at Sirius. “You want to do the crossword?”

Sirius shrugs. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. I’ll give it back after.”

“Oh.” Remus blinks. “No. No, I don’t mind.” He holds it out to Sirius, who takes it with a happy smile.

“Cheers. I love puzzle stuff. Never knew they had this in here; I might have to start getting it.”

Sirius shuts his laptop and drops the newsletter down atop it as he begins on the crossword. It’s big enough that he’ll probably be able to sink a good half hour into it, keeping him nicely occupied while Remus continues studying. He’s not quite ready to leave just yet.

He’s just filling in four-across, when he glances up at Remus to catch him looking on with a small, amused smile, something like surprise tucked into its curve. 

He raises a brow. “What?”

Remus just shakes his head, still smiling. “Nothing.”

“Sure,” Sirius laughs, shaking his head too as he goes back to the crossword. 

He’s about halfway through when Remus speaks up again.

“James invited me to the pub tomorrow night.”

“Hm?” Sirius finishes filling in seven-down—coincidentally, ‘ _____ and the Giant Peach,’ [5] —and then glances up. “Oh. Yeah, he said he was going to.”

Remus nods, fidgeting with the little hoop in his ear. “He, ah...he also said it’s your birthday. Like, that it’s for your birthday.”

“Mhm, it is.”

“Right.” Remus is still nodding absently. “So, you don’t mind if I come? To your...birthday-thing?”

Sirius shrugs. “No, I don’t mind.”

“Right.”

Sirius goes back to his crossword. He stares at the next clue, eight-down, and pulls up blank. Which is odd, because he usually has at least some sort of idea, even if it’s fairly quickly clear that it’s wrong. ‘_____-thin,’ [5]. He can’t help thinking the answer is staring him right in the face, but, for the life of him, cannot think of what it could be. 

He realises Remus hasn’t said whether he is actually coming or not. To the pub. For Sirius’ birthday. Blinking down at the page, he scans through the rest of the list, finding he can’t focus on any of the other clues either, cycling through them all over and over without coming up with any answers to write down. 

He taps the end of his pen against the page restlessly. “So. Er, are you coming?”

Remus pauses for a moment. “I’m...not sure. Maybe?”

Sirius nods. Cracks his thumb knuckle. Doodles absently—scribbles, really—on the corner of the paper. 

The paper. Paper-thin. There we go.

“You should,” he says eventually, after filling in eight-down. He says it casually. Like he doesn’t care either way. Which he doesn’t. Not...particularly, anyway.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sirius shrugs again. “If you want.”

Remus looks down, a very small smile curving his lips. “Alright...I will.”

 

---

 

Their local, Stitched Witch, is something of a second home to Sirius and his friends. They find themselves there most Friday and Saturday nights, unless there’s a special occasion where they have plans elsewhere. It’s dimly lit, somewhere between a pub and a bar, really, and it’s always buzzing, but without being overwhelmingly loud to the point you have to shout to be heard by the rest of your group. It sits below ground level, the entrance from the street opening directly onto a set of stairs down to the bar, and the rest of the seating wrapping around the staircase. There’s a little section off to one side that the bartender they’re most friendly with, Rosmerta, always saves for them—where the seats are more like sofas and the tables a bit lower to the floor. There’s good music, nice staff, and these stout little glass bottles with bulbous bottoms that hang from the ceiling by thin ropes, clinking together gently when the breeze rushes in with each opening of the door.

It’s their go-to spot. And Sirius had requested they simply go there for his birthday rather than throw a big party the way they tend to do for the others. His birthday can be...complicated, and he just doesn’t need the fuss from people he doesn’t even like that much. He’d rather this.

So, it’s Saturday 3rd November, and Sirius is turning twenty. Everyone’s here: Mary and James on either side of him, Marlene, Lily, and Pete across the table. 

Well. Remus hasn’t arrived yet. Which is fine. Sirius hasn’t thought about it much. About whether he’s just running late or whether he’s actually not coming after all. Whether he’s gotten lost or whether he’s simply found something better to do with his Saturday night. Something with Frank, maybe. Or someone else. Anyone. 

Sirius is on his third drink, everyone jumping to buy him one in honour of his birthday. A little pile of opened gifts sits on one of the spare cushioned seats next to Mary. And he’s really not thinking about it. 

Peter is in the middle of regaling everyone with the terrors of the moth in his car that morning, (“I’ve pulled over—proper flapping about outside the car, thinking some nice stranger will see my distress and come help! But not a single bastard came to my aid; can you believe that?!”) when the bottles above their heads clink softly. Sirius’ eyes dart to the top of the stairs—which he can’t even see properly from his seat—because, inexplicably, he knows. A shift in the air, a smell, a taste, and Sirius knows Remus has arrived. 

He barely catches sight of his confirmation—a pair of long legs, quickly giving way to a soft grey jumper, ducked head, wind-ruffled brown curls—before James is jumping out of his seat and yelling out, “Remus!”

Remus’ head jerks up, spinning towards the sound of his name, and he smiles a little shyly, waving as he hurries over. His jumper comes up high around his neck—a knitted pot cupping his jaw, his wind-flushed cheeks—and he’s gesturing with a small, haphazardly wrapped parcel. “Sorry I’m late, I got...held up looking for...”

He trails off as James flaps around, mother hen that he is, gesturing for everyone to shuffle around so a space for Remus frees up between Lily and Peter, and then all but shoves him down into the sofa.

Remus laughs, thanking James, and gives a slightly nervous sounding hello to everyone around the table as he nudges his glasses up his nose. 

The girls introduce themselves cheerily in return, all easy smiles and waves.

“Happy Birthday, Sirius,” Remus says then, eyes finally landing properly on him as he holds the flat little package out across the table.

“Oh.” Sirius smiles, feeling his stomach buzz pleasantly—from the drinks, he’s sure—and accepts it curiously. “Thank you; you didn’t need to get anything.”

Remus shakes his head. “It’s really very small, and obviously last minute, but...” He shrugs. “Well, I wanted to.”

“Open it!” Marlene whisper-yells, inciting enthusiastic agreement from the rest of the table.

“Open it, open it!”

Remus looks a bit nervous, eyes darting around, so Sirius asks, “Do you mind?”

He shakes his head. “Go ahead.”

Sirius wrestles with the paper for a moment, unable to find an opening. He glances up in amusement. “What, did you use an entire roll of tape on this?”

Remus laughs, ducking his head. “Well—had to make you work for it.”

The paper tears as Sirius huffs out a soft laugh, peeling it away to reveal the gift inside. It falls into his lap and he can’t help the incredulous grin that splits his face. A book of crosswords.

“So you won’t need to get the newsletter after all,” says Remus.

Sirius laughs in quiet delight. “Oh, but I thought I’d just keep stealing yours.”

A pink flush of surprise blossoms with Remus’ pleased little smile. “Alright, well, these can be between editions, then.”

Sirius bites his lip, flipping through the book, skimming his eyes over the pages upon pages of puzzles. He looks up, that buzz in his stomach only growing more insistent. “Thank you.”

Remus shakes his head, cheeks holding their colour close. “It’s nothing.”

A clap of hands next to him startles Sirius, and James declares brightly, “Right! Remus, can I get you something to drink?”

“Oh, erm...” Remus startles, looking around at what everyone else has—various beers and ciders—eyes flicking to Sirius’ face briefly before he continues, “I’ll have a cider, but really, James, I can get it.”

“No, no.” James waves him off, patting his shoulders as though to keep him sitting as he gets up from his own seat. “We’ve got to catch you up to everyone else.”

“Don’t worry about it, Remus, let him spend a few pounds—of which he has truly exorbitant amounts, trust—on you,” assures Lily, laughing. 

“It’s true,” Mary chimes in. “Especially since Sirius has been forbidden from buying tonight and he’s the other loaded one.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “I said I’d buy you all a round.”

“No,” five voices chorus, almost scary in their unison.

“Christ, fine! No complaining then.”

James returns then with Remus’ cider, setting it in front of him. “I got you pear because Sirius says it’s best here, but if you don’t like it, I can get apple—”

Remus laughs softly. “Thank you, James. I’m sure this will be perfect.” His eyes dart down then, to the half-drunk cider Sirius’ hands are wrapped around, the condensation beading on the glass that Sirius can feel starting to prune the skin of his fingers. Remus’ lips twitch. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you drinking that after the judgement I received from you last month.”

Sirius shakes his head. “Ah, Remus, Remus, Remus,” he chides, grinning lazily as he waves a hand in some vague indication of the room. “Tell me, where are we right now—what sort of establishment?”

“A...pub?” 

“Right, exactly. And last month? Where were we then?”

“...Your flat.”

“Yes, and what was being held at my flat?”

“Erm...a party.”

Sirius smirks. “Very good.”

Remus immediately turns a rather violent shade of red, quickly taking a sip of his drink in a futile attempt to hide it. He’s so easy to rile up, and every time, it’s a little more thrilling than the last.

“So, here—at a pub—this is where you drink pub drinks,” Sirius continues. “Beer, cider, ale—that sort of thing. But at a party, you drink something fun and disgusting. Like punch, or those terrible cans of pre-mix, or self-poured soft drink and liquor. Maybe even cheap wine straight from the bottle. But not cider. It’s just the same as how you drink nice wine or champagne when you go out to eat somewhere nice; you wouldn’t drink, like, a vodka Red Bull with your cacio e pepe. Those are just the rules.”

“I see,” says Remus, sounding amused even though his cheeks are still tinged with pink. “Well, I’ll bear that in mind.”

Sirius takes the last sip of his cider, tipping his head back to drain the glass. He swallows. “Good.”

He looks back, but Remus is staring down at the table, that flush now crawling along the back of his neck where the top just peeks out of the neck of his jumper. Odd.

The rest of the group seems to have dissolved into easy chatter while Remus and Sirius had been going back and forth, but the moment Sirius sets his glass down, Peter leaps up to snatch it from the wood, promising a new round to the entire table. 

“So, Remus,” Marlene starts, leaning across the table, “James tells us you’re majoring in ethics?”

“That’s right.” Remus nods. “Yeah, so we share a lot of the same classes and...well, you know James, he’s sort of impossible not to like.”

The girls laugh and James positively beams. 

“Yeah, you’ve got that right,” agrees Mary. “Likes to adopt people, our James.”

“Abduct them, you mean,” Marlene quips, cackling as James squawks in offence, trying to swat at her across the table.

“So sorry that I enjoy having an abundance of friends,” he huffs.

“Mm, yes, I’m sure our being friends with Lily while she hated you had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t hate him,” Lily cuts in, causing Sirius to snort into his drink.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mumbles.

Lily narrows her eyes playfully. “Oh, you’re one to talk, Sirius.”

He raises a brow. “Oi, I did not hate any of you three, I simply had concerns about you...you know, messing things up.”

“Mm, I wasn’t talking about us three, though,” she says, a smug smile on her lips.

Sirius raises a brow. Who, then—Remus? That hardly counts. Sirius just didn’t know who he was. 

Remus’ eyes are darting between them all, looking torn between amusement and confusion. He pipes up tentatively in the small silence, “Erm, what about you all? What are you studying?”

“Biology for me,” says Marlene, leaning back as she looks to Mary and Lily.

“Medicine,” Lily adds, finally breaking eye contact with Sirius.

“And fine arts for me,” Mary says, grinning sideways at him. “So I’m stuck with this one.”

“Hey.” Sirius frowns. “James is one thing, but it’s my birthday; you’re, like, obligated to be nice to me.”

Mary scrunches her nose, only relenting with a laugh when Sirius elbows her. 

Well-timed, Pete returns to the table with their new drinks then, passing them around from the tray he’s carried over.

“I got you another, too, Remus,” he says, setting it down next to Remus’ half-drunk first glass. “Trust me, you don’t want to be too far behind this lot.”

“Oh, cheers, Pete.”

“Thanks, Wormy, you’re a saint,” Sirius sighs happily, accepting his latest glass, too.

“’Course.” Pete grins, sinking back down into his seat. “Hey, so—girls at the bar were debating Pride and Prejudice adaptations. 1995 miniseries or 2005 film?”

“Oh, 1995, no question,” says Lily. “Way more book-accurate.”

“No, I think it’s got to be 2005 for me,” Sirius opposes. “Less time, sure, but it’s more dramatic—just, you know...has that je ne sais quoi.”

“And Keira Knightley,” Marlene adds. “I mean, she’s so fit.”

He nods, latching onto the agreement. “Right!”

“But Colin Firth,” counters Remus. “I mean, did we watch the same lake scene? Talk about fit...”

“Oh, a hundred percent agreed, Remus,” James pipes up.

Remus nods at him, grinning and extending a hand across the table for a high-five as James does the same.

“Bi unity,” they chorus, as though this is something they do often—some inside joke.

“Cor! Another bisexual?” Lily perks up, turning to Remus. She gestures to Mary and Marlene. “We were neck-in-neck with the lesbians for a good while there, but look at us now; we’re taking over the group.” 

Remus laughs softly, the back of a hand pressing to his mouth. “As we should.”

“Oh, I like him,” says Marlene, laughing, too. “Even though he’s helped to dethrone me and Mary. He can stay.”

Sirius is staring at Remus. He didn’t know that. He thought he’d known...well, not everything, but a lot. The main things—big things. Certainly things like that. Discovering that he hadn’t...throws him.

“I’ve always been of the porque no los dos mindset when it comes to Pride and Prej,” Mary adds, seemingly oblivious to the way that revelation is worming through Sirius’ brain. “But Sirius and Marls really are just keen on Keira Knightley; it’s why we had to do that Pirates of the Caribbean marathon last year, remember?”

Everyone laughs at that and Marlene says, “Can you blame us?” at the same time as Sirius protests, “Hey, those movies are classics.”

“I, for one, certainly wasn’t complaining,” Pete admits. “Orlando Bloom is lovely and easy on the eyes.”

With murmured agreements, the conversation moves onto that franchise instead, debating their favourite instalment. But Sirius is distracted by that prickle on his skin, the tiny hairs on his skin bristling like hedgehog spines. Every time he glances across the table to catch the gaze he’s so sure he feels, however, he finds that Remus isn’t looking at him at all.

 

---

 

Another...few later—Sirius has lost count by now, only knowing that they did a round of birthday shots in lieu of a cake; he’s switched to beer at some point recently; Remus got this round, his eyes exactly matching the dark gold of Sirius’ current glass; and everyone is getting extra flushed and giggly. They’ve all shuffled spots around, too, so now Sirius is on the other side of the table, wedged between Remus and Lily; Pete opposite Remus; James directly across from Sirius, holding Lily’s hand across the table; and Mary and Marlene squished into the space next to James, Mary’s head resting on Marlene’s shoulder, eyes closed. 

It’s gotten to that point in the evening where James—who hasn’t had a lick of alcohol, mind—starts waxing on about how much he loves Sirius, gripping his hand across the table with the one not latched onto Lily’s. And Sirius is at that point of floaty-happy-drunk where he’s more than happy to lap it all up. 

“I just don’t know what I’d do without you, Pads,” James is saying fiercely, his eyes looking huge behind his glasses, even sitting slightly askew on his nose as they are.

“Nor me without you, Prongs,” Sirius agrees, letting out a wobbly lone hiccup. The usual sharp edges of his vision are fraying as the worn tails of an old ribbon. “Let’s vow to—t’never find out.”

“Can I ask—” Remus interjects curiously, “What on Earth is with your nicknames?”

“Ah!” Sirius grins, letting go of James’ hand to point at each of them in turn as he lists off: “Prongs. Wormtail. Padfoot.”

“Oh, Pete, how did you wind up with such a dreadful one?”

Sirius snickers at that, but Peter puffs right up, explaining proudly, “Well, we picked them ourselves!”

“Right...” Remus’ eyes flick between them all, the amber a little glassy from the drinks. “Like, you mean you picked them for each other, yeah?”

“No, no.” James shakes his head. “We each picked our own.”

“Which is why I clearly have the best one,” says Sirius, tossing his hair back from his shoulder. 

“I’d give that to James, actually,” Remus challenges, huffing an amused laugh when Sirius shoots him an offended expression. “But—wait a second—what do you mean you each chose your own? That’s not how nicknames work.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, it’s— No it’s not!” Remus sputters. “You can’t just choose your own, that defeats the whole point.”

“Why not?” Pete shrugs, tilting his head. 

Remus sits back in his seat, the cushion behind Sirius sinking, too. His mouth is slightly agape as he shakes his head and mutters, “I can’t believe you’ve all convinced everybody you’re cool.”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “And just what are you implying there?”

“It sounds like he’s saying we’re great big losers,” James says, grinning.

“Well—” Remus flounders, hands flapping at them all. “I mean—”

“D’you have a nickname then, Remus?” asks Pete, saving Remus from his lack of coherent speech.

“I—” He blinks. “Not really. Like, sometimes Frank and Alice will call me Rem, but not really—”

“Please,” Sirius scoffs, cutting him off. Rem. How stupid. Of course Frank would use something so dull. “That’s not a proper nickname. That’s just a shortening of your name.”

“That’s...exactly what a nickname is, oftentimes.”

“No, that’s boring, god. Come on, pick yourself something better. I mean, really—Rem? What—like the fuckin’ sleep cycle? That’s pathetic.”

Remus gapes. “I’m not picking myself a nickname, that’s—that’s absurd!”

“Aw, go on!” urges James.

“Yeah, Remus, you need a better one,” Pete agrees.

“You cannot talk, Wormtail. I’m not—I can’t—” Remus breaks off, shaking his head. “I can’t just choose a nickname. Someone has to give one to me. That’s—” He snaps a finger towards Sirius, something triumphant gleaming in his eyes. “Those are just the rules.”

Sirius raises a brow. “Says who?”

Remus waves his hands around again, mouth opening and closing, too, like maybe he can catch an answer straight from the air. The sight makes Sirius actually giggle, the alcohol making his harsh, barking laughter dissolve into something embarrassingly soft, his whole body shaking. 

He can’t help noticing, as well, that Remus sounds increasingly Welsh with each round of drinks, his voice curving just so around his vowels, his ‘r’s rolling slightly, his sentences lilting more pronouncedly than usual. 

“Hang on, hang on,” Sirius manages a little breathlessly, an idea sparking in his brain; he scrambles to coax it to a full flame. “How about— Alright, how about each of us comes up with an option, and then you pick the best one?”

“Ooh, yes!” James cries, clapping his hands together. “Let’s do that!”

Remus seems a bit hesitant, eyes flicking between them all as though he can’t quite work out whether they’re having him on or not, but eventually he cracks with a laugh—presumably at the looks on their faces—covering his mouth with a hand and stifling the already-soft rasp of it. “Alright, alright. But if they’re all shit, I’m not picking one.”

“Wait—we should write them down,” suggests Pete. “Then there’s no favouritism.”

James laughs. “Good idea.”

“Fine.” Sirius shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me either way. Shall I ask Rosmerta for some pens? We can just write on the napkins.” 

He pushes up from his chair, climbing over Lily’s lap to get to the bar, which earns him a sharp jab to his side—as well as a friendly slap to his arse that he’s quite sure is from Marlene, somehow managing across the table—and staggers over.

“Rosmerta, darling?”

The short, older bartender breaks out into a smile at the sight of him, flicking blonde ringlets off her forehead as she moves towards where he’s leaning across the bar. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite patron.”

He flashes a lazy grin. “You wouldn’t happen to have three pens we could borrow and never give back, would you?”

She throws her head back laughing, laying a hand on his forearm to steady herself. “Never give back, eh?”

“Well, it’s my birthday, you see,” says Sirius. “And, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe gifts are customary.”

Rosmerta shakes her head fondly. “I might think you’d ask for a better gift than some cheap pens, darling.”

Sirius shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a simple man.” He winks. “Easily pleased.”

“Hm, you’re a rascal, that’s what you are.” Rosmerta pats his arm fondly, laughing. “But alright, just let me fetch some for you.”

“You’re a treasure, Rosie!”

“Don’t call me that!” she returns over her shoulder, clearly amused.

She’s back in what feels like an instant to Sirius—though he’s fairly sure that’s thanks to the alcohol—three pens clutched in her hand.

She passes them to him with a grin. “Happy Birthday.”

“Cheers, m’lady,” Sirius says, the words slurring just slightly as he leans in to smack a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

Rosmerta huffs a small laugh, pushing him away. “Alright, off with you.”

Sirius stumbles backwards, laughing to himself as he gets his feet back under him and makes his way to the table again.

“Right, here we go.” He tosses a pen each to James and Pete, squeezing back into his spot, a napkin already set down ready for him.

“You’re really gonna do this?” Remus asks incredulously.

“’Course we are,” Sirius scoffs. “You need a proper nickname and you’re clearly too stubborn to pick your own. Rem...fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, can we start?” James asks, practically bouncing in his chair. “I’ve got such a good idea!” 

Pete nods. “Alright, alright—yes, let’s.”

A slight hush falls as the three of them bend their heads over their napkins, arms curled to hide their ideas. Sirius can’t help but grin to himself. Despite what James says, Sirius knows he’s got the best idea. It’s his secret name. The one he’s kept tucked away in the corner of his mind for over a year now. The one he takes out and rolls around when he watches Remus absorb the glow of the sun in Latin, when he watches him turn gold. It’ll be a bit strange to bring it out properly, to have other people see it and hear it and use it, but Sirius can’t not. Not when it’s so perfect.

He glances up just as the other two are doing the same, and folds his napkin into quarters. Mimicking him, they all wordlessly pass their little squares to Remus, who looks just slightly disbelieving as he accepts them.

“Wait, wait, wait—mix them around so you don’t know whose is whose,” Sirius instructs.

Remus shoots him an amused glance, but does as he’s told, shuffling them between his long fingers as he casts his eyes upwards so as to not see what he’s doing. He stops then, and sets the napkins atop the table, picking up one at a time to open it and read the suggestion.

Sirius watches with bated breath as Remus unfolds and refolds each one, expression unreadable. Until the last one. As his eyes flick over the writing, Remus’ mouth spreads into a slow, pleased, little smile—thread pulling carefully through fabric. Sirius’ heart thuds.

“I think...” murmurs Remus, his thumb brushing over the writing. “I think I like this one, actually.”

“Which one?” James demands, looking fit to bursting.

Remus looks up, his smile growing even wider as he bites his lip for a second, pulling it into his mouth and then letting it flick free. He lets a soft breath out of his nose: an echo. 

“Moony.”

A thrill runs through Sirius, shooting along his spine, lifting everything up, up, up—his mouth curving, his ears raising, his eyes shifting. He likes the way Remus says it: soft, careful, like it’s precious. He likes the way it sounds, the way it shapes itself in the air, the way it sits in his ears. He really likes it. Better out loud, in the open, than concealed by the cloak of his mind. His boy. His moon.

“Oh, that’s quite good, actually, isn’t it?” James says, deflating slightly from where he’d been sitting tall. “Which one of yours was it, then?”

“Mine,” Sirius murmurs—softer than he’d intended, soft to match the way his insides feel, the way Remus looks sitting next to him in the low pub light. His, his, his.

Three heads snap towards him. Remus’ cheeks wash a watercolour pink as he smiles, eyes locking on Sirius’ in that way he does that burns: amber flames turning grey ice to smoke. Sirius is moments from dissipating just the same, he can feel it.

“Why Moony?” asks Pete curiously.

Sirius shrugs, looking away. Heat in his belly. Squeeze. “Suits him, doesn’t it?”

“It does, but where’d it come from?”

From the trickle of sunlight on a Tuesday morning. From absorbing it and glowing golden in an otherwise dim room. From more than a year of watching, looking, noticing. 

Sirius smirks. “From my brilliant brain, where else?”

James snorts and Pete rolls his eyes. Remus is looking down at his lap, but his lips do that thing again: twitch, and then press together. 

Like an alarm, Sirius’ stomach buzzes once more. 

“Whose idea was Moose?” Remus asks suddenly.

Sirius barks out a loud laugh, gripping the interjection with two hands, willing it to keep him solid, tethered. “Moose? What the fuck?”

“Oi!” James pouts, shrinking like a wilted flower. “Because Re-mus; Re-moose. I thought it was...funny.”

Peter looks like he’s close to tears with how hard he’s laughing, and Remus is valiantly trying to be kind, tucking his lips between his teeth like he’s doing everything he can to not laugh.

“Oh, it’s hilarious, alright, mate,” Sirius crows, still snickering.

Peter wipes his eyes. “C’mon, be honest. You just wanted someone else to have antlers with you.”

“Well, what was your bright idea, then, Wormtail?” demands James, crossing his arms.

Pete quickly turns sheepish. “Erm...”

Remus pipes up, sounding so endearingly pleased to have the answer, “By process of elimination, that would be Loopy.”

“Aha!” James shouts, snapping a finger at Peter. “That’s dreadful—way worse than Moose.”

“Well, at least it’s sort of cute,” Pete argues. “Moose is just fucking grim.”

Sirius is laughing hard again, slumped down in his seat to tip his head back, letting it fall against the back of the sofa and clutching at his stomach. He’s laughing so hard no sound is actually coming out, the only evidence of its happening in the way his body shakes and his eyes water and his cheeks ache from the width of his smile. He feels and feels and feels, hoping the sofa will hold him as he does.

Then, same as at the party, same as earlier that very evening, he feels that familiar warm tingle on the side of his neck—the one that pricks at him softly, morse code tapping a repeated rhythm into his skin. He’s almost certain it spells out: Remus. Remus. Remus. 

Drifting his gaze sideways, instinctively seeking confirmation, Sirius finds it—Remus watching somewhere on his face, amber eyes still a little glazed from the alcohol, impossibly soft smile drawn by his mouth. 

Sirius feels his laughter fall away, just leaving his grin to linger in its place. “What?” he whispers curiously. 

Remus’ eyes snap up to Sirius’ and he goes a beetroot sort of red, immediately looking away again and pushing his glasses up his nose. “Nothing. I—” 

He gnaws on his lip for a moment, the motion so familiar it sends warmth racing all through Sirius, skittering through his veins, pooling low in his stomach. Squeeze. 

“What, Moony?” Sirius tries, testing out the name in his own voice, making it real, solid, his. His boy. His Moony.

Remus smiles, slow and pleased, eyes sliding tentatively back to Sirius. He shakes his head softly. “Where did that come from?”

“Ah.” Sirius rolls his head on the back of the sofa to look up at the bottles hanging from the ceiling, the glass winking like stars; they’re missing a moon. He laughs—a breathy kind of snicker that sounds entirely drunken and daft. It’s all a bit on-the-nose ironic, really. “Secret.”

He hears Remus laugh, too: soft, raspy, sweet. “Is it?”

“Mhm.” Sirius rolls his head back to the side, his grin feeling loose as he looks at Remus again. He thinks, if only it weren’t so resolutely plastered to his face, it might just slide right off and fall into his lap—stamping him with some visible mark, some tattoo of right now. “Just for me to know.” 

“Can I...find out?”

“You can guess.”

Remus blinks like he hadn’t expected that response. Then, he smiles, looking down. He chews on his lip again, nodding in thought, and finally, glancing back up: “Can I have a hint?”

“Hm...” Sirius narrows his eyes, like he’s actually considering not giving Remus what he asked for. “Alright then.”

Remus perks right up, seeming surprised but pleased.

Sirius huffs a laugh through his nose at the sight. “Latin.”

There’s a moment of silence, Remus’ brow creasing, his mouth parting a little. Then, he blushes just the slightest bit. “Latin?”

“Yep,” Sirius says, popping the ‘p’ like it makes the whole thing more definitive. “That’s your clue.”

“Latin,” Remus repeats quieter, as though murmuring it just to himself, turning it over in his mind. He looks back down to his lap for a moment, and then sideways at Sirius, like he’s making sure it’s not all a joke. 

Sirius bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh. “Latin,” he says again, nodding in confirmation.

“Huh.” Remus slumps down in his seat, lifting a hand to his mouth and taking the thumbnail between his teeth. 

Sirius thinks he sees, all too clearly now, why they call it chewing on your thoughts. He watches as Remus’ frown deepens, practically hearing the cogs turning in his brain, trying desperately to connect the dots from Sirius’ extremely vague clue. “Stumped, are you, Moony?”

Remus turns back to him, thumb dropping away from his face. He opens his mouth, closes it, frowns. Pouts. 

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Sirius presses his lips together as hard as he can so as to not laugh. So as to have something else squeeze for a change, something he chose.

“Yes,” Remus whines, huffing. “M’stumped.” He looks so incredibly put-out about it that it’s sweet.

Sirius can’t help it anymore; he bursts out laughing, head rolling back up to the ceiling again as his eyes fall closed. His stomach, his stomach, his stomach. He clutches it.

Remus grumbles, “Your hint was shit,” though his tone is a bit too fond for it to really come across as accusing. 

That only makes Sirius laugh harder, sending him careening over the edge between just-laughter and proper hysterics. He thinks he might be crying, actually. 

Trying desperately to catch his breath, Sirius sits up, hauling his head off the back of the sofa and wiping at his eyes. “Never promised you a good one, did I?”

“Well, generally speaking, clues are supposed to be helpful.”

“Mm, well, you’ll just have to ask for more, then, won’t you?” 

“Oh.” Remus blinks. “Can I?”

“Well, not now—I just gave you one. But...” Sirius breaks off to smirk. “Generally speaking—” A soft breath of laughter: his reward. “Sure.”

“Alright.” 

Smiling, Remus looks down between them for a second. Quiet.

Then, somewhat unexpectedly, one of his hands moves, fingers brushing lightly over Sirius’ arm—burning it. Sirius doesn’t understand how he always does that. He feels the red head of a match, and Remus the striker; crafted to react from a single touch, Sirius always the one about to burst aflame. 

Something’s still got a hold of his stomach, too. He wishes it would let go.

“This is really cool,” Remus murmurs, fingers dragging gently against Sirius’ skin.

“What?” Sirius blurts. His mouth feels dry; the word had to scrape its way out.

Remus glances up at him, amber sunlight peeking through the slivered haze of his eyelashes. “This?” He taps just above Sirius’ elbow.

Oh. Yes. His tattoo. Right.

“Oh,” Sirius echoes aloud, looking down at it. He’s painted in it again; tonight, a solo sprig of lavender. He smiles. “Yeah...thanks. I like it.”

“Do you always have something in it?”

Sirius shakes his head. Remus’ fingers are still lingering there, just shy of the frame of the easel, trailing up and down ever, ever, ever so slightly—just enough to make the skin tingle, making him feel utterly flammable, teetering on the knife’s edge of an all-out blaze. The slightest bit more pressure, the faint scratch of bitten-blunt nails, and that would be it. It’s really quite distracting. “Not—no, not...not everyday. Depends.”

Remus nods, and with both their heads tipped down to look at the tattoo, his hair tickles Sirius’ forehead, ghosting over it—cursive writing a message too faint to read. Sirius’ breath is being held right along with his stomach, a hand fisted around each, grip tightening and tightening and tightening. 

“It’s really cool.”

“Yeah, you said that,” whispers Sirius.

Remus breathes a soft laugh, drawing back, his hand returning to his own lap. “Well, I s’pose it bore repeating.”

If Sirius wasn’t still staring at his very ordinary-looking skin, he’d swear that Remus had left marks. Again. He almost wishes he had left marks. Some evidence—some assurance that all these sensations are real. That they’re not all in Sirius’ head.

He blinks and looks up. Tries to smile. “Well, thanks again, then.”

Remus smiles, too. His glasses have slid down his nose a bit; he nudges them back up. 

Sirius fixates on the predictable motion, on the familiarity of it, and his brain stumbles until the thought he’s been trying to ignore is tumbling down, dislodged from where it’s been stuck all evening, clattering into his mouth until he blurts out, “I didn’t know that. About you. What you said before.”

Remus’ brow furrows for a moment. “Didn’t know what? That I’m...oh. That I’m bi?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t know why this information still feels so earth-shattering to him.

“Is it...” Remus looks down, fidgeting. “Is that a problem?”

Sirius’ eyes widen. “No! No, of course not. I just...was surprised I didn’t know, I guess.”

Remus shrugs. “I dunno, it’s not really something to just randomly bring up. You know, when it’s not exactly relevant.”

“Right.” Sirius nods. “Yeah, makes sense. Like, once you’re out and everything and you meet new people.”

“Exactly, yeah. It’s not as if I go around introducing myself like: ‘Hi, I’m Remus: Welsh, bisexual, ethics major.’”

Sirius snorts. “I think you should start that. Really gets your most important traits across.”

Remus huffs a laugh. “Yeah, cheers. In that order, too.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, if I’m starting it, you’ve got to do it with me.” Remus glances at him, expression oscillating between something like nerves and something like hope. “You know, in solidarity.”

“Right, right.” Sirius clears his throat, extending a hand. “Sirius Black: painfully British, tragically heterosexual, insufferably majoring in fine arts.”

Remus ducks his head with a laugh, taking Sirius’ hand to shake, his grasp warm and steady. “I appreciate the adverbs you threw in there, too. Adds to your charm.”

“You think I’m charming?” Sirius jokes. “Moony, you flatterer.”

Remus shakes his head, releasing Sirius’ hand. He looks up through his eyelashes, smiling, though the curve of it slopes sad somehow. “Good birthday?”

“Mm.” Sirius nods, his stomach dropping slightly at the expression. “Yeah, good.” He pauses for a moment, trying to make sense of it. He’s too drunk to stop the next words from prying his mouth open and breaking free into the air between him and Remus. He’s just saying it all tonight, apparently. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”

Remus looks surprised, his brow furrowing just slightly. “I said I would.”

Sirius hums, sort-of-joking, sort-of-not as he asks, “Do you always mean what you say, then?”

It’s quiet as Remus finds Sirius’ gaze, holding it: palms cupped around a fragile flame flickering in the wind, coaxing it to stay alight. “Yes.”

Sirius looks away. He feels Remus shift in the seat next to him, reaching for his beer, their shoulders bumping for a moment; an unconscious summons, and, magnetised, Sirius answers, looks back.

An inhale—Remus’. “I didn’t know if you really...wanted me to come.” He’s chewing on the corner of his lip again, thumbs dragging through the beads of moisture that cling to his glass, collecting them on his skin instead.

Something wrenches in Sirius’ mind. 

(“It’s not like I ever even wanted you to come with me, anyway.”)

An exhale—Sirius’. “I did.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Remus smiles, a small thing. “And you? Do you always mean the things you say?”

Sirius looks away again, somewhere vaguely ahead of him. He twists his rings around, tugging his skin with them, sliding the metal up, over his knuckles and back down again. He thinks of a final phone call, of harsh words spat down the receiver, so many things he’ll never be able to take back, so many things he never meant in the first place—could never, would never mean, no matter what. 

(“I fucking hate you.”)

Slipping his eyes closed, Sirius bends a knuckle, pressing the joint into the metal he’s slid up around it, hard enough to hurt. He pretends the black he sees is just the backs of his eyelids and not blood-stained memories of hair identical to his own. “No...not always.”

A pause. “Right.”

“That I did, though,” Sirius rushes to clarify, eyes darting open and back to Remus’: smoke clinging to a flame. He pushes the ring back into place around the base of his finger and takes another breath, as though it might draw in certainty—honesty—he can imbue in his words. “About wanting you to come. I meant that.”

As sure as the ebb and flow of the tide, the break of day, the fall of night, Remus blushes—the speckled shore of his cheeks awash with seawater tinted pink by the sunset. “Oh.”

“Oi, Moony!”

Sirius startles, whipping his head across the table towards the sound of James’ voice. He’d sort of forgotten there were other people at the table. That it wasn’t just him and Remus. A rushing in his ears: muffled chatter, the thrum of a new song over the speakers, loud laughter somewhere to their right. The bottles clink overhead; somebody’s opened the door, coming or going. Sirius had sort of forgotten they were at the pub at all. 

He blinks, trying to sharpen the fuzzy edges of his vision, to sift through the onslaught of noise in search of familiar voices. James is sliding his phone across the table, Pete looking eager beside him, and Remus—faint flush still stamped to his cheeks—picks it up.

“It’s official,” says James. “You’ve got your nickname now, next is joining the group chat.” 

Sirius peers over Remus’ shoulder, seeing it’s their main ‘Marauders’ group. He thinks, ordinarily, he’d probably be annoyed that the three of them didn’t discuss this together beforehand, but he finds he’s not. He’s really not.

“Oh, are you...are you sure?” Remus asks, almost-chuffed disbelief coaxing his brows higher on his forehead. 

“Of course!” James assures, slapping an enthusiastic hand on the table.

“You’re a Marauder now, Moony,” adds Pete.

Remus glances sideways, looking towards Sirius, his face so obviously seeking out his permission: Can I? You’ll let me? You, as well as them?

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.  

Sirius gives him a small, encouraging smile and tilts his head, nodding. “Go on then, Moony.” His voice comes out delicate, soft—the stumbling first steps of a baby chick. 

He watches Remus’ lips part a little, his blush returning in full force as he quickly looks down at the phone and taps away, a pleased smile tucking into the swell of his cheeks. He tries to hide it by nudging his glasses up his nose. Sirius catches it anyway. 

“Alright,” says Remus quietly, looking up again. “There.”

James beams as he takes his phone back. “Cheers.”

Sirius barely has the time to tamp the flipped hill of his own smile down to a smooth plain before something vibrates in his pocket. He, Remus, and Peter all simultaneously pull out their phones.

MARAUDERS !!!!!!!!

[22:09]

prongs:

WELCOME MOONY!!!!!!!!!!!

 

wormy:

HELLO MOONY

 

padfoot:

THE EAGLE HAS LANDED

 

wormy:

wut.

 

padfoot:

moon landing??

cmon worms it’s not as fun if i have to explain it

 

wormy:

soz im far too drunk

and too british apparently

thought i missed some moony lore with an eagle

and u know how i feel about birds :/

 

padfoot:

shh dont start on that ur gonna scare moony off

 

wormy:

prongs’ll do that all on his own lets be so fr rn

 

prongs:

OI!!

 

padfoot:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

 

(unknown number):

um...hello :)

 

prongs:

MOONY!!

 

wormy:

MOONY!!!

 

padfoot:

MOONY!!!!

padfoot changed (unknown number)’s name to:
moony

moony:

hi :)

are these the kinds of antics I have to look forward to now?

 

padfoot:

yup

 

wormy:

yer :3

 

prongs:

pretty much 

 

moony:

delightful

 

padfoot:

get used to it ;)

“Oi,” Marlene’s voice rings out, making them all jump. “Don’t tell me you losers are all texting each other from the same table. Again.”

 

Notes:

twas truly only a matter of time before the texts made an appearance....they beg & plead w me to be included and as always i am helpless to resist....

been going through a bit of a :/ phase with my writing atm hence the kinda longer gap between chapters.... that being said, this sort of gap will probably be more standard moving forward bc i’m maybe possibly potentially perhaps juggling this w another project atm...!! it’s smth exciting (at least i think so lol) that will eventually make its way here too but yeah probs will slow these updates just a lil (sorry!)

also not to life dump in my ao3 notes but i did have to be sooooo super brave yesterday and do a performance review w my boss at work....will be accepting any n all comments as rewards for my survival ;)
(+ as always i just love to chat/hear your thoughts!!)
much love <33333

Chapter 5: Burn

Summary:

Remus looks up at him, blinking. There; bingo.

Notes:

the world sucks rn. so so many hugs to you all <3

Having Remus in their group chat turns out to be considerably more fun than Sirius could really have anticipated. The day after his birthday, his phone is almost constantly going off, despite him, James, and Pete spending the day together. Remus had been quiet at first—silent, actually—until Sirius resorted to sending incessant messages of ‘moony. moony. moony.’ and then he’d appeared. Sirius suspects, somewhat privately, that Remus hadn’t been entirely convinced they’d remembered including him once they’d all woken up sober. Seems like the kind of ridiculous, shy thing he’d think. It’s sort of sweet, though, too. He’s been much more active since, anyhow.

It’s Monday, when Sirius is on his way to meet Remus at the library, that he sees it. A string of messages from Remus, not to the group chat, but to Sirius. Privately.

 

 

moony

[10:58]

moony:

hi 

I’m not well, so won’t be in today

not sure if you’re planning on going to the library or not, just thought I’d let you know

obviously you can still go

um I just mean I won’t be there

in case you like. wondered or something

 

 

Sirius has his phone up to his ear, the line dialling before he even really gets the chance to consciously decide anything.

“Hello?” Remus’ voice is tentative over the small speaker, answering similar to the way of a potential scam call. 

“Hey!” Sirius greets automatically. Then falters. “It’s—er, it’s me. Sirius.” 

He winces, unsure where that came from. 

A soft laugh, the rasp intensified by the crackle of the line, like a gentle fire burning in the hearth. “Yes, I figured as much. It might surprise you to know that I do, in fact, have your number saved now.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, feeling the corners of his mouth quirk. “Well, forgive me if you sounded like you weren’t sure when you answered.”

“Oh, yeah, I—ah...well, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually meant to call.”

“Oh. Well. Yeah, I did.” Sirius isn’t sure why he feels so fucking awkward. 

“Mm, funnily enough, I figured that, too,” Remus teases, voice soft and maybe a bit tired, too. “You know, after you answered me and everything.”

Sirius huffs, a smile tugging insistently at his lips now. “Alright, that’s enough out of you, or I might think you’re not all that sick.” A tiny silence stretches into an empty pocket—he coughs to fill it. “That was...that was a joke. Are you— How are you?”

“Oh, ah...” Rustling—Remus shifts; it sounds like he’s in bed. “Well, not the best, but I’ve been worse.”

“What kind of sick? Sore throat? Coughing?”

“No, erm, more like...achy. Have a bit of a fever. Bit of a headache.”

Sirius makes a sympathetic noise. “Like the flu, maybe?”

A pause. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Oh. No. No, thank you.” Remus’ voice is warm, emitting some of that sunlight he absorbs, shining it gently into Sirius’ ear. “Just rest, I think.”

“Alright.” Sirius nods—like he can be seen. “Well...I mean, let me know if that changes. I can— Will you be off tomorrow, too? I can bring notes from Latin again, if you are.”

“Oh, you really don’t— Don’t feel like you have to do that for me, Sirius.”

He rolls his eyes. “You act like it’s some huge effort, Remus. I’m taking the notes already—” Tiny lie. “—it’s just making a copy.” 

It’s quiet over the line for just a moment, another empty pocket stretched just this side of too long. Enough that Sirius nearly shoves a stupid joke inside, too-rough; nearly rips it apart at the seams.

But then Remus speaks—soft, and far too grateful for the small gesture. “I...alright. Thank you, that would...that would be really helpful. If you don’t mind. I’m not sure whether I’ll be in or not, I’ll see how tonight goes.”

Sirius nods again. “Alright. Yeah, okay. Well, text me and I’ll— I can...bring them ’round or— Well, I’m sure I’ll see you at some point. Whenever you’re back.”

“Yeah,” murmurs Remus. “Yeah, I’m sure you will.”

Sirius hums, smiling. They don’t say anything for a while; there’s only the faintest sound of Remus’ gentle breathing sounding through the speaker. It’s...oddly comforting. Well, Sirius supposes he shouldn’t really find the comfort odd anymore. Wherever Remus is, whatever he’s doing, Sirius finds some level of comfort in him.

“You heading to the library, then?” Remus asks eventually, voice quiet and drowsy.

No, not if you aren’t there. He’ll go to the studio, instead. It’s his best chance of quiet, and he’s been neglecting his more personal sculpting time in favour of... Well, in favour of Remus.

“Ah...yeah,” Sirius lies. “Yeah, I was just about to when I rang you. Got...you know—study to get done.”

“Mm. Yes, and you can make sure nobody steals our table while you’re there.”

A fist closes around Sirius’ stomach, a fire lights in the centre of his chest. He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head to dispel the swarm of those words that surge through his mind, the copies buzzing like bees. Our table, our table, ours.

“Well, exactly,” he says. “Can’t have anyone thinking it’s up for grabs; s’far too valuable for that.”

Remus laughs—soft, raspy, sweet. Sirius wonders if he hides his face over the phone, too, or if he lets his big smile free. If it’s enough to bring his dimples out. If the right one swallows that singular darker freckle. 

Suddenly, the sound cuts into a low hiss—pain—quiet enough that Sirius almost doesn’t catch it; he probably wouldn’t have if not for how intently he’d been listening to the laugh. More rustling. Shifting.

“Alright?” Sirius checks, voice low.

Another shift. “Fine, sorry,” mutters Remus. 

Sirius shakes his head. “Don’t be daft.”

A quiet huffed laugh. “No, I... Well, I should probably...you know—”

“Right, yeah...” Sirius nods. “I’ll just— Yeah, I’ll let you rest.”

“Right. Thank you.” There’s a smile audible in the sound of Remus’ voice; Sirius thinks he could graph the curve, trace the crescent moon shape of it. “And thanks for...you know, for calling.”

“’Course, yeah.” Sirius coughs a bit. “I, erm—I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks, Sirius.”

Sirius bites his lip, smiling. “Bye, Moony.”

A tiny inhale of surprise, barely audible through the phone. “Oh... Oh—yes, bye. Erm, bye...Padfoot.”

Sirius laughs, far too pleased. “There you go.” He pauses, smirking in spite of himself; he just can’t resist adding: “Very good.” 

He’s sure he can actually hear Remus’ blush over the phone. It’s written in the subsequent huffed exhale, in the immediate rustling that sounds—almost like squirming—in the quickly mumbled, “Bye.”

“Bye,” Sirius repeats, biting the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t lose it. He hangs up, shaking his head with a smile. So easy.

 

---

 

Remus is back on Thursday. 

It was better this time—his absence. Better, because Sirius knew more, because he’d been able to send Remus inconsequential little texts over the days and receive updates in return, that first string from Remus fuelling the start of their own ongoing message thread. He’d been able to focus more easily, take his notes without staring down the door, knowing he had good reason to do so.

He finds Remus, predictably, in the library, earphones in, chewing on the end of his pen. 

“Hiya, Moony,” Sirius greets, grinning as he slides into his seat across the table.

Remus smiles as he looks up, pulling the pen from between his teeth, replacing it with the corner of his lip. The soft sunlight streaming in through the window slices diagonally across his face, cutting him into a half moon, equal parts shadow and glow. He was already a bit red when Sirius got there, too, the colour clinging to his nose, the apples of his cheeks. 

He pulls his earphones out—always pulls them out when Sirius arrives. “Hi, Sirius.”

“What’re we listening to today?”

“The Beatles,” Remus answers readily, used to the question by now. “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

Sirius grins. Every track is always so Remus. “Nice.” He pulls his laptop out of his bag, setting it down. “Feeling better, then?”

Remus nods. “Mostly, yeah.” His eyes look tired, though; dark smudges drape heavily from his eyelashes—bruises of velvet curtain, oozing out from beneath his glasses. 

“You didn’t miss much, honestly. No one even tried to lay claim to our table.”

Remus laughs a bit, a palm sliding like a door over his mouth to hide it. “All thanks to your defence, I take it?”

“But of course.” 

“Well, thank you, then.”

Sirius winks. “Anything for you, Moony.”

Remus blushes—which had been the goal, of course—but as it fades, that first flush from Sirius’ arrival doesn’t. Did he—

“Get a bit sunburnt lying about in your room, did you?” teases Sirius, unable to help himself. 

The colour on Remus’ face deepens and spreads as he immediately blushes once again, looking away, ducking his head down. Though, the burn in question stays slightly darker than the rest, and one of his hands comes up to swipe over it—across the bridge of his nose, down his right cheek—like he’d forgotten it was there, or maybe like he thinks he can erase the colour with his fingers. “Yeah, sure.”

Sirius falters. He’s said something wrong. Was he not supposed to mention the burn? Well, he’s gone and done it now.

“Happens to me all the time, too,” he tries. “Pitfalls of being so pale. I would’ve thought you’d have better luck, though—bit more tan than me, and all.”

Remus nods. He’s not looking at Sirius properly anymore. So he definitely wasn’t supposed to mention it. Alright. Well. He can...talk about something else, then. 

“Er, well, I...” Sirius flounders a bit, moving to pull out his notes. “I have notes for you. From Latin.”

That gets Remus to look up. Briefly. But a small, grateful smile draws across his face as he accepts the pages. “Oh, thank you.”

Sirius almost considers it a win, until Remus immediately goes back to reading his textbook, his face propped in his hand, fingers splayed like he’s trying to hide himself. It would be convincing—the reading thing—if Remus’ eyes were actually travelling over the page, instead of staring straight down, completely unmoving behind his glasses. 

Sirius gets the message: Remus doesn’t want to talk anymore, not after whatever Sirius said wrong. 

The trouble is, he’s not very good at leaving things be—can’t stop himself from trying, from poking and prodding and digging his fingers in deeper by saying more and more until he gets a reaction he’s satisfied with. And it doesn’t matter if those fingers come away bloody; at least that’s proof they were there at all. With a hard enough grip, nothing can get away, nothing can leave. He can’t help feeling like if he just digs deep enough, just finds the right thing, Remus will look at him as normal. It’s a bit like a challenge, like something to win. Look at me.

“What’re you working on today?”

“Erm—” Remus glances at him for a second, pushes his glasses up his reddened nose, looks down again. “Philosophy of human nature.”

“Cool.” Sirius nods. Waits. Nothing. “Like...an essay? Or...?” Look at me properly.

Remus clears his throat a bit. “Essay, yeah.”

Sirius stares, eyes boring into the cursive-curls that flop over Remus’ forehead, only a few of the topmost whorls glinting gold in the line of sunlight, teasing. Look at me, look at me, look at me.

Remus doesn’t. Sirius feels his jaw tighten for a second and he slumps down in his chair, folding his arms and preparing to stew. He’s never—not since speaking at the party—not been able to get Remus to look at him. It’s always been easy, actually. Half the time, Sirius doesn’t even have to say anything, hardly has to do anything. He barely has to try, and Remus will look at him. This feels like a loss. And Sirius has never really been a very good loser. But what is he supposed to do if Remus won’t tell him what’s wrong? Is Sirius expected to read his mind? It’s just a sunburn!

(“It’s just a sunburn; they won’t even notice! Here—want me to get one, too? Just give me an hour. We can match!”)

Sirius closes his eyes, presses them tight together. He digs his nails into the skin around his elbows, until it starts to sting. Breathes in, loosens his grip, and opens his eyes again.

He doesn’t even have anything to work on, really. He supposes he could proof-read his essay on Gothic styles in the Medieval period for art history, but it’s only short, so won’t take him long. It is due tonight, though.

Opening his laptop, he pulls up the document and scans the first few paragraphs. Fixes one typo. Adds a semicolon. Looks at Remus.

His hair’s getting longer; it curls behind his ears now, poking out a little beneath the lobes. Sirius hopes he doesn’t cut it. It’s nice like this. Tiny twin brushstrokes of brown watercolour, commas flicked into the cursive, begging: just a bit more, just a bit longer.

Sirius turns back to his laptop. Stares at the screen. Bounces a leg under the table.

Looks at Remus.

Forces his eyes back to the page. Reads one sentence six times. Absorbs none of the words. Sighs.

Looks at Remus. 

Looks at Remus. Looks at Remus. Looks at Remus.

I missed you, he thinks. Come back. You only just came back.

He should say it, probably. Should tell Remus. Just say that he wants his attention, say that he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean anything by it—not really. Should say that he missed him. Misses him often, even when they’ve only just seen each other. It all feels like an awful lot, though. A too-big mouthful that he can’t quite chew, clogging his throat as he tries anyway. He clears it.

“It’s been quite dreadfully boring here this week,” Sirius tries again, that foreign hesitance—the one that only Remus seems to bring out in him—creeping into his voice. “...without you.” That’s close enough.

Remus looks up at him, blinking. There; bingo. 

See? Sirius thinks. I won’t talk about it anymore. I’ll leave it. I can do that. If that’s what you want.

Remus smiles shyly, and scratches at his ear. “Yeah? I...” he murmurs. Blushes. Clears his throat, too. “It was dull not... Well, I suppose I’m saying I...rather missed you.” 

Like dominoes, when Remus’ blush spreads, Sirius’ stomach squeezes: a hand gripped around an orange half, wringing it for its sweet juice, sticky as it dribbles down his skin. 

How freeing, to have the poorly-concealed meaning of his words understood and seen—seen, but not ridiculed, just gently offered to him in return instead. 

Sirius smiles, drumming his fingers lightly over his laptop keyboard. “Are you coming to the match—first weekend in December?” 

“Oh, erm...” Remus swipes a hand over his nose and cheek again. “I’m not sure. Sports, you know...not really my thing.”

“No,” gasps Sirius facetiously. “But you look like such a rugby lad, Remus.”

Remus’ lips twitch and twist, like he’s playing tug-of-war with his smile. “Oh, har har.” 

Sirius grins. “You should come.” He pauses. “I’ll be playing.”

“What, is that supposed to convince me?”

Sirius scrunches his nose, reaching to chuck a stray pencil at Remus’ chest, which—bless him—he truly does try to dodge, only, in doing so, ends up getting flicked square on the nose. 

Stifling a laugh with a bite to the inside of his cheek as Remus frowns and rubs his nose, looking for all the world like a disconcerted cat, Sirius huffs. “Yes. I mean, James is playing, too. And we’re having a party after at ours. Which you could also come to. If you want.”

Remus’ mouth quirks. “That’s a bit presumptuous, no? Already planning a party?”

Sirius waves a hand. “Victory or pity—the word after stays the same.”

“Touché,” Remus relents with a tilt of his head.

“So?” Sirius prompts. “Wanna come? You should.”

“Yeah?” Remus gnaws on his lip, one hand absently moving to twist the little earring in his ear. 

Sirius nods, eyes snagging on the movement: round and round and round. “Yeah, I’d— You should. I mean...yeah. If you want, I’d...like you to.”

Remus blushes instantly, seeming to chew on the inside of his watercolour-pink cheek for a second. He smiles. “Alright then.”

“Yeah?” Sirius perks up. “Everyone else is going—you know, Pete and Lily, Mary, Marlene—you could probably go with them, if you like. To the match, I mean.”

“Okay.” Remus smiles. “I think Frank was already planning on going, so maybe we can all meet there.”

Sirius tries not to have a reaction to that—really, he does. But the minute he hears Remus’ lilting voice shape Frank’s name, he gets a sour taste in his mouth. 

Remus huffs out a laugh. “What?”

Sirius feels his lips purse. “Nothing.”

“No, come on, you look like you’ve swallowed piss.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“And how are you so sure what that looks like, Moony? You into that sort of thing? I hadn’t pegged you as the type—”

“Sirius,” Remus cuts in with a mortified groan, burying suddenly red-hot cheeks in his hands. 

Sirius slumps back in his chair, relenting, and folds his arms just for the show of it. “Well, will Frank be coming to my party with you, too?”

Remus looks up, blinking. “Oh, erm, I don’t know.” He smiles then, looking amused. “You don’t like him.”

It’s not a question.

“Who?” asks Sirius, feigning ignorance.

Remus rolls his eyes, but his expression is all fond. “I know you’re not thick, Sirius, come on; don’t pretend. Frank. You don’t like him.” 

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Sirius doesn’t answer, avoiding Remus’ eyes. But Remus just keeps staring at him, steady and weighted in a way that makes him want to squirm.

He’s not going to squirm, he’s not going to, he’s not—

“Fine,” he huffs, throwing his arms out—squirming. “No, I don’t.” 

Remus tilts his head. “Why?”

“Why? He’s—” Sirius sputters. “I just don’t like him.”

“You’ve hardly spoken to him.”

“I hardly need to to know that he’s annoying.”

Remus props his face between his hands, fingers splayed over his burn again. “He’s not annoying. He’s my best friend.”

“Yeah, well,” Sirius grumbles, “I think you might want to reassess that.”

Remus laughs, turning his face into one palm. “I think you should give him another chance. You can be perfectly nice, you know, Sirius.”

“Yes, when I want to be.”

“Do you think you could maybe...try to want to be?”

Sirius pulls a face. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”

When he looks again, Remus is clearly trying to hide a smile. He knows. He knows what Sirius doesn’t say.

Maybe for you.

“Hey, speaking of parties—when’s your birthday?” Sirius asks, determinedly steering the conversation away from Frank. And he’s been curious, anyway.

“Oh, it’s the, erm, the tenth of March.”

Sirius nods, filing the information away. “Turning twenty or twenty-one?”

“Twenty, yeah.”

He taps one temple with a finger, grinning. “Just gotta start thinking of your gift.”

Remus blushes. “Oh. You don’t need to—”

“Remus.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Remus glances at him, and then away. Smiles; drags a hand over it to wipe it away, hiding. Always hiding.

It’s better after that. Sirius goes back to proof-reading his essay, flying through it easily now, and Remus goes back to his own reading/scribbling. 

It doesn’t take long, however, before Sirius becomes bored. Before he’s finished the one task he found for himself, and is left restless. 

He pulls out his phone to check the time, and startles. It’s much later than he thought, actually—he has rugby to get to. “Oh, I need to head to practice soon.” He glances at Remus. “You staying here a bit longer?”

Remus looks towards his strewn books and sighs. He lifts his hands, squeezing his fingers behind the lenses of his glasses to rub at his weary eyes, the frames wobbling against his knuckles with the movement. 

“No,” he says tiredly. “No, I’ll call it a day, I think.” He drags his hands out and sets his glasses straight again.

Sirius nods and they both pack up quietly. He’s finished first, what with Remus’ millions of books scattered across the table. Walking around to the side, Sirius smiles fondly and leans across to help gather them all.

“Thank you,” mutters Remus, all flushed face and hurried movements.

As Remus attempts to organise his things, Sirius finds his eyes drawn once more to the burn on his face. This close together, and without Remus’ eyes on him, he’s properly taking it in for the first time, beyond just the redness. It’s worse than he thought from afar—not in colour, necessarily, but in texture—small, blotchy bumps raised slightly on the skin. It looks like it would be rough to the touch. 

Sirius wants to ask about it.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t.

Remus stuffs his bag full, and Sirius picks up his notebook to hold out to him. Straightening up with a brief wince, Remus turns towards Sirius and smiles, glancing down at the notebook. 

He really does look tired. His dark circles all but bleed into the blotches of his sunburn, deep blue and red, like the core of a hot flame. No wonder his touch burns, too.

They’re so very close; Sirius can’t stop flicking his eyes across the texture traversing Remus’ nose and cheeks, smothering his delicate freckles. 

He doesn’t decide to do it; he just does it. In fact, it sort of catches him by surprise, too, when it happens. But act first, think later; that’s him. Just as Remus’ fingers close around the other end of the notebook, Sirius reaches up with his free hand and drags his middle finger down the bridge of Remus’ nose. Remus startles, looking at Sirius with wide eyes, mouth parted in surprise—like an animal in a trap. But Sirius barely registers that, barely registers anything outside of the ever so slightly uneven feel of the burn, warm and almost scaly beneath the pad of his finger. Over the big bump in the centre; down into the gentle, barely-there dip just below that; tumbling off the tip.

He feels his eyebrows tug together as his touch lands on empty air, then back down by his side, limp. “Is it sore?” he murmurs.

Remus blinks a few times. Snaps his mouth closed. Opens it. Closes it again. Blushes.

He shakes his head, finally replying with a soft, “No.”

“Okay.” Sirius nods. “That’s...that’s good.”

Remus smiles, small and shy, the curve wrapping, wrapping, wrapping around Sirius’ stomach. 

“How did you get it?” Sirius asks quietly.

Remus looks down to the notebook they’re both still holding, his eyelashes casting shadows over the blue smudges beneath his eyes, darkening them black. He shrugs, glancing up again. “How does anyone get sunburnt?”

It’s not really a satisfactory answer; he’s been cooped up inside, ill, for days. Sirius wants to push it. It feels too much like a secret for his liking. But Remus looks a bit sort of fragile, and Sirius is, once again, hesitant about simply demanding this from him. He kind of wishes he weren’t. Wishes he didn’t care so much so he could ask. But he does. Care. So, with considerable effort, he bites back the rest of his questions. Tries to leave it be. Nods instead.

“I’ll...walk with you?” asks Remus once he’s managed to stuff his notebook inside his bag as well, slinging it over his head and settling it across his body, the strap sinking into the plush knit of his jumper. He looks up at Sirius and pushes his glasses up his nose, his eyes big and a bit hesitant. The look goes straight to Sirius’ stomach. 

“Yeah.” He sighs. Bites down on his smile, lets the sugar of it coat his teeth. “If you like.”

 

---

 

The next weeks and days pass in something of a haze: classes and Remus, sculpting and Remus, rugby and Remus, James and Peter and Remus. Somewhere, somehow, their library time begins to migrate and venture out from that specific space, instigated by Remus’ accompaniment of Sirius to his practice that one day. Now, they find themselves in all sorts of places—cafes, the park, Sirius and James’ flat—mostly under the guise of studying, but often tumbling into all manner of other things, whether it be their usual chatting, or quiet reading together, or Sirius sketching or doing his crosswords while Remus does whatever. It’s just the company, the comfort, that stays consistent. 

These new outings show Sirius even more new pieces of Remus—fine details added to his painting, ones only visible after so long of returning to look a little longer. They’re all delightful little things, really, like how he always orders one less sugar than he really wants in his teas and coffees because he’s too embarrassed to admit the amount (only three—not that bad) out loud to the cafe workers, so adds another teaspoon at their table or takes an extra sachet on their way out. Like how he owns an honest-to-god picnic blanket (which is quite supremely horrid in pattern, just to be clear) and insists on them swinging by his flat to pick it up before any time they go to the park. Like how he perches himself on the arm of the sofa or armchair when they go to James and Sirius’ flat, instead of sitting on one of the actual seat cushions (until, of course, Sirius complains enough about how he looks much too tall propped up like that, and physically drags Remus down onto a proper seat or the carpet). 

Each new tidbit gets carefully tucked away in Sirius’ mind—slotted between the songs Remus likes to listen to, the jumpers he wears most often, the books he’s read over and over and over—slowly filling up a drawer labelled for the moon.

The week before Sirius’ match finds them sprawled among the red and gold leaf covered grass (but atop Remus’ ugly picnic blanket, of course) in the park. It’s a chilly day, right on the brink of seasons, the air undecided on whether to give in to the all-out snapping coldness of winter or stay just this crisp side of autumn. But they’ve found a precious patch of sunlight where the feeble end-of-November warmth is clinging to its shine just enough to warrant their being there. Remus sits with his back propped against a tree trunk as he reads something for one of his classes, long legs spilling along the ground in front of him, the tree’s shadow spilling behind. Sirius lays on his front, propped up on his elbows with one arm grazing Remus’ calf as he sketches.

As the year marches onwards, he’s gotten to thinking about Christmas, knowing how the holiday tends to sneak up on him. He always sends gifts to his friends, and he wants to give Remus something, too—just a small thing, homemade. He’s currently working on a light sketch that he’s hoping to use as a base of sorts. In fact, it’s basically done now. Next will come the paint, but Sirius can’t do that here in the park. He also can’t do it with Remus around; it’ll be too hard to keep hidden.

He adds a few final touches before putting his sketchbook away. Watches Remus for a moment. He’s got ink smudged on the side of his nose, but Sirius hasn’t told him—doesn’t want him to scrub it away. There’s the barest hint of a breeze ruffling his curls and they flutter around his face just like the leaves that tumble weightlessly from the trees around them. Remus suits autumn very much, almost seems soaked in it, all warm-coloured as he is: cinnamons and chestnuts and caramels. He still hasn’t cut his hair; the bits pouring over his forehead rest atop the dark frames of his glasses, and the pieces behind his ears drip longer and longer, begging to be twirled around a finger. 

Sometimes, when Sirius is watching like this, he feels on the cusp of something. What that something is, he’s not sure, but he feels it—tastes it on his tongue like it’s just shy of the tip, hears it in his ears like the barest of whispers, only scarcely too faint to make out, a hair’s breadth too far away. Feels it all over, really: in his stomach, his chest, the prickle on his neck. He can’t help feeling that it’s important. Maybe even momentous. Only, it can’t really be, if it’s always just out of his reach. If it honestly were that important, surely Sirius would know. Surely he’d have it in his grasp, have snagged it between his teeth—surely he’d understand. 

So, he tries not to think about it. Does his best to ignore the way he feels balanced so precariously right on the edge of something. The way he has absolutely no idea what awaits beyond this intangible cusp. It all sounds a bit mad when he really considers it, anyway. A bit...odd, if you will. So instead, he just keeps watching Remus. Because he likes doing that, isn’t going to let something so silly stop him from it.

The sun is gentle today, so Remus’ glow is a subtle thing—something to be sought out and found. It’s there, if you look, in the golden glints of the wire around the bottom of his glasses frames, the little hoop in his ear. It’s there in the darkening of his freckles, sprouting over his skin like tiny sunflowers in the face of the sunlight; in the barely-there threads of gold laced through his curls, woven among the brown; in the almost phosphorescent look to the scar on his cheek; in the soft shine dusted at each of the high points of his face: his cheekbones, the bump in bridge of his nose, the little dip between his Cupid’s bow. 

His burn has long-since faded now, shifting his skin from fiery red to its usual honey sort of beige. It healed quickly; Sirius never even noticed it peeling or anything. Mustn’t have been as bad as it looked after all. 

Remus’ brow furrows ever so slightly in concentration, and his lips move barely, barely, as he mouths a passage to himself. Sirius stifles a smile.

Sometimes, in moments like this one, he thinks those first Latin lectures must have been something of a dream that he conjured for himself. And here, now, with Remus right next to him, warm and real and wonderful, it’s like the world decided to pluck him directly from Sirius’ mind and deposit him into his lap, fully-formed and perfect. Like the world took pity on his dreaming and said: alright, here you go; you dreamt this one hard enough that you can have him—yours for real. 

Sometimes, in moments like this one, Sirius can’t really be sure whether the beginning was the dream, or whether it’s actually this, here, now.

He thinks he could while away hours—already has, does, day after day—watching Remus like this, watching him just exist in Sirius’ life; sit in his space, solid and real and his to look at as much as he pleases.

Today, though, he has other plans.

He nudges his knuckles against the side of Remus’ knee: knock, knock, knock. “Moons?”

Moons. That had just slipped out one day, but he’s taken to using it more and more ever since. Everyone says ‘Moony’ now. Which is fine, of course. But ‘Moons’ is just Sirius’.

Remus lowers his book and glances at him, faint frown slowly flipping into a soft smile. “Hm?”

“I’m bored.”

“Are you?”

“Mhm.” Sirius nods.

Remus laughs, ducking his head. “And, what—d’you want me to do something about that?”

Sirius grins. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Okay...” Remus marks his page and sets the book aside, immediately giving all his attention to Sirius—doesn’t even make him work for it, apparently oblivious to how hard he would. Sirius has learnt since that day with the burn. Now, all he has to do is ask for it and Remus hands his attention right over, simply drops it into Sirius’ lap like it’s nothing, like it isn’t something precious, something to be coveted. “Like what?”

“Like...” Sirius rummages in his bag for his newly-purchased brush pen. He shrugs off the left shoulder of his jacket, shimmying the leather down until his tattoo is exposed. Pulling the cap off the pen with his teeth and slotting it onto the back end, he holds it out to Remus. “Draw me something?”

Remus blinks, mouth parting in surprise. “You want me to...in your—draw?”

“Yep,” says Sirius, popping the ‘p’. He wiggles the pen. “Go on. Well, I mean—if you want.”

Remus’ eyes dart rapidly between the pen, the tattoo, and Sirius’ face. “I can’t—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Sirius shrugs. “I have wipes.”

“You have...” He frowns just slightly. “Are you having me on?”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “No, I’m not, Moons—promise. C’mon.” He hauls himself up into a cross-legged position, tattooed-arm and pen extended towards Remus. “Draw me something. Please?”

Remus bites his lip, looking very at war with himself. Then, timidly, tentatively, he reaches a hand out for the pen, hovering in front of it for a moment before finally taking it from Sirius’ grip. 

Beaming, Sirius rests his elbow atop one knee, nodding encouragingly. Remus shuffles himself closer, crossing his legs to mirror Sirius and leaning forwards a little until the fronts of their knees press together. His left hand reaches out and rests on the inside of Sirius’ upper arm, steadying. 

Sirius’ skin tingles beneath Remus’ fingers. Oh. He’d not fully considered the burning thing. 

Remus moves to bring the end of the pen up to his mouth, lips parting as if to chew on it, but then stops himself abruptly, face and neck flooding a deep red. His eyes flick to Sirius briefly and then back down to the easel. Sirius bites the inside of his cheek. The stomach squeezing starts back up. 

Finally, Remus seems to find his resolve, bringing the brush of the pen down to the tattoo and hesitating for just one moment more before gliding it gently over Sirius’ skin. He draws a slightly wonky circle before pulling back a little, smiling all sweet and far too pleased with himself.

Seemingly emboldened, he dives back in more eagerly, bowing his head low over Sirius’ arm, craning his neck to look closely. His brow is drawn down in concentration and his tongue pokes a little out of his mouth as he focuses. His hair smells vaguely of apples. Sirius’ stomach—

Remus glances up at him, and with a quirk of his lips, reaches a hand to push Sirius’ face sideways. “Don’t look,” he murmurs.

Sirius laughs, letting himself be pushed, fixing his eyes on the trees and his mind on the tingle, burn, buzz of his skin beneath Remus’ touch.

“Are you nervous for next week?” Remus asks after a second.

“Hm?”

“For the match?”

“Oh.” Sirius shrugs his free shoulder. “Not yet. Probably will be a bit on the day, we’ll see. We’re playing Eagles; they’re good, but not unbeatable. I dunno—James is basically wanting me to go for the whole try/conversion combo wherever I can. Like, sort of prioritising the kinds of goals each of us, specifically, are going for, I s’pose.”

There’s a pause. “I, erm...” Remus coughs, and Sirius can hear the sheepish smile in his voice as he says, “I’m going to pretend I understood more of that than I did.”

Sirius barks out another laugh. “Yeah, sorry, that—I was rambling a bit.”

Remus’ curls brush against Sirius’ bicep as he shakes his head, whispers of something. “No. I...suppose I should try to learn some of the rules if I’m gonna watch a whole match.”

“Ah, don’t worry,” Sirius assures him, smirking at the trees. “Just watch me and you’ll pick up the scoring system in no time.”

An amused huff. “Is there ever a time you’re not full of yourself?”

Sirius grins. “Only would be if I didn’t have anything to back myself up with.”

“That’s...” Remus shakes his head again, hair grazing Sirius’ skin. “Infuriating. You’re infuriating.”

“Moony,” Sirius gasps, making a show of fanning himself with his free hand. “You’ll make me blush.”

It’s Remus’ turn to laugh, always so much softer than Sirius’, the rasp soft like gently worn sandpaper as opposed to his own gravel-roughened bark. 

Suddenly, a noise of frustration sounds, and Sirius startles. Remus drops the top of his head onto Sirius’ shoulder and mumbles, “I need a wipe, please.”

“Okay, that’s alright.” Sirius huffs an amused breath, Remus’ hair tickling his jaw. When Remus doesn’t move, he shakes his arm a little. “I need my arm back for that, Moons.”

“No,” Remus whines, shaking his head, sending wafts of sweet apples towards Sirius’ nose. “You can’t see it.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“It is. It is. I need to start again.”

Sirius tucks his lips between his teeth, trying valiantly not to properly laugh. “Okay...what if you pull my jacket back up so I can’t look?”

Remus draws back reluctantly, immediately covering the tattoo with one palm, long fingers curled around the front of Sirius’ arm. He looks wary for a minute longer, until Sirius makes a big show of turning his face away again, and then Sirius feels his jacket slip gently over his shoulder.

Stifling yet another smile, Sirius fishes around in his bag for the wipes. He pulls them out and sets them down on the grass, only for Remus to immediately snatch the packet up, yanking one out roughly. Sirius holds his arm back out, biting his lip. Remus peels the leather back down carefully, and then hurriedly bends over the skin, clutching Sirius firmly again, like a tether. 

He brings the wipe to the tattoo, and for all his desperate movements until now, Remus is almost painfully gentle as he drags the wipe over Sirius’ skin. He sets it aside on one of his knees, and then grazes his knuckles over the clean area, as if making sure it’s dry enough to draw on again, touch impossibly soft. 

Burning, burning, burning.

It’s something of a cycle after that: Remus draws, groans, wipes. Draws, groans, wipes. Again and again and again. And Sirius is only finding it harder to contain his amusement.

True to his word, he hasn’t looked at whatever Remus is attempting to draw in the tattoo, instead sneaking glances at his face as he works; the progression from a soft frown in concentration to a definite scowl, defeat etched into every crease of his brow. When it comes to his fifth attempt, Remus throws the pen on the ground with a wounded sound (though, ever so endearingly, not before carefully replacing the lid), dropping his head on Sirius’ arm again and pressing his forehead hard into his bicep. And, well. Now Sirius really can’t help bursting out into laughter.

“Stop laughing at me,” Remus whines, pulling back to glare at him.

Sirius has to bite the inside of his cheek to calm himself down. “Sorry—I’m sorry, just—Moons, you look so upset over nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!” Remus protests fiercely. “It’s utter shite, Sirius. It’s so—no, really, it’s so shit. Look at this. Look at how astoundingly shit it is.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to look.”

“Oh, shh, you are now.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, because I don’t think you believe me and you couldn’t possibly imagine anything this bad. So. Come on.” Remus actually snaps his fingers. “Look.” 

Sirius braces himself and glances down at his arm. A round, blotchy figure of some description sits inside the easel. It’s so unbelievably Remus, and immediately, Sirius loves it. “Hey, I...” he begins, faltering. He shrugs his jacket fully off to look at it properly. It’s...perfect. It’s perfect. He’s not entirely sure what it’s meant to be, exactly, and though it’s hardly important, Sirius is obviously going to guess. “Wait—is it...a cow?”

Remus makes a truly devastated sound. “It’s supposed to be a Dalmatian. For ‘Padfoot.’”

Sirius loses it again. Oh, he’s so sweet. Enough for a toothache.

“See?” cries Remus, smacking Sirius’ forearm with the back of a hand. “It’s an absolute steaming pile of shit.”

“Remus,” Sirius gasps out. “Remus, stop.”

But Remus does not stop, more dramatic than Sirius has ever seen him. “No, Sirius, look. Oh, it’s so bad. It’s—oh, god.”

“Remus, I love it.”

“Don’t,” Remus says, shaking his head. He starts patting the grass on either side of him, brow pinched, searching. “Let me get rid of it; where’re the wipes? God, I told you I had no idea what I was—”

“Hey!” Sirius pulls his arm back, clutching his wrist protectively against his chest. “Don’t you dare. I’m keeping it.”

“Sirius,” Remus whines. “Don’t.”

“But I want to keep it.”

“You can’t—people will see it.”

“Yes, that’s sort of the point of the tattoo.”

“No, but—” Remus cuts himself off, making another wounded noise. “I mean, look at it.”

“I am looking at it,” Sirius insists. “And I’m telling you I want to keep it.”

“No, you don’t; it’s bad, Sirius.”

“Art is subjective, y’know, Moons, and I like it. Are you questioning my tastes right now?”

“I—” Remus opens and closes his mouth a few times. He frowns. “Stop it, Sirius.”

“Stop what?”

“Sirius—”

“Remus,” Sirius snaps, harsher than he’d really intended. He tries to soften, to sand back the sharpness of his corners. There’s something there, he thinks; something about stars having so many points, so many edges, while the moon is one endless curve. “I like it because it’s yours, alright?”

“Oh.” Remus blinks: a switch flicking on and flooding his face with red.

What did he think? That Sirius was mocking him? Making fun? He wasn’t—he wouldn’t.

I like everything you do. Even tripping over that bloody extension cord every week. Don’t you see that—know that? Do I have to say it out loud?

Suddenly, a new voice cuts through the peace of their park—reedy and obnoxious and awful—tearing the delicate paper of the moment clean in two. “Sirius!” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” mutters Sirius, closing his eyes in exasperation. “Think I can pretend not to’ve heard that?”

He opens his eyes to find Remus wearing a mix of amusement and mild alarm. “Er...” 

Sirius chances a glance behind them to see Caradoc Dearborn striding over eagerly. He sighs heavily. Be nice, he thinks. You promised James you’d be nice. “Hi, Caradoc.”

“Hi!” Caradoc repeats breathlessly, dropping to his knees beside them. “I didn’t expect to see—”

“This is Remus,” Sirius interrupts, bordering on too blunt, but—whatever.

Caradoc blinks, turning to look at Remus. 

Looking supremely awkward as he nudges his glasses up his ink-smudged nose, Remus nods politely, offering a shy: “Hi.”

“Oh.” Caradoc seems to startle. He clears his throat. “Hi, there.” His eyes scan appraisingly over Remus, lingering on the place his knees are pressed to Sirius. 

That really irritates Sirius for some reason—not that it takes much with Caradoc. He unfolds his legs, flinging them over Remus’ lap and flops onto his back, ignoring the way Remus nearly flinches and instead boring his eyes into Caradoc, whose gaze is still fixed on Remus. What are you looking at? Stop. Stop looking at him like that. Stop looking at him.

Caradoc does not. No, he keeps looking at Remus—fixated on his face, on the ink mark—and coughs lightly. 

“You’ve, ah, you’ve got something on your nose, by the way,” he says as he gestures to his own upturned nose, tone all holier-than-thou, and Sirius could actually fucking hit him. Who does he think he is?

Remus goes bright red, a hand immediately scrubbing at his face. He glances briefly at Sirius with an unreadable expression. Well, unreadable beyond pure mortal embarrassment.

“I liked it, Moons,” Sirius drawls, more honest than anyone else believes, probably. He wriggles closer to Remus so his thighs rest over his lap rather than his knees and calves, smothering him further, like some kind of animal staking its claim. Remus is his boy from Latin. His.

Remus is still rubbing harshly at his nose, actually. Sirius wants to pull his hand away. Wants to turn to Caradoc and seethe. Look, look what you’ve done! You absolute fucking git.

But he made a promise; he’s being nice. He’s being nice. For James. He wonders whether he could be nice to literally every other person on Earth by just murdering Caradoc now. Something tells him he’s had a similar thought before. Something also tells him James wouldn’t quite approve. 

Caradoc clears his throat again—for the love of all that is good and holy, does he need a bloody lozenge?—finally turning away from Remus before Sirius gets the chance to make good on that urge to turn violent. “Erm. So, what’re...you guys up to?”

Sirius doesn’t miss a beat. “Bird watching.”

Caradoc blinks. “Bird...watching?”

“Yep. S’fascinating, really. Should try it sometime.”

“Yeah.” Caradoc nods. “Yeah, I...love birds.” 

“Mm, Remus is great at it; knows all the different species.” Sirius nudges him with a heel. “Don’t you?”

“Erm...” Remus offers.

The wind blows Sirius’ hair into his face and he lifts a hand to run through it, sweeping it back as he laughs—an ugly sound, loud and forced. “He’s modest.”

Suddenly, Caradoc is grabbing Sirius’ arm—the one he just lifted, the one with his tattoo, with Remus’ drawing—fingers cold and clammy as they grip Sirius’ skin. He’s always bloody touching. Seemingly keen for a new topic, he asks eagerly, “Oh, have you got something new today?”

It takes all of Sirius’ willpower not to snatch the arm right back. He feels Remus stiffen beneath his legs.

“Yep,” he says mildly.

Caradoc laughs and that sound is worse, is a set of nails raking down the chalkboard of Sirius’ mind. “Who did this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it James? Or your other friend—Peter? I mean, it’s just obvious you didn’t do this one.”

Sirius raises a brow. “And why’s that?”

Caradoc glances up at the dare in Sirius’ tone. “Well...it’s a bit...”

“Hm? A bit what?”

“It’s—” Caradoc gestures at it weakly, clearly not having expected Sirius to disagree with him. “A bit...well...you know—”

“No, I don’t know, actually. What is it? Go on; use your words.”

Caradoc goes a bit white, and doesn’t say anything. Coward.

Sirius gives him a flat look. “Well? Spit it out.”

“I mean...what even is it? A cow?”

Sirius pulls his arm back as though to inspect it himself. “I don’t know where you’re getting that from; I don’t see any udders. Remus, do you see any udders?” 

He holds his arm out for Remus, who sends him a pleading look that screams: What are you doing?! Stop! “Er...” He shakes his head minutely.

“Exactly.” Sirius shrugs at Caradoc. “Can’t be a cow, then, can it?”

“Right,” mumbles Caradoc.

“I was just telling Remus, it’s my favourite piece yet.”

“I didn’t say...”

“No, you didn’t say much of anything, really. Bit tongue-tied, weren’t you?”

It’s uncomfortably quiet after that. Sirius just wriggles back into the grass and closes his eyes, letting the breeze carry the thick silence. Fuck Caradoc, fuck Sirius’ promise, fuck being nice—just the whole lot of it, fuck it all. It’s not like he’s going to break this awkward tension for Caradoc. Especially not after that.

Sirius feels Remus’ leg shift beneath him, fidgeting. Well. He might break it for Remus, though. “Moons, is my jacket just there?”

He hears Remus hum quietly, feels the leather press gently to his stomach.

“Ta.” He flicks it over himself like a blanket, opens one eye to squint at Caradoc.

Cheeks dark, looking down, Caradoc clears his throat. “Right, well...I, er, I need to...head off, actually.”

Sirius shuts his eye again. “Okay.”

“Okay...” Caradoc echoes. “Well, bye.”

“Bye.”

Sirius hears him stand and trudge away across the grass. It’s only when he can’t hear the footsteps anymore that he opens his eyes again, hauling himself up with a groan and freeing Remus from beneath his legs. His jacket falls into a puddle in his lap. James is going to kill him—right before a match, too. 

Eh. Worth it, though.

He glances at Remus, who’s looking down at Sirius’ legs. “You didn’t need to do that, Sirius.” His voice comes out very small.

“Do what?”

Remus looks up at him, then away again. “You know. All of that.”

“Remus,” says Sirius flatly. “I can’t stand him. And he was being rude.”

A pause. “You were, too.”

That sparks an unpleasant prickle in his gut. “Yes, well—I am rude.”

Remus lifts his head, pushing his glasses up. “No, you’re not. Not really.”

Warm squeezing. Sirius has to wonder if Remus can really mean that. Can really believe it.

Gentle clinking of bottles, a drunken question. “Do you always mean what you say, then?” 

Familiar quiet, a gaze so honest it burns. “Yes.”  

Something crawls its way up Sirius’ throat. He snorts, swallowing it—shoving it—down. “Nice of you, Moons. I think you’d try telling me there was something nice in a fuckin’ rock.”

Remus gives a small smile. Shrugs and looks down. “Maybe.” Another pause, this one longer, and then he glances up. “Easier to find things in you, though.”

Sirius’ breath catches, trapped in the warm palm of Remus’ hand, the same one that wrings out his stomach. He isn’t sure how to free it; maybe he doesn’t even want to. Who knows. Not Sirius—never Sirius. He forces a laugh, kicking lightly at Remus’ knee. “Sap.”

Remus huffs a laugh, ducking his head. “Hm.” He checks the time on his phone. “Ah...oh, it’s later than I thought. I should probably get home.”

Sirius pulls out his phone as well, startling at the hour; the sun will start to set soon. 

“Oh, yeah, ’tis too.” He looks up at Remus again. “I’ll see you next Saturday, though, yeah? At the game and the party?”

“Yeah.” Remus nods, smiling. “You’ll see me.”

“Good, good.” Sirius grins, shrugging his jacket on properly and beginning to gather his things. “I expect to hear you cheering for me.”

Remus shakes his head, bracing a hand on the tree trunk as he clambers upright and begins to fold up his ugly picnic blanket. “Prepare to be let down. I don’t cheer.”

“We’ll see about that,” Sirius says, winking as he crouches down to help.

Remus rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure.” He picks up the blanket and his book. “Well...see you, Sirius.”

“Bye, Moons.”

They move to part ways. At the last moment, Sirius cranes his head back over his shoulder, tossing out: “I’ll save you some punch, too.”

Remus, who has yet to turn away, flushes deeply, and Sirius grins as he spins back around, smug at having stolen the last word, thrilled at the sight of that blush. He may not know a lot of things when it comes to Remus, but he can always count on that. So easy.

 

Notes:

had i mentioned yet how extremely self-indulgent this fic is? no? yeah sorry about that. unfortunately everything i write is Indulgence Central xx

anyway, i’m just saying.... i am quite excited for certain things in the next chapter....

Chapter 6: Smile

Summary:

Oh, god. There he is again.

Notes:

click here for chapter CWs

— blink and you'll miss it self harm. v much in line with what's occurred so far, but i think it's slightly more obvious here

also, there are a few welsh phrases towards the end of the chapter. translations are in the endnotes :)

enjoy the insanity <3

A serendipitous opening parts the sea of bodies—an improbable crack widening into certainty, just enough for Sirius to stare directly through to James, not a single thing obstructing his view.

“Prongs!” he yells.

He hardly needed to; the ball soars back towards him before the singular syllable has even left his lips. Sirius dives sideways to catch it, grunting at the impact against his chest. He runs. There’s people everywhere, but he sees his path: straight ahead, divert to the right at the last second, curve around to the try-line.

Remus in the stands, next to his friends. Frank nowhere to be seen.

Something snags the hem of his jersey, tugging, and Sirius twists sharply, wrenching the fabric from whomever’s grip. Fucker.

Remus wrapped in a lumpy red scarf—did he knit it himself? Sirius aches to know.

The line is there, it’s there, it’s there, it’s—

Sirius crumbles to the ground as a brick-built body slams into his side, cool mud spattering over his skin and clothes, barely distinguishable from the slick of his own sweat. But Sirius still has the ball—clutches it close to himself, presses it into his stomach. He squirms, trying desperately to wriggle out from under the body; he can hear footsteps too close for comfort, feel heavy breathing hot against his side. With a final desperate wrench of his torso, he rolls, teeth gritted. His thighs burn as he pushes upright once more, the ground squelching beneath his trainers. Vaguely, he registers an erratic patter landing softly against his skin, like the ghostly tapping of a thousand feather-light fingertips, encouraging, urging him on; it’s started to rain again. It’s been on and off all day.

Remus craning his ear down towards Lily as she says something to him, eyes trained on the field, on Sirius.

With the briefest of glances behind him, Sirius speeds up, sprinting now, his grip on the ball almost painful. There’s a roaring in his ears, some internal chant propelling him as he launches himself at that white line. Time suspends, stretches, he’s a dart flying towards a target’s centre.

Remus smiling shyly when Sirius sent them all a grin and a lazy wave.

He lands with a grunt, chest digging into the ball as they both slide along the grass, over the try-line. Bullseye. Sirius grins. Five points.

There’s two minutes left and they can go for a conversion now, adding another two points. Not that it really matters anymore; that try pushed them into a very comfortable win. But, well. Why not rub a little salt in the wound?

James signals for Sirius to take the kick. Technically, they can choose anyone, but they’re all more than happy for this one to be his. He lines himself up with where he just scored and faces the goal posts. The sun peeks out from behind a grey cloud for just a moment, checking in, spotlighting the moment. The thin sheet of rain makes Sirius’ vision shimmer and wobble mirage-like, as though he’s looking at everything through a gauzy curtain, a reality to sharpen into focus if he steps through, kicks that goal. He’s a bit far right from the centre of the posts—that unexpected tackle forcing him off course—but it doesn’t look like an impossible shot; he’s certainly made worse before.

Sirius wipes a hand on his shorts, smearing a marble of mud and sweat and rain over the fabric, and shakes his head out. Holding the ball between his hands, he eyes the goals and takes a deep breath in. The air smells fresh, like rain and mud and wet grass, and thick from humidity and sweat. It smells like a thousand possibilities. On his exhale, Sirius releases his grip, kicking with his right foot exactly as the ball meets his toe, and watches as the whole field seems to collectively hold their breath. Everything falls silent, the only sound that of Sirius’ heart pounding, echoing against his temples.

And then...

The ball sails right between the posts, easily.

A thump as it hits the ground, a group exhale following its landing; Sirius smiles something smug. There’s one more beat of quiet, and then all of a sudden, the crowd erupts, fireworks of cheers and shouts exploding all around him. He spins, sees James sprinting towards him, face split open in a grin and looking slightly manic without his glasses—always switching them to contacts for matches. Sirius mirrors him, running, running, running and launching himself at James: muddy legs around his waist, sweaty arms around his shoulders, rain-dampened clothes sticking to one another as Sirius sends him stumbling backwards with his weight. They grip each other tight, laughing deliriously, disbelieving.

“You did it!” James yells, too loud in Sirius’ ear, but he doesn’t care. Loves it. Presses his forehead against James’ just to be closer to it. “Padfoot, you bloody did it! You—brilliant—genius, you!”

Sirius laughs harder, shaking them both, and throws his head back. He feels hands slapping him on the back, his sides, his teammates crowding them. People are yelling more and more and he feels a bit high with it all. Everything in almost too-sharp focus.

There’s a prickle on his neck, and not the rain; the rain has stopped. Eyes flying open, Sirius’ gaze latches instinctively onto the crowd, onto a dark brown jumper and a lumpy red scarf.

Remus.

He stands there, hands to his mouth, eyes lit up behind his glasses—glittering golden treasures. His curls ruffle in the wind, whipping lightly around his face like fast-rolling clouds. The sun is smothered in the sky, but he is entirely, entirely aglow. He’s a full moon, effortlessly reflecting every bit of light he absorbs, shining, shining, shining so bright, even in the dim. Sirius grins, breathless; Remus stole it.

Remus. Remus.

A shy wave, and Sirius gets a jolt of deja vu, yanking him back to that first Latin lecture after the flat-warming party. He bites his lip. Waves back like a maniac. Can’t stop grinning. He thinks he might split open at the seams, everything he’s feeling simply too much to contain, to hold in the measly container of his body. It yearns to spill out of him, to gush and stream and soak into everything around him, dragging them along into his depths until they’re permanently stained with him. The hand still over Remus’ mouth curls into a fist, his own little grin poking out on either side. Sirius thinks he could reach out and grip each end of it like handlebars. Could anchor himself to those hooks as he lets himself come undone.

Remus. Remus. Remus.

In that moment, the only thing to exist.

 

---

 

“Alright, look up for me,” says Marlene, holding Sirius’ face still with one hand.

She’s got him sat down on the closed seat of the loo and tugs the cap of her eyeliner off with her teeth. It’s been a little while since he’s had her do this, but he’d only had to hover in the doorway for all of five seconds before being hauled in.

Sirius obliges, tipping his head back a bit, too, so she has a better view from where she stands. She gently pulls his lower eyelid open a tad and sweeps the pen along his lash line. Going back over it a few times, she darkens it most in the outer corner before moving to his upper eyelid. He still feels on a bit of a high from the end of the match, the feeling carrying him floating through the early evening.

Marlene gets about halfway across when Sirius’ eye suddenly decides the pen cannot possibly be anything but a foreign weapon here to carve the ball from its socket. He flinches, his eye squeezing shut and watering without permission. Which ends up being the only reason he does actually get poked in the eye. It’s definitely been too long since he’s had this done.

“Fuck, you got me right in the ball,” he moans—despite knowing it’s his own fault, fingers coming up to press over the burn of his weeping eyelid.

Marlene snorts. “Oh, relax, darling, you’ve got balls aplenty.”

“Yes, and they’re some of my best assets; I’d quite like to keep them intact, thanks.”

She tuts, huffing a laugh. “Come on, open up again, you’re gonna smudge it all off like that.”

Sirius grumbles a bit more, blinking rapidly to clear the thick layer of moisture clinging to the surface of his eye, but does as she asks, returning to his original position. Marlene rolls her eyes fondly, the hint of a grin twitching her lips. She finishes off and fixes up his right eye, and then moves on to his left.

She’s just using her thumb to smudge everything a little so it blends out nicely when she asks, “Remus is coming tonight, right?”

“Yes...” Sirius answers—somewhat suspiciously, but knowing better than to move his eyes again to look properly at Marlene. They’re nearly done now, anyway. “I mean, he said he was.”

“That’s good,” she says. Then, after a brief pause: “He’s quite dear, isn’t he? A real sweetheart.”

“Mm,” Sirius hums, smiling subconsciously. Dear—yeah, that’s the perfect way to put it, he thinks.

“It’s nice to see you get along with someone so well.”

Sirius bristles slightly, brows tugging together in indignation. “I get along with plenty of people.”

Marlene laughs softly, her breath warm as it brushes over his cheeks. “No, love, you barely tolerate most people. Actual getting along is limited to a very select few.”

“Well. Hardly my fault if most people are annoying,” Sirius grumbles.

“Case in point.” Marlene smirks, drawing back with her hands on either side of Sirius’ jaw, tilting his head from side to side so she can assess her work. “All I’m saying is it’s nice to see. He seems...good to you. Remus.”

Warmth rushes into Sirius’ stomach. “Yeah, well...he’s like that. I think he’d be good to anyone.”

Marlene hums noncommittally. “Maybe, yeah.” She gives his cheek a pat, grinning. “Looking hot—you’re welcome. Hey, you and Pete made punch, yeah? I think I need some tonight.”

“Yeah, we did; s’on the bench—”

“Brilliant, cheers,” she cuts in, clapping her hands together. “Alright, I’m gonna find Mary, then punch. See you out there.”

She winks, and then she’s gone, leaving Sirius staring after her, feeling just slightly wonky inside. He blinks, shaking his head out, and stands to look in the mirror. Marlene’s work is perfect, as per usual, and he gives his hair a quick muss before deciding he, too, requires a cup of punch. A large one. He has a win to celebrate, after all.

 

---

 

The exact moment Remus enters the flat is something Sirius clocks without effort, feels it in the very air as though every particle between them shifts out of the way, shuffles and rearranges until there’s a completely clear path leading from one of them to the other. As though in their shift, they fly at him, pricking hotly at the back of his neck, tapping messages into his skin, spelling out exactly whose gaze clings to him. Remus. Remus. Remus. Sirius’ heart picks up.

He doesn’t turn his head just yet, relishes in the feeling of being watched, of knowing who and where and how, of letting it happen without even physically acknowledging it. He runs a hand through his hair, keeps dancing, tips his head back and lets his eyes fall shut.

Prickle, prickle, prickle. It’s the spark of every nerve beneath his skin. He feels entirely combustible and it is thrilling.

A hand on his chest; Sirius opens his eyes. It’s James, leaning towards his ear. Sirius cranes his head.

“Remus is here,” says James, only just audible over the speaker they’re near.

Sirius nods, brow furrowing. “I know.” His neck prickles once more and he darts his eyes over to where Remus is leaning against a wall, tucked into the corner of the room, at home among the pot plants. He’s looking off to one side, and Sirius’ frown deepens. The prickle is gone.

“Oh, alright.” James nods, too, a strange look on his face when Sirius looks back to him.

“What?”

“Nothing! I was just letting you know.”

Sirius frowns again. “Okay, well. I know.”

“Okay.” James grins and does that move with his hips—circles them jerkily, thrusts in all the weirdest places, hands behind his head, and an intense look of concentration carved into his face. He’s convinced it’s incredibly erotic, but in actuality, it just looks like he’s very enthusiastically and very unsuccessfully attempting to hula-hoop. He hasn’t pulled this one out since the beginning of freshers.

Sirius throws his head back with a cackle. “Ah, okay, I see. It’s a Weird James night.”

“Oi!” James shoves him, laughing, too. “It is not, I’ve given those up.”

Sirius snickers. “Yeah, sure, mate.” He takes James’ shoulders and spins him around. “Go find Lily, she’ll be much more interested in indulging that move than I. M’getting a refill.”

He is getting a refill, but it’s more a detour on his route to Remus. An excuse to stop dancing for a moment. He’d always been going to go over, eventually, but James saying his name has planted a seed in Sirius’ mind, one that’s wriggled around—sprouting and spreading insistently—taking over his thoughts. 

Sirius brushes his hair back from where it’s begun to cling to the damp sweat on his face, picking his cup up from its hiding place and making for the kitchen to top it up. More punch acquired—a very respectable reddish-purple colour this time—he pivots towards Remus.

He’s barely taken two steps before Remus’ head turns towards him, a small, crooked smile blooming over his face as they make eye contact. The curve of it hooks onto Sirius’ ribs, drawing him closer, reeling him in.

Remus has taken off the jumper he’d been wearing at the match, a loose-fitting, maroon-coloured t-shirt hanging limp from his frame instead, falling askew as if his body is but a slightly misshapen coat hanger, bony elbows poking out of the sleeves. The neckline is stretched, fabric rippled unevenly, and falls slack around Remus’ collarbones, exposing a small divot between them and making his neck look impossibly long. A knuckle nudges his glasses up his nose, scratches shyly at his ear, tugs briefly at his earring, and Sirius buzzes at the familiarity of all the motions, at the newness of more of Remus than he’s ever seen before.

“Hi, Moons,” he says once he’s close enough, leaning sideways against the wall: back to the party, face to Remus. He feels a grin stretch his face—wider, wider, wider. He’s right back to that bursting feeling.

“Hi,” replies Remus, eyes flicking back and forth between Sirius’, gaze weighted in a way Sirius can feel. “I...this is really...” He clears his throat. Gestures to Sirius’ eyes. “Looks really good.”

Sirius’ stomach loves that, swooping high and gripping vice-tight. “Thanks. Marls does it for me.”

Remus just nods, his eyes still fixed on Sirius’. His body looks sort of pulled taut, like the string of a bow, his stare dark and a bit dazed; more drunk than Sirius has seen before, probably.

“Like your shirt,” says Sirius, just to see how close a colour match Remus’ skin can get to the fabric.

Remus looks down at it, like he’s surprised. “Oh, erm, oh—thank you.” The red that blooms beneath his cheeks is more pink than brown-toned, but still just as deep. Sirius sees it lick down Remus’ neck, all the way to his collarbones and he wonders if it’s always done that or if it’s just been hidden before.

“We sorta match.” Sirius kicks a boot-clad foot lightly towards him, indicating the dark cherry-red jeans that drape low from his hips. They don’t really—the shades are completely off; Sirius just wants to make Remus look.

Exactly as he’d hoped, Remus’ eyes track the swing of Sirius’ leg as he brings it back towards himself, hooking his ankles crossed, toe propped on the chunky edge of his boot’s sole. They rake up the thick belt at Sirius’ hips, the ring-clad fingers gripping his cup, over the tight black t-shirt clinging to the swell of his arms.

“Yeah, we sorta do,” he says, gaze finally landing back on Sirius’ face. “I like your...” Remus waves a vague hand, gesturing up and down Sirius’ form. “Everything; all of this.”

“Thanks, Moons.” Sirius takes a sip of punch just to pour his grin into his cup, just to make the concoction even headier. He bites the inside of his cheek. Lowers his cup. “So, do you, like, not dance?”

Remus laughs, all soft-rasp and breathy, visibly relaxing as he ducks his head down. “Have you seen me, Sirius? No. I don’t dance.”

Sirius’ lips quirk. Yes, he has seen. That’s precisely the point. “Well, could you be convinced?”

Remus’ eyes run up him, then down, flick back to his face. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Blushes, and looks away. “Maybe,” he says eventually.

“Hm,” Sirius hums. “I’ll work on that, then.”

Remus’ ears glow pink and he bites the corner of his lip, not saying anything. Sirius finds himself staring at the dent between Remus’ collarbones. It looks perfectly fingertip-sized.

Looking back at Sirius, Remus smiles, and it’s shy and sweet and he looks quite ridiculous, really, with his droopy t-shirt and his jutting bones, his eyes all heavy-lidded and glassy behind his glasses. Sirius takes a sip of his drink, swallowing down the rising swarm of buzz, buzz, buzz.

“No Frank tonight?”

Remus laughs. “No, you’re in luck; he got food poisoning last night.”

“Shame,” Sirius says, faux-sympathy drenching the word. He tips his head to rest against the wall. “So, how’d you find the game, then?”

Remus blinks slowly. “Hm? Oh.” He smiles. Looks down. “It was good, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Well—I mean, you won.”

“We did, yes.”

“You, ah...you seemed to be quite critical to that outcome.”

Sirius smirks. “Yes, well, scoring the winning goal tends to do that.”

Remus huffs a laugh. “Yeah, s’pose so.” He glances up at Sirius, then away again. “It was quite impressive.”

Sirius raises his brows, teasing. Say it, say it, say it. “It?”

Remus’ gaze drags its way back to him, fixing Sirius with a look. It’s weighted. Burning. Different from the sweet-shyness of just moments ago. He knows exactly what Sirius is doing—what he wants. “You.”

Sirius grins, heart absolutely racing as he leans forwards, chasing the victory, diving for the try-line. “Me what?”

Remus rolls his eyes, but a light pink starts to crawl along his cheeks. He mumbles his answer: “You were impressive.”

There, sliding along the ground. Sirius near fucking preens. He draws back, feeling the same giddiness as scoring those actual goals.

And then, reaching out to poke him in the chest with a small smile, right back to sweet-shy, Remus adds, “Don’t act like you didn’t know that. Everyone was all over you.”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it,” Sirius returns, poking him back.

Remus’ smile twitches higher for a moment. “Well, there you go then. Very impressive.”

“Impressive enough to convert you to a fan?” Sirius goads, having too much fun to stop, like a naive child left home alone, gorging themself on sugar.

Remus huffs a laugh. “That depends,” he says. “A fan of what?”

Sirius’ heart thuds. “Of...rugby.”

“Ah.” Remus flicks his eyes away. “Not quite.”

“You wouldn’t come to another match, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Sirius blinks. “So, you would?”

Remus smiles, looking amused. He repeats, “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Sirius...”

“No, c’mon—depends on what?” Sirius presses.

Remus picks at the label on his bottle. He looks at Sirius for a moment, then back down to his fidgeting. “I’m sure you can figure that out on your own.”

A pause; Sirius lets it dangle for a second, sway pendulum-like between them, before he speaks again. “If...I was playing?”

Amber meets Sirius’ grey, the flames of it licking up his skin. Remus doesn’t blink as he speaks, just the ghost of a smile hovering over his lips. “There you go.”

Sirius feels like he’s vibrating, high on the sugar rush. It’s almost too much again. He takes a sip of his punch, watching Remus mirror him with his own bottle. His bottle—

“Oh, Moony,” Sirius tuts playfully, launching himself at something familiar, something manageable, narrowing his focus to trivialities. “I thought we discussed this.” He plucks the drink from Remus’ hand, spinning it to read the now-torn label. “Cider again?”

He looks up to see Remus shrug, smiling sheepishly. “Well...I was told the famed punch only tastes nice out of a certain cup, you see.”

Sirius grins. He drains the last of Remus’ cider, making a face; the taste is extra bitter after the sweetness of his punch. Bending down to drop the bottle on the floor, he wiggles his cup up at Remus. “So...what are you waiting for? Come and get it.”

Remus laughs softly. “Oh, I’m allowed this time, am I? To take it myself.”

“Mm.” Sirius straightens up and takes another sip. Swallows. “This time.” He holds the cup out.

Remus’ eyes drop down to it, and then back to Sirius. He reaches out to take it, fingers wrapping around the plastic, briefly overlapping with Sirius’, before drawing it away.

“Purple,” he remarks, voice low as he peers inside for a moment.

“Cranberry juice,” Sirius explains—one of his additions.

“Hm.” Remus smiles as he lifts the cup to his mouth. He takes a sip with his eyes still locked on Sirius, pinning him in place, just the same as those months ago. Remus’ swallow moves down his throat, so, so exposed with the way the full length of his neck is so very on display in this shirt. “Very nice,” he murmurs, one corner of his mouth twitching as he holds the cup back out between them.

Sirius feels a bit overwhelmed. He keeps feeling things he can’t account for, keeps doing things that end up with him here, like this. This being that cusp, the one he doesn’t know how to keep his balance on. The one he doesn’t know how to tumble over, either.

“You can keep that for now,” he says, reaching out to pat Remus on the chest, slotting his middle finger into the hollow between his collarbones, giddy with the fit of it. “Mind it for me. Unless I can convince you to come dance, that is?”

Remus huffs a breathy, shaky laugh. “Ah, I’ll leave that to you, I think.”

“Alright.” Sirius grins, backing away, heart pounding in a steady rhythm—at least twice the speed of his steps. “Maybe you can watch, then.”

Remus’ pulls his lower lip into his mouth for a second, lets it drag free with the stretch of his smile, pink skin turning white and then red beneath the tug of his teeth. “Maybe I’ll do that, yeah.”

 

---

 

The next hour passes in a heady rotation of dancing with his friends and pilfering sips of punch from Remus, sharing smiles and gazes and more topped up cups than is probably wise.

Sirius had fully stolen the cup of punch the last time he’d passed Remus, telling him he had to come dance if he wanted any more, only earning an eye roll—too saturated with fondness to be anything but—in response.

Now that he thinks of it, Sirius hasn’t seen Mary nor Marlene for a while, the two of them disappearing at some point in the last half hour or so. But he dances with James and with Lily and with Peter. Even with a girl he doesn’t recognise but whose freckled nose is crooked in a way that reminds him of Remus’, albeit a poor man’s imitation. He enjoys himself well enough until the hands the girl has looped around his neck start trying to tug him down towards her. He’s just not really in the mood for a tongue down his throat. He’s been there, done that; it’s hardly all it’s cracked up to be. And also, somewhere smaller, somewhere tucked in the back of his mind, the idea of Remus watching that incites a crawling sort of itch along his spine.

Gesturing to his now-empty cup and feigning a dry mouth, Sirius spins the girl towards Peter, who is generally more likely to be interested than Sirius. And she’s genuinely nice enough, so he doesn’t even need to feel bad about it.

He ends up being waylaid by some teammates at the punch table while refilling, though he quickly grows bored of the conversation. Instinctively, he darts his eyes back over to Remus’ spot in the corner—checking—only to find it empty. Sirius frowns, scanning the edges of the room, sure that Remus won’t be found among the throngs of people crowding the centre of the space. Not there. Not anywhere.

Maybe the bathroom.

After a few attempts, he manages to excuse himself, borrowing the bathroom excuse—it’s not exactly a lie, anyway; that is where he’s going—and sets off, slipping through the doorway of the main living area and peering down the hallway. Sirius immediately wrinkles his nose. There’s a couple pressed up against one wall, entirely entwined with one another, making some borderline-scarring noises, and effectively blocking the whole path to the bathroom. How considerate of them. Sirius has half a mind to chuck his drink at them, but decides against it, ultimately; it’d only be a waste of a cup full of perfectly good punch. If he still had Remus’ cider...now, that would be a different discussion. But anyway, he’s more intent on finding Remus.

Leaving the couple to their bathwater-drainage-sound reenactment, he starts climbing the stairs. There’s another bathroom up here—technically it’s the ensuite of Sirius’ room, but there’s an external door, too.

The noise of the living room fades to a muffled thrum as he climbs, each step smothering it with another layer.

Sirius is just passing his bedroom door to go knock on the bathroom’s, when he sees.

Remus.

He stands in Sirius’ bedroom—just the smudge of a shadow here, without the light on, only the gentle glow of the moon and streetlamps seeping in through the gossamer veil of Sirius’ curtains. Remus’ perpetually ducked head and hunched shoulders curl the soft outline of his silhouette, painting him into an open bracket, separated from its pair. He’s examining something he’s picked up from somewhere in the room.

Sirius leans against the doorway, crossing one ankle over the other. “I hadn’t pegged you as the nosy type,” he says, voice low in the new quiet.

Remus startles, his head whipping up, rippling the cloud of his curls. Sirius can’t make out each of the features on his face properly, but he hears a sheepish huff, and thinks he can see the hint of a smile.

“Sorry,” Remus murmurs, matching Sirius’ volume. “I did just come up for the bathroom, but then I...”

“Thought you’d have a bit of a poke around?”

“No, I...well, you had seemed...er, busy, and, well, I saw this.” He gestures with the object in his hand: a book, it looks like. It’s relatively thin. Ah, Sirius thinks it’s Emma. “I just—one of my favourites.”

Sirius grins; of course it is. “I’m only teasing, Moons. You can snoop; I don’t mind.”

“I’m serious, I—”

“No, you’re Remus,” Sirius cuts in, unable to help himself.

Remus halts, his outline going very still, and then he bursts out laughing—far too bright for the tired joke, but, well. Sirius certainly won’t complain. His eyes are adjusting to the dark a little, and he sees Remus’ hand pressed to his mouth.

“That,” Remus huffs, “was so unbelievably terrible, I can hardly believe it.”

“Ah, but your reaction says otherwise.”

“Yes, well.” Remus grins, the blur of his features painted all goofy and dazed-looking. “M’really rather drunk.”

It’s Sirius’ turn to laugh, too loud in the quiet of the room, letting his head fall sideways against the doorframe. “Mm, I can tell.”

He thinks he sees Remus blush. It could just be a shadow, but he prefers to believe it’s not.

“Can you?” Remus mumbles.

“Mm, you go all Welsh when you’re drunk.”

“I am Welsh.”

Sirius laughs. “No, like, extra. Your accent gets stronger. It’s...” Cute. He blinks. “...funny.”

“Oh.” Remus definitely blushes then. “Your room is nice,” he says, quieter. “I like your posters.”

Sirius hums gently, feeling something settling inside of him as he watches. “Thanks.”

Remus sets the book back down on Sirius’ dresser. “Nice view, too.”

“You should see the attic,” says Sirius, rolling his head aimlessly against the doorframe. “Hey—we could, actually; want to?” The question comes almost to his own surprise, as well. All he knows is that he likes it here, with Remus, in the quiet; thinks he likes it better than downstairs in the thick of the party. “You can see some of the stars through the skylight on a clear night. It’s even nicer. And I’m not busy, by the way.”

“Okay,” Remus says softly, his smile audible in the lilt of his voice, the stretch of his mouth drawing out his vowels, too. “Yeah, bit...bit loud. Down there.”

“Mm.” Sirius pushes up off the doorframe and steps into the room. “Come on, then,” he says, taking Remus by the wrist to lead him there.

The small set of stairs are just at the end of the hall past Sirius’ room. They both have to stoop a little at the top, the slope of the ceiling low near the entrance, and Sirius lets go of Remus to flop himself down on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him in the small space. It’s a triangular sort of room; the stairs emerging at the point where the floor meets the slope of the roof, the skylight shining soft moon-glow against the single rectangular wall behind them, dusty boxes piled messily in one corner.

Somewhat awkwardly, Remus clambers down next to him, his long legs sprawling out in front of him, too. His trousers ride up as he does so, exposing bony ankles covered by a pair of bright green novelty socks with little pink piglets on them. Sirius blinks at them. Oh, they’re quite exceptionally funny—quite exceptionally Remus—and he snickers drunkenly as he sets their cup of punch down on his other side.

“What?” Remus asks him, smile ticking up curiously in the corner of Sirius’ vision.

“Nothing,” Sirius replies. He knocks the toes of his boots together, leaning back on his hands, and grins, tilting his head to one side. “Nice socks.”

He watches in delight as Remus immediately blushes, reaching to try to yank his trousers down and cover them, which only serves to make Sirius laugh harder.

“Moons, stop—Remus,” he laughs. “They’re sweet.”

“They’re mortifying,” Remus moans, but he lets Sirius pull him back with a fond pat to his chest, middle finger nestling indulgently into that divot with each tap. “All my other pairs were in the wash.”

Sirius bites the inside of his cheek. He bites that because—well, he has the very sudden, strange urge to bite Remus’ shoulder. He thinks he can’t exactly do that, though. Bit odd without an explanation, isn’t it? Bit odd full stop, really. He stares at the thin cotton covering Remus’ shoulder. Chews his cheek. Blinks hard.

“How’s the knitted pair coming along?”

Remus scrunches up his nose. “Oh, slow. A bit wonky. Been knitting something else in between which is going better than them. I had to unravel four rows on the socks yesterday, but m’nearly there.” A lopsided grin tugs at his lips as he adds: “I think.”

Sirius laughs through his nose, humming a little as he reaches blindly for their drink, unwilling to look away from Remus. He accidentally sticks his fingers right inside the cup before he manages to pick it up and take a sip. Swapping hands to hold the drink out to Remus, Sirius sucks the sticky liquid from where it’s dribbling down his little finger and the side of his palm.

Remus’ eyes have a funny look as he accepts the cup and takes a sip for himself. Sirius blinks, but the look stays, so he brings his hands up to scrub at his eyes instead. When he pulls them away, his fingers are smudged with black.

“Oh, bollocks, I forgot I had that on.” He looks up at Remus. “How badly have I fucked it?”

Remus huffs a laugh. “No, you haven’t...I mean, s’just a bit—er, a little bit on this eye...”

Sirius groans and juts his face forwards on his neck, frowning. “Will you fix it for me?”

“’Course, hang on...” Remus sets their drink down next to him and turns back to Sirius, reaching a hand out. He cradles the side of Sirius’ head steady with his fingers, brushing a thumb too-gently against the outside corner of Sirius’ right eye. His brow furrows. “It’s not really...”

“I think—y’have to press harder,” Sirius whispers, eyes fluttering between open and closed with each light drag of Remus’ thumb against his skin. His mouth has parted just slightly, too, and he fights to stifle the soft sigh that threatens to spill from the gap.

Remus’ frown only deepens. “I don’t want t’hurt... Hang on.” He draws his hand back, wets the tip of his thumb with his tongue and then wipes at the spot again.

Sirius goes very, very still, feeling even his breath stop. His brain sort of feels like it’s short-circuited. He’s trying to think, to speak, but it’s all just a blank white. Fuzzy. Burning hot.

“There,” says Remus, pulling back with a smile, seemingly oblivious to Sirius’ brain state. “All fixed.”

Sirius draws in a shaky breath, the attic air cool against the wet skin next to Sirius’ eye—wet from Remus’ mouth, Remus’ spit. “Thanks...yeah.”

He feels so odd. Flipped upside down. Or maybe inside out.

And then, without warning, Remus is frowning softly again as he leans forwards, gaze seeming to zone in on something on Sirius’ cheek. He lifts one hand up towards Sirius’ face again. “Sorry, I must’ve pulled...”

Sirius’ breath hitches, his body frozen once more. The side of his eye is still damp; it never even got a chance to properly dry.

“You have an eyelash,” Remus murmurs, his index finger brushing lightly over the apple of Sirius’ cheek, a bit below his eye.

Sirius wants to say something—wants to ask what Remus means—but he can’t. Again. His heart is pounding against the cage of his ribs, his skin buzzing under the warmth of Remus’ touch. He can’t move, he can’t fucking breathe.

Remus withdraws his finger, bringing it towards his own face with a sweet smile.

“Make a wish,” he whispers, and then purses his lips to blow gently on his fingertip, a tiny black lash floating from his skin and disappearing into the air.

“What?” Sirius blurts out too-loudly, voice apparently choosing now to start working again.

Remus looks to him suddenly, and Sirius must look absolutely stupidly, comically shell-shocked or something, because Remus bursts out into a fit of fucking giggles, covering his mouth with a palm.

He shrugs, grinning as he lowers his hand back to the floor. “When you find a stray eyelash, you make a wish and blow on it. Well, that’s what my mam used to say, anyway.”

“Oh,” Sirius manages. And then, faintly: “I didn’t make a wish.”

Remus drops his head to his left shoulder. “Well, why not?”

“Why—why not?” Sirius sputters. “You didn’t give me enough time!”

“I told you to make a wish!”

“Yeah, and then you just blew on it straight away!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Remus, straightening up and pulling his glasses off as he leans forwards, fluttering his eyes closed. “Here, you can steal one of mine.”

Sirius blinks hard. He considers the possibility that he has just gone completely barking mad. “What?”

“Go on,” Remus encourages, sounding amused. “Take an eyelash for your wish.”

“What?” Sirius repeats, a bit preoccupied with how long Remus’ eyelashes look like this, without the barrier of his glasses, casting soft shadows over the high points of his cheeks in the low attic light.

“You know—” Remus nods his head in some sort of vague gesture, waving his glasses in his hand. “Rip one out.”

Sirius gawks at him. “I’m not ripping your fucking eyelash out, Remus.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because, you weirdo!”

Remus opens his eyes again, looking like he’s stifling a grin as he draws back. “Because why?”

“Because—” Sirius flounders, his punch-addled brain stumbling for something other than because I don’t want to hurt you, or because I like your eyelashes exactly where they are. “Because it’s supposed to just happen. Because I don’t want to manufacture my wish!”

Remus throws his head back with a bright laugh at whatever indignation is evidently written across Sirius’ face, the lines of his throat sharp in profile, his big nose looking more bumpy than ever. His mouth stretches wide, exposing every one of his teeth—slightly crooked incisors and all—pushing those soft dimples into his cheek, that singular darker freckle sinking into the one closest to Sirius.

And, oh. Oh, god. Remus is laughing, and he’s not covering his face for once, and Sirius hasn’t properly seen him laugh like this in so long, and it aches. It squeezes his stomach and his ribs and his throat, squeezes so hard—wrings everything from him, lets it all bleed out and doesn’t give it back so he’s left utterly bereft, empty, twisted taut and bone-dry.

He looks handsome, is the thing. Remus. He looks so handsome, impossibly handsome. The thought crashes unbidden into Sirius. It’s a lightning strike without the warning clap of thunder, rain falling in torrents and soaking him to the bone only to take two hands and squeeze it all out again.

Sirius doesn’t know what to do with it. It hurts, aches, steals his breath so he’s left dizzy, reeling, drowning in nothing.

It’s so painfully, blatantly obvious in that moment, that Sirius doesn’t understand how he’s never thought it with such clarity before. He’s always found Remus interesting, always liked to look at him, but this is different. This, Sirius can’t tear his eyes away from—not even if he’d wanted to.

Beautiful, he thinks. You’re absolutely beautiful.

Sirius isn’t sure if he’s ever thought that about a person before. Not like this. It’s a bit scary to consider.

But then, Remus starts to turn his head, like he’s going to press it into his shoulder, and Sirius doesn’t have space for anything other than panic: no, no, no, don’t. His hand shoots out, gripping Remus’ chin and dragging it back towards him. Remus’ laughter fades instantly, his eyes huge and glassy and never-ending without his glasses.

“You always hide your smile,” says Sirius, voice hoarse. He licks his lips, feeling awfully vulnerable. “When you laugh. Don’t... You shouldn’t hide it.”

He’s still holding Remus’ chin, and he has the urge to slide his knuckles underneath it, to coax the curve back into Remus’ lips with his thumb as though he might be able to sculpt it himself. He knows he should draw back.

“I like it,” he manages in the end. “Your smile.”

When Remus blushes, his skin heating beneath Sirius’ hand, he’s glad he stayed where he is. The colour seeps down Remus’ neck and Sirius traces the path with his eyes, barely resists the urge to trace it with his fingers, to graze them down the length of Remus’ throat, chasing the warmth, letting his index finger land slotted into that hollow between his collarbones, hook his thumb into the worn neckline of his t-shirt, see just how far the flush extends.

Remus swallows, throat bobbing, and Sirius has to pull his hand back, shove it under his thigh. His heart pounds. The space is so small, it’s hard to know where to look. Everywhere there’s Remus. Handsome Remus.

“Oh...thank you,” Remus whispers, voice fragile in the sudden stagnant quiet.

Sirius nods. He sees Remus slide his glasses back on, push the bridge up his nose.

“What’d you wish for?” he asks—can’t let Remus see the thoughts racing through his mind.

Remus blinks in surprise. “I—” He glances away, his ears going pink. When he looks back to Sirius, he’s wearing a strange sort of smile. “Well. Can’t tell you that or it won’t come true, will it?”

Sirius snorts, relieved for the excuse to, and shakes his head. “Sure.”

With a heavy exhale, he flops himself backwards, pressing his head against the hard wood of the floor. Eyes falling shut, he hears Remus lay back next to him after a moment, feels the soft thud of his head beside him. He inhales: the musty attic smell, sweat drying against his skin, apples from Remus’ hair.

He’s surrounded.

“Well...it’s a little cloudy.”

Sirius opens his eyes. The view through the window is but a dark smudge of charcoal and navy, the half-moon barely visible at the edge of the frame.

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t even think...” He laughs breathily. “Look at that, can’t even see me.”

“I can see you,” Remus murmurs.

Sirius rolls his head sideways on the floor to find Remus already looking at him, tiny curve lifting at his mouth, and he’s just Remus. Regular Remus. Sweet, nice, normal Remus. It’s fine; Sirius is just really drunk. He should probably stop drinking quite so much at these things.

He laughs. “Yes, hi.”

Remus’ smile widens, crookens. Oh, no. Oh, god. There he is again. “Hi.”

Sirius’ breath catches. Do you know? he wonders. Do you know how you look?

He rolls his head back towards the window, exhaling. “Can definitely see you, though, Moons.”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Can I...ask for another hint about that?”

“Ah.” Sirius laughs, grateful for a safe subject. “About ‘Moony’?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright...” Sirius pauses, closes his eyes. He sees the lecture hall, the slow trickle of sun seeping into Remus’ skin, the glow he emits in return. He smiles. “Sunlight.”

A beat. Then: “Sunlight?”

“Mhm.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

Sirius opens his eyes to look back at Remus, grins at his frown, the way it slowly morphs into a full-on pout again. “Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t!”

“Yes, it do-oes,” Sirius sings gleefully.

“Fel rhech mewn pot jam,” Remus grumbles.

Sirius has to blink several times at that. He’s not quite sure he heard right. “Have I gone utterly mad...or was that not English?”

Remus cracks another goofy smile, his eyes glinting. “Well...two things can be true at once.”

“Oi!” Sirius laughs, rolling over and jabbing Remus in the side, delighting when it makes Remus yelp and squirm, his face scrunching up as he laughs, too. He’s smiling freely again, crooked teeth on display, dimples right there, begging for thumbs to slot into them, to press on the little hollows. He’s so handsome. He’s so handsome. Sirius is— He’s going crazy.

Remus grabs Sirius’ wrists, shoving them away. He rolls onto his side, too, so they face each other, grinning softly. “I never said it was a bad thing. Maybe I...” His expression shrinks, turns shy. He whispers, like it’s a secret, “Maybe I like mad.”

“You would turn an insult into something sentimental,” Sirius teases, too breathless for it to come out as anything other than soft. Remus is still holding his wrists. Sirius lets him.

Remus lets out a breath of laughter. “It was Welsh, by the way.”

Sirius blinks again. “You can speak, like, actual Welsh?”

“No, I just thought I’d lie to you for a laugh.”

“Oh, sod off,” Sirius huffs, the insistence of his grin betraying him. “Is this what we’ve reached now? New levels of drunk-Moony where you’re not only exceptionally Welsh, but sarcastic, too?”

“Maybe,” Remus hums, looking extremely pleased with himself—endearingly so. Always so bloody endearing. He drops his eyes, drags his thumbs down the insides of Sirius’ wrists, drags them back up.

Sirius suppresses a shiver. Doesn’t pull away. “Say it again.”

Lips quirking, Remus doesn’t even glance up as he repeats, “Fel rhech mewn pot jam.”

“And what does it mean?” whispers Sirius.

“Like the direct translation? Or...more figuratively?”

“Both.”

Remus’ thumbs keep moving feather-light over Sirius’ skin: up and down, back and forth, burning, burning, burning. “Well, generally it just means ‘useless.’” He grins again. Looks up at Sirius. “Literally: ‘like a fart in a jam jar.’”

Sirius stares for a moment, waiting to realise he’s misheard, but he hasn’t—he hasn’t and the words sink in in a tumble, one after another like an avalanche, the sheer ridiculousness hitting him again and again and again. He bursts out laughing, throwing his head back along the floor.

“What—the fuck?” he gasps out.

Remus is grinning, grinning, grinning, and it’s all so unfair. It’s unfair that he’s just lying there, looking like that, soft dimples and crooked incisors and wide, wide smile. It’s unfair that Sirius feels so out of sorts because of it.

Remus shrugs. He’s let go of Sirius’ wrists, hands tucked up child-like under his cheek instead. “Welsh expression. I dunno where it came from, but my dad says it all the time.”

“That’s so weird,” Sirius laughs, breathless once more. His grin feels exceptionally dopey as he blinks, slow and lethargic. He’s relaxed here. Settled. He could quite easily slip into sleep, he thinks. “Can you say something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like...I dunno. Tell me something. Something I don’t know.”

Remus’ tongue peeks out to pull his lower lip into his mouth, brow furrowing gently as he chews on it. Sirius watches the movement like it’s covered in wet glue and his eyes have fallen right into the tacky stick. He watches the pink skin dent softly beneath Remus’ teeth, watches as it reddens. His stomach flips, squeezes.

With a small smile, Remus finds Sirius’ gaze again, holds it tenderly. “Dwi’n meddwl amdanat ti drwy’r amser,” he murmurs. “Ti’n werth y byd.”

Sirius stares, mouth surely agape. Remus’ voice is full of warmth, soaking into Sirius’ skin the same as the blissful soothe of hot bathwater. He lets out a shaky breath. “And what does...what does that mean?”

Remus shakes his head, eyes falling shut, lips tugging his smile up to a crooked grin. “Secret.”

“Remus,” Sirius whisper-whines. “That’s not fair.”

“You never said I had to translate it, too,” he argues cheekily, opening his eyes. “Just tell you something you don’t know.”

“I thought wanting a translation was implied.”

“Ah, well, you thought wrong.” Remus pauses, grins again. “You can guess, though. I’ll give you hints.”

“Oh, you twat,” Sirius laughs. “That is not even close to the same.”

Remus huffs a breath out of his nose. “Isn’t it?”

“No!” Sirius cries. “You have one word—one English word—to guess the meaning of. I’ve got, like, an entire paragraph of a language I’d not even heard spoken in real life before tonight.”

“It’s not a paragraph, my god,” Remus laughs. “It was two sentences!”

“Right—” Sirius nods, reaching out and poking a finger against the tip of Remus’ nose. “—so, a paragraph.”

Cheeks washing a watercolour-pink, Remus rolls his eyes. His lips do their signature twitch-then-press-together, and Sirius is overcome with the desire to pry them open, peel them back like the rind of a sweet clementine, seeking out the wedge of that big saccharine smile again and again and again. He feels like he’ll never get enough of it.

“So dramatic,” whispers Remus, voice juice-drenched with fondness, dripping it onto the floorboards.

Sirius tastes the sugar, licks it up greedily, still buzzing on the high of it.

And then, biting at every bud on his tongue, comes the tart tang of nostalgia, sharp and unbidden. It’s the epitome of bittersweet: an amalgamation of the two words, one after another in rapid succession, no space between.

(“Don’t be so dramatic, Sirius—oi! That tickles—Siriu—hah! Sirius! Sto-op! Oh, you’re so dead!”)

Sirius’ eyes squeeze shut. He fists his left palm, grips the heel of it with his right, pushes his nails in deep, deep; until it starts to st—

A gentle touch at his fingers, prying them away from his palm. Sirius’ eyes fly open.

Remus’ hands curl around Sirius’ fingers, cradling them like precious things. He’s frowning just slightly, eyes flicking back and forth between Sirius’. “Where did you go?”

“What?” Sirius whispers.

“Just now, where did you go?” Remus repeats softly. “Sometimes it’s like you...I don’t know. Go someplace else.”

Sirius can’t bring himself to speak, just stares, feeling awfully transparent. Can you really see so straight through me? Right to the bone?

“It’s...here,” Remus murmurs, pressing a thumb to the centre of Sirius’ brow which immediately relaxes, releasing a tense furrow Sirius hadn’t even felt form. “And then...last week in the library it was also here...” Remus brushes Sirius’ elbow. “And at your birthday, here...” He taps the ring on Sirius’ index finger. “And now...” He trails gentle fingers slowly down Sirius’ palm.

“I...” Sirius’ voice comes out hoarse, hollowed out, the facade of his flesh scooped away until all that is left is the frail, disjointed skeleton of him.

He wants to be angry. He feels like Remus has looked through the littlest cracks of him, peering at the mess inside; like he’s pried those cracks open, wide enough to step through; like he’s uncovered Sirius’ one gaping weak spot and pulled out all the flayed bits of him there, plucked them from where they lay and hung them up on display between them; like he’s pointing at each one of them, forcing Sirius to look, to acknowledge them, too. It’s terrifyingly exposing and Sirius thinks anger would be easy, would be comforting right now.

Part of him wants to scream, wants to yell at Remus. I never said you could look at that. I never said you were allowed to see it. You’re not. You’re not allowed to see it. Put it back. Put it all back where you found it. It’s not yours to touch; it’s mine. It’s mine.

He can’t seem to dredge the anger up, though. Maybe Remus plucked that from him, too.

Besides, another part of him—one that’s weary and wretched and wounded—just thinks, oh, thank god. It’s so heavy to carry this all alone. I was never supposed to be alone, I was always supposed to have him. I still don’t know how to be without; I’m no good at it. I’m no good at letting people in, either, but you just did it, all by yourself. Now that you’re here...would you stay? Just for a minute?

Sirius holds Remus’ hands tight back; solid things, grounding. Takes a breath. “I went...home.”

Remus nods, his grip squeezing gently—staying. “You don’t have to explain, sorry. I just...noticed.”

“Okay.” Sirius shakes his head, the movement dislodging memories in the way of flaky dandruff: itchy and unwanted, but part of him just the same. He doesn’t even know if he can explain, anyway. “It’s just...remembering is...hard, sometimes. But I can’t let myself forget.”

“Can I...do something?”

Sirius nods. He closes his eyes. He feels spent now, drained. A different kind of sleepy. “Will you say it again? The Welsh? It’s nice.”

“Dwi’n meddwl amdanat ti drwy’r amser,” Remus whispers immediately. “Ti’n werth y byd.”

“And again?”

“Dwi’n meddwl amdanat ti drwy’r amser. Ti’n werth y byd.”

“One more time?”

There’s a pause. “Dwi’n meddwl...ti yw’r unig un i mi.”

“That was a different one,” Sirius murmurs drowsily.

“Mm,” Remus hums. “Extra sentence. So you can call it a real paragraph now.”

Sirius hears himself laugh in his mind, but he’s not sure it ever makes it out loud, dissolving halfway up his throat. The next thing he registers is a light stroke to his forearm, something far too gentle to be real. A dream.

“Sirius?” a soft voice murmurs.

He makes a small noise of indignance, shifting his head slightly; he means to shake it, but it’s a bit much effort. He feels his hair fall over his face with the small movement, further darkening the black of his vision. Careful fingers (or, at least he hopes they’re fingers; they feel like fingers) brush the hair back, ghosting over his temple to tuck it all behind his ear.

“Sirius, wake up,” the voice whispers, lilting over the vowels of his name pleasantly, not unlike a boat bobbing happily at sea. “You’ll be sore tomorrow if you sleep here.”

Groaning, Sirius blinks open his eyes. They feel heavy and sticky. His brows draw together as he tries to focus on what’s in front of him; the room is a dim, TV-staticky blur.

Slowly, a face swims into focus. Well, two faces, actually. Nice faces, though. A bit fuzzy, sure, but familiar, too; they both look like Remus. Handsome Remus. Oh, he is, isn’t he? Handsome. Sirius feels a sluggish, syrupy grin seep across his face. He blinks again, watching the faces shift a bit closer together for a moment.

“S’two of you,” he mumbles, reaching out towards Remus’ faces with a hand—oh, look at that, two of those, too. His hand(s?) make contact with Remus’ face(s?) (how odd, he can only feel the one) and he feels a smile spread beneath his palm, a warm breath of laughter heat his skin.

Sirius laughs, too, pulling his hand back and scrubbing at his eyes. He wriggles a bit, trying to shift; the floorboards are digging uncomfortably into his shoulder and hip. When he blinks his eyes back open, there’s just the one Remus lying sideways on the floor beside him, glasses a bit askew. He’s smiling in that lovely lopsided way of his and Sirius thinks he ought to poke a finger into the crooked curve like it’s a misshapen slice of sticky-sweet pie.

“I dunno if I can fix that this time,” says Remus before Sirius gets the chance to make good on his urge.

“Huh?” Sirius glances down to see his fingers smudged with black again, and groans without any real concern. Takes a deep inhale just so he can sigh out, “Oh, fuck’s sake.”

He allows his eyes to slip shut; it’s such effort to keep them open. The floorboards are still pressing too hard into his shoulder. He wriggles again—forwards this time, trying to find a better position—when his nose bumps into something. Eyes reopening curiously, Sirius sees Remus’ very still face, very close to his own. Close enough to blur. What he just bumped into, is Remus’ nose. Boop. He slurs out a laugh; it’s a sleepy-drunken garble of a sound. He feels himself going a little cross-eyed as he tries to focus on the lovely clusters of dark freckles on Remus’ nose, the big bump down the centre of it, that faint scar he can see just peeking out beneath the bridge of his glasses.

He does it again—bumps his nose into Remus’. Funny. It feels funny. Nice-funny. Ha-ha-funny.

Realisation trips and stumbles as it catches up with him—the sting of palms skidding over rough pavement to break his fall—and Sirius freezes, eyes darting up to stare into Remus’. He’s holding himself so still, Remus; he’s uncomfortable. Sirius is being weird. Has been for most of the night, but this is crossing a line. Remus is going to tell him so.

That familiar gaze flickers between each of Sirius’ eyes, and Remus licks his lips, looking oddly nervous. But then, he’s shifting forwards, craning his head the tiniest amount. He pauses, and Sirius’ breath halts with him.

Remus’ own breathing is audible all of a sudden, this close together. It sounds heavy, almost ragged. He leans in again, tilting his head up a little until the tip of his nose grazes the bridge of Sirius’. Remus’ eyes flutter shut and he shifts his head, gently dragging his nose down the side of Sirius’.

An exquisite warmth follows shadow-like in Remus’ wake, lingering just behind the path of his touch as though Sirius’ skin is desperate to keep clinging to it, to have it seep into his cells.

Sirius can’t bring himself to move. He’s terrified if he does, it will shatter whatever fragile bubble they’ve found themselves together in here. His pulse is absolutely racing; he swears he can feel it fluttering against his neck, a turbulent rhythm to prove the reality of the moment.

Remus brushes across the very tip of Sirius’ nose with his own, over and back just once, and Sirius can’t help his eyes slipping shut as goosebumps erupt over his arms, fluttering across his skin, carrying and conveying the sensation right to his every extremity.

“Sirius,” Remus breathes, barely even a whisper as he slides the tip of his nose back up Sirius’, to the top of the bridge. Sirius wouldn’t rule out having imagined the sound if not for the tiny rush of warm breath that spills right over his lips, into his mouth, fallen open at some point he can’t recall.

Sirius’ breathing stutters back to life and he inhales something thick and sweet, trying to catch the taste of his name. He’s never liked the sound of it so much before.

Somewhere, vaguely, he thinks he should probably feel weird about this. About how okay he feels. It’s foreign, but nice. He thinks, probably, this isn’t really an ordinary thing to do with someone.

He thinks, probably, he doesn’t care. He’s not thinking right now, can’t get his brain to work enough for that. Blame Remus.

Tilting his head down again, the curls over Remus’ forehead tickle Sirius’, scrawling illegible words into his skin. Remus smells like the punch they’ve both been drinking, and a little of sweat. His hair smells of apples, and his skin of something musky, subtle, so him. Bottle the mix of scents and brand it Remus Lupin; brand it Moony; his boy from Latin; his Moons. Sirius inhales again, drinking it straight off of Remus’ skin, heady and overwhelming. He could bathe in it.

There’s not a sound alive in his mind.

Remus drags in another ragged breath. “Sirius...”

Sirius feels. He feels so much he can’t comb through it all to find something he can name. It’s too intense; intense and painful and good. He doesn’t know where everything came from. He doesn’t know if he likes it. Doesn’t know if he’s supposed to.

“Remus,” he whispers back, barely moving his mouth enough to form the word. He doesn’t know what else there is to say. It comes out almost like a question, like those five letters hold all the answers he could ever want. “Moons?”

Something snaps. A rope, a tether, some invisible string—who knows?—and Remus jerks away, stiffened.

“Sorry,” he breathes, a sort of gasping sound, something torn from the back of his throat like he’d been drowning and only just found air. “Sorry—I’m sorry, I—”

Sirius goes very still himself, stiller than he thought possible, the room plunged into a sudden silence, punctuated only by the thundering of Sirius’ heart, pounding gong-like right by his ears, rattling his skull. 

Remus clears his throat, cracking the silence like an egg atop Sirius’ head, rolling onto his back and sitting up. Sirius feels as if the slimy white is trickling cold down his back, the yolk matting in his hair.

“Remus?” Sirius whispers, still on the floor.

“Sorry, I don’t know what I was...” Remus laughs, sort of. It fizzles out. A crumbling of something not very strong in the first place. “Just forget... I mean, it’s late; I should...get going.”

Sirius forces himself to sit up, to haul himself off the floor. His head spins with the change. He feels thrown about and confused, something tossed into a rapid current in the ocean and then hauled out like a sack. Like he can’t tell his left from right, his up from down. “Okay... Are—Is everything alright?”

Remus glances at him, tight smile on his face. “Yeah, I’m just...drinks are catching up with me, y’know?”

Sirius nods. Distantly, he registers that this is it; the inevitable sugar crash. “Yeah...me too, I think.”

“Yeah.” Remus shuts his eyes for a moment. “Sorry. I’ll...I’ll see you on Monday?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Sirius watches him haul himself up from the floor stiltedly, like each movement is an effort, like his joints are made of metal in need of oiling. His piglet socks flash in front of Sirius’ face, their bright colours now too-harsh and mocking. Everything is happening very quickly all of a sudden, as if somebody has pressed fast-forward on time.

“Bye, Sirius.” Remus ducks his head, the top of the stairs slowly eclipsing him as he clambers down, leaving Sirius groggy, jumbled, and more confused than he’s ever been in his life.

It’s only once the last brown curl disappears from view that Sirius remembers his voice. “Bye...Remus.”

 

Notes:

click for welsh translations (+ brief ramble!)

Dwi’n meddwl amdanat ti drwy’r amser. Ti’n werth y byd.
—>
I think about you all the time. You’re worth the world.

Dwi’n meddwl...ti yw’r unig un i mi. —> I think...you are the only one for me.

ok n just a fun tidbit about the phrase “Ti’n werth y byd.” ....this one is a fairly common welsh saying, but in the sense of, like, something they put on their valentine's day-equivalent cards, so i'm fairly sure it's a bit cheesy. but this is Loserboy Remus and he WOULD use a soppy cliched expression to say to sirius and he'd mean it 100%!! so yeah. i just thought that was kinda fun additional context

now, i did do what i believe to be a considerable amount of research for these phrases, but i am by no means fluent in welsh, so if i happen to have any welsh readers at any point and you look at this cringing from inaccuracies, plsssss feel free to gently correct me!!

you can find me in the comments here, or on tumblr between updates :) hope u enjoyed!!!!!!! <3333

Chapter 7: Dream

Summary:

Don’t you know? Don’t you know now?

Notes:

hiiiiiiii :3 oopsies. i promise it will not be another 3 months before the next update!! <3

December begins in a tumble; all transient days and tentative nights. Sirius is supposed to have time on his hands—he does. There it is, on his hands: slipping between his fingers in fine hourglass-sand, trickling through those inevitable gaps between his knuckles, the minutes spilling soundlessly over the floor and splitting into tiny grainy seconds. Every beat of his heart, every blink of his eyes, tick-tick-ticks the moments away, counts them down. To what? He’s not sure. He’s never sure anymore.

December begins in a tangle; all convoluted confusion, as tightly knotted as his stomach. The confusion is his one constant, his one consistency. But it is far from a comfort. Time would be a comfort. And Sirius is supposed to have time on his hands, but he feels it running away from him. He feels it running out.

December has begun, and Sirius is already behind, is already stumbling to keep pace. Even here, in these wee morning hours following the party.

It takes a long while for him to manage to haul himself up from the hard attic floor, immediately swaying with the force of his head rush, blurry black bleeding into his vision in a splotchy stain. Sirius braces a hand against the wall, closing his eyes and wondering why the sound of his breathing is so loud and ragged. Why the pace of his heart is so fast and insistent. Why the feeling in his gut is so twisted and tight.

It takes another long while for him to feel like he might be able to walk without keeling over. Eventually, Sirius opens his eyes and manages to trudge his way down the stairs, a strange unsettledness eclipsing him as he goes.

The flat is empty when he reaches the living room, the party long over now. Remnants of it are strewn about like video game loot: an overturned plastic cup kissing the neck of a glass bottle, a forgotten black jacket cloaking the back of a chair, the winking foil of empty crisp packets scattered all over the place, as crinkled as crunchy autumn leaves. There’s a deep reddish stain on their rug, too, blotted like blood. Well, they were due for a new one anyway.

James and Pete are jenga-stacked precariously atop one another on the sofa, somehow sound asleep, and Sirius just stands there, blinking, and wondering how long the flat has been like this. How long he was gone. How long he was with Remus. 

He blinks once. Twice. Then a third time; for the charm or whatever. And after that, unable to think of anything else to do, he shuffles trance-like to his bedroom, tumbling into bed without even changing his clothes, the exhaustion he’d been feeling dogging him all night finally dragging him under.

In his sleep, Sirius dreams. Which is the first oddity; he has never been one to remember his dreams if he ever has them. But this evening, perhaps thanks to the frankly concerning levels of punch he’d consumed, Sirius dreams in vivid, technicolour bursts.

He dreams he is back in the attic with Remus, and the side of his eye is damp from Remus’ spit again, only now it’s running down his cheek like a stubborn tear, like a weeping gash, and he’s asking again, “What did you wish for?”

Remus looks at him, eyes latching onto the wet on Sirius’ skin, following its path down. “Don’t you know?” he counters softly, his dream-voice a barest breath somehow bowing the weeping branches of Sirius’ mind, whipping at the leaves with a hollowed out howl, making them rustle—whisper—unintelligible murmurs of more things Sirius can’t understand.

Irritation flares hot and fast like a fanned flame in his stomach. Crackling fire, he snaps at Remus, snaps in a way he always tries not to in real life, not with Remus. He just hates having to say it. Having to admit it. “No.”

Remus smiles then, and it’s sad like how it was at Sirius’ birthday, and Sirius feels like he keeps failing whatever unknowable tests Remus is putting him up to and he hates that, too. He can’t know what he isn’t told.

But it’s more than that, really. He hardly knows his own mind anymore.

Reaching up with a foreign boldness, Remus presses his thumb to the place he fixed Sirius’ eyeliner, and then drags it down the wet, smearing it into Sirius’ skin. He whispers again, hushed and secretive, “I wished for you to know.”

Sirius goes to open his mouth—to argue or scream or something else, he’s not sure—only, he finds he can’t speak at all. He can’t even move to open his mouth, to open his eyes, somehow having shut without his permission. All of a sudden, Sirius becomes aware that he’s lying sideways on the floor, the hard wood pressing against every jut of his bones. He breathes in; he smells sweet apples. Woozy, he blinks his eyes open. A sea-spray of freckles over sandy skin fills his vision, close enough to blur. Sirius goes to smile—pretty—only, he’s forced to flutter his eyes shut again almost immediately. Because Remus has leant in, and he drags his nose against Sirius’, and the sensation is just as much as Sirius remembers, just as intense and heady and good. Never stop, he thinks. Oh, god. Please never stop. He is simultaneously drowning and being reborn, and this time, this time, he will do something in return. He has to.

He presses his nose back into Remus’, feeling a thrill when Remus gasps softly, the sound nectar-sweet and breathy. Sirius slides his nose up as Remus slides his down, pressing, pressing, pressing, brewing something in this exquisitely delicate friction between their skin. It sparks, every nerve ending alight and ready to burn. Match and striker.

Remus’ exhale emerges over Sirius’ mouth as a sugared sigh, a favoured lolly. It feels like a delicacy. Something earned and secret and his.

“Sirius, Sirius, Sirius,” Remus breathes, chanting it like a prayer, echoes thrown around an empty church, bouncing off the pews. Sirius shivers; reverent and holy in Remus’ mouth, his name has never sounded more divine. “Don’t you know? Don’t you know now?”

Sirius wakes with a knife-sharp gasp slicing down his throat, piercing the stagnant silence of the too-early morning hour. His heart jackrabbits wildly against the cage of his ribs, like prey haunted by the remnants of his dream, frenzied as if it had been a nightmare instead. Sirius isn’t sure he could actually say either way. In the moment: no, the furthest thing from. But now...

Don’t you know? Don’t you know? Don’t you know?

Don’t you know now?

Now, he lies splayed on his stomach so he feels every hammer of his heart crash into the mattress as if to leak out of him, staining the sheets, soaking through the foam and spiralling down the springs, dripping right out onto the floor in a thick spill of blood or fear or...something else. Sirius’ hips are pressed flush against the bed and all his clothes are too tight and he’s too warm and he feels agitated. Ansty. Hot and flushed and weird all over. Like all his blood is in the wrong spot. The buckle of his belt pinches at the sweaty skin of his stomach, his feet drag at the joints of his knees from the weight of his boots hanging over the edge of the bed. His mouth is so dry, scraped out and raw, tossed full of sand and all the moisture long since fled into the grains.

Rolling over with a rasp-rough groan, Sirius shivers despite himself. God. His knees hurt to bend as he kicks frustratedly at his boots, shoving them off with far too much effort. He listens to them land on the wooden floor of his bedroom with dull thuds, loud as thunderclaps in the hesitant quiet of the hour. Whatever hour it even is—too fucking early, that’s for sure. Sirius lies there for a second, splaying his stiff toes in his socks and breathing heavily. His mind is replaying his dream in viewfinder flashes. White-hot as lightning strikes. They feel like they’re going to split his mind in two. In three. In four, in five—in a million tiny, jagged pieces.

Remus’ thumb down his cheek, Remus’ sad smile.

Don’t you know? I wished for you to know.

Remus’ nose grazing his own, Sirius pressing back.

Resonant: Sirius, Sirius, Sirius.

An apple-sweet gasp. Remus gasping. Gasping. Again. On a loop.

Don’t you know? Don’t you know now?

Sirius is still too warm, his clothes too tight. His whole body is like the crackly interference of a radio station: prickling and fuzzy and not at all right. Unintelligible, despite every attempt to tune into something. To connect to something.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

His head pounds. His heart pounds. Out of sync metronomes, one punctuating the other, only accentuating how out of sorts he feels.

He swallows painfully and then grimaces; his mouth tastes like someone’s thrown up in it and left it there to fucking ferment. Fumbling blindly for the water bottle on his bedside table, Sirius hauls himself up with another grimace and an abrupt roil of nausea in his gut. God, he’s never drinking again.

Well, okay—he’s never drinking quite so much again.

The water is an ungodly relief and he gulps it down greedily, slopping it all over his chin with his fervour. It dribbles along his skin in cool, quick rivulets.

Remus’ spit by his eye, Remus’ thumb sliding slickly down his cheek.

Sirius swipes roughly at his chin. Drags a hand down his flushed face and sinks back against the headboard. He sips the water slower, breathing deeply to try and calm his still-racing heart. Why is it still racing?

Don’t you know? Don’t you know now?

He grinds the heel of his palm into one temple, wishing to drive the dream from his mind. He doesn’t want it there. Hates the reminder of how little he knows, how little he understands. It makes him feel stupid.

He does feel stupid.

Hates it, hates it, hates it.

It’s too fucking hot. His clothes are choking him. With a growl of frustration that he can actually smell in the rush of breath that comes with it (fuck’s sake), Sirius rips his shirt off, then his socks, his belt, his jeans, kicking his legs to get them off, off, off. He feels flushed and worked up and angry and he just wants to bloody sleep this hangover off. He’s not supposed to be awake yet; he can’t have slept more than three hours. His jeans pool to the floor in a blood-red puddle, the dim of the room darkening the rich cherry to something ichorous.

Sirius hauls his top sheet over his body, letting it settle coolly over his tacky skin. He’s not going to think about this. He’s not going to think about anything.

His pulse still tick-tocks a harried, hurried rhythm. He tries to count a sheep for every beat, emptying his mind. No dream, no attic, no Remus. Only blankness and bareness and blackness. Only nothing.

Sirius, Sirius, Sirius.

Don’t you know? Don’t you know now?

 

---

 

Sirius is antsy again.

The thing is, see—well, there are several things, actually, and all of them rather inconvenient, too, but the specific thing in question here is—Remus is being weird. Not obviously, not noticeably to the untrained eye. But Sirius’ eye is very well trained when it comes to Remus.

And he is definitely being weird.

And when Sirius follows the trail of this behaviour, traces its odd, telling footprints back to its beginning, back to its source, he winds up back in that attic, back in that dream, back with his nose squished to Remus’, suppressing shivers and sharing breaths. He does not like the way he cannot escape that moment. A moment that had felt so good, that he doesn’t want to be now tarnished by this overwhelming frustration.

It haunts his sleep, night after night. It looms over his days like a stubborn raincloud that refuses to burst. It creeps, icy cold, into his time with Remus.

And so, Sirius is antsy. Irritated. Confused beyond belief.

Some might say he’s wallowing about it. James, even, may have suggested that just yesterday. But in actual fact, Sirius is only thinking. Formulating questions. Plans. You know, the works.

Blanket-esque, he’s draped over the sofa: head hanging off the end of a seat cushion, legs dangling over the back. All his blood trickles down into the well of his skull, making his whole head feel numb, disembodied, and swollen like an overinflated water balloon. The skin of his face tingles a bit weirdly, too, taken over by the prickling pulse of pins and needles. He’s sort of waiting for one or the other to pop his balloon-head right open, blood and brain matter spurting all over the floor, staining their nice new rug. He wonders if all his thoughts would be written in the wreckage. He wonders if they’d finally be decipherable. Maybe he could poke and prod around in the newly exposed folds of his brain, read them as a priest would the entrails of a sacrificial animal, gutted for the sake of prophecy.

Only problem is: Sirius wouldn’t have his head anymore. Pity, that. He does rather like it.

And—okay, yeah, fine. Perhaps he is getting a little maudlin now.

Hauling himself up, Sirius closes his eyes against the dizzying head rush, folding over his legs. He wishes he could have just one thing he felt like he really knew. One thing he could grab onto with his hands and hold fast, dig his fingers in and say: this, this, this I know. Instead, he’s left scrabbling for purchase on a wall of smooth stone, not a nick to catch himself on. It coaxes out his claws in ways he doesn’t like. But what other choice does he have if he doesn’t want to fall?

The claws mean they’re snipping at each other more these days. Him and Remus. Or, well, Sirius is snipping. Remus more so just gets this frowny expression on his face and goes quiet. The kind of quiet that cranks up the volume dial on the rest of the world in some kind of cruel compensation. The kind of quiet that is so opposite to what he usually brings for Sirius. This all only makes Sirius snip more, like a dog snapping at ankles, begging for a reaction. Claws out, teeth bared: Bite back, give me something to hold. Tell me what’s going on, tell me something, tell me, tell me, tell me anything at all. But the more he does this, the more Remus shuts down. And despite seeing it and recognising it for himself, still, Sirius pushes. He does not know how to do anything else, is the thing.

 

---

 

It goes something like this:

Remus is quite clearly not well. He is there, though—there, at uni, in the library. He does a fairly good job of hiding it, but Sirius sees. Notices things, telling things.

Remus is in pain.

He’s sitting across from Sirius at their usual table, biting the corner of his lip and scribbling away in his notebook, his glasses slid right down to almost the very tip of his nose. Sirius counts the seconds: one, two—bingo. Remus nudges them up with a knuckle. They slide against his nose and Sirius tries not to remember his own skin doing the same. Tries to ignore the squeeze of his stomach when he does anyway.

But then, Remus sits back, still looking down at his notes, and his mouth tightens for a moment, the corners downturning ever so slightly, and his free hand slips off the desk, looks like it presses against his hip, rubbing.

“You okay?” Sirius asks, concern prodding his brows together.

Remus glances at him, one side of his lip chewed redder than the other. Sirius wants to even it out somehow. “Fine.”

“It looked like something was hurting you,” Sirius presses.

Remus looks away, scratches at the side of his neck. “It’s fine.”

Sirius feels his eyes narrow, squishing his view of Remus, trying to cut it to its core. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Remus’ brow twitches, down into a little frown, like the question hurts, too. “It means...you don’t need to worry about it.”

Don’t need to. It’s almost insulting. Of course he doesn’t need to. If Sirius could just flick off his worry like a light switch, he’d live a much easier life.

His jaw twitches, an involuntary thing, hated and unwelcome. But Remus still isn’t looking at him. “Who says I’m worrying about it? I’m not sat here wringing my hands, I just asked a question.”

That gets Remus to look up just for a moment, expression needlessly guilty. He nods, like he’s telling himself something, and looks back down, mumbling, “Sorry.”

This is not the reaction Sirius wanted. This is not the reaction he’s used to. He doesn’t know what to do with a reaction like this. It sort of makes him feel a bit bad, too—a bit guilty himself.

So, Sirius just stares at Remus.

And Remus stares at the desk.

 

---

 

It goes something like this:

They’re sat on Remus’ picnic blanket in the park, the weather far too cold to be there, really, but they’ve bundled up in coats and scarves and beanies, and they have hands wrapped around takeaway mugs of tea that pour a steady stream of steam out of their little sipper-openings, snaking through the sharp winter air in cursive Remus-curls. The chill feels on the brink of breaking, like if the wind blows just too-strong enough, the ice might snap, some warmth might creep in through the cracks. 

Sirius’ fingers tingle from the contrast of his hot cup and the cold air. His stomach tingles, too, from the contrast of a before and an after.

Remus has had his hair cut recently. There is a mourning to the loss of all those tumbling, tangling, too-long twists of hair. Sirius had liked it longer like that. Had liked that it always fell into Remus’ eyes, even behind his glasses. Had liked that it sort of comma-dragged behind his ears: here, here, hi, hi, hi. But it’s cut now. It’s cut, and Remus’ eyes seem bigger, bolder somehow. It’s cut, and Remus’ earring catches the trickster sunlight of winter and shines a proper warmth right back at it. It’s cut, and Sirius is just now noticing the angle of Remus’ jaw for the very first time, square and boyish.

It’s cut and Remus just looks...good. Sirius’ stomach squirms like a great big worm. He’s torn between the desire to pull Remus’ big smile from him and see how it looks with this new haircut, and a mild terror over what the sight might do to him. He’s really trying not to think too much about his little revelation in the attic. He was drunk and it’s not a big deal anyway. Some people just are handsome. Remus just is handsome, apparently. Such is life, or whichever.

But still—he does look quite nice right now with his shorter hair and his lumpy scarf, and he’s not even smiling that smile. So. There’s that.

“Your haircut looks good, by the way,” Sirius says without deciding to, the words tumbling out because otherwise his mind is going to linger on things he’s desperate for it not to.

Remus sort of startles: big eyes turning huge behind his glasses, cheeks splattering with pink watercolour. A self-conscious hand runs over the back of his head and he sinks into his scarf just a little bit, hiding from the attention. “Oh,” he says, maybe a bit pleased, too, though. “Thank you.”

Sirius tips his head, amusedly charmed. “Don’t you like it?”

Remus shrugs, looking down at the cup in his hand, thumbs picking at the seam where the cardboard joins. He smiles, lopsided and unsure, glancing up again. “It’s just a bit shorter at the back than I asked for.”

“Ah.” Sirius nods. “Well. I think it looks nice.”

Right on cue, the corner of Remus’ lip shuffles into his mouth to be gnawed on. His cheeks haven’t cooled yet and that looks nice, too. “Thanks.”

Sirius shrugs. Nice. Handsome. Remus. He kicks at Remus’ shin with his foot just because it’s there. Just because it’s Remus’. Remus, Remus, Remus.

Remus smiles, bigger now, shadows mocking at his dimples. Unfair, unfair, unfair. He looks at Sirius. “What?”

Sirius props his elbows on his bent-up knees, mirroring Remus’ position. “What what?”

“Nothing.” Remus shakes his head. “I just thought you wanted something.”

I do, clatters through Sirius’ brain, nearly spurts out of his mouth. He blinks, caught unawares.

Instead of questioning it, he grins, hooks his foot behind Remus’ calves, and tugs. Nothing distracts him better than a bit of rough and tumble; it’s half of what makes rugby so good.

Remus yelps, laughing as he slips towards Sirius, his body falling back against the blanket, hair landing in the snow, thankfully-empty cup of tea rolling out of his grip.

Oh, that’s it, Sirius thinks as Remus cranes his head up, his laughter cracking through the cold, his smile so big and bright and worming warmth into Sirius’ chest. That’s what I wanted.

Remus kicks weakly at Sirius’ shoulder, barely even jostling it, and Sirius raises a brow, challenging. Yeah? he thinks. Go on. Remus bites his lip and kicks again, a bit harder, a bit more decisive. Sirius abandons his cup, folds his legs crossed loosely in front of him, crooking his hands behind Remus’ knees, and yanks. A shoot of something hot jolts along his spine, smoke-curls in his belly, as Remus just goes, slides, closes in. The park blooms with Remus’ laughter, sunflowers sprouting up out of the snow like spring has arrived early, twisting towards the shine of the sound. Sirius grins, grins, grins. He’s twisting, too. That’s it. There you are.

He throws Remus’ thighs over his knees, already reaching his hands out again, not yet knowing where they’re even going, when something shoots out and snags the front of his coat, jerking him forwards. He doesn’t go far, blocked by his own legs, but he latches a hand onto the wrist that’s caught him and holds it there, throwing his body backwards onto the ground and hauling Remus with him. He hears Remus suck in a breath as they see-saw in the opposite direction, suspended in time for just one moment before they land, Remus catching himself with his free hand slamming into Sirius’ chest.

Sirius hacks out a wheezing breath. “Ow, fuck.”

Remus goes wide-eyed, halfway to being in Sirius’ lap, hands pressed to his chest. He scrabbles his legs underneath him, walking his hands over the picnic blanket on either side of Sirius’ body to lean over him. “Sorry. Oh my god, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Sirius blinks up at Remus’ worry-scrunched face, the way his glasses dangle from his ears, hanging crookedly off his nose, the way he’s blocking the sun, the edges of him haloed in gold.

Hello, Sirius thinks stupidly. Then, he bursts out laughing.

“Oh,” says Remus, very quiet, and all his creases soften at once. Lovely thing.

Sirius flicks Remus’ nose, watches with delight as it switches on that blush, and says, “You worry too much.”

Remus’ head swings ducked as he huffs out a laugh. Sirius sees his opportunity and seizes it, hooking the crook of his elbow around the back of Remus’ neck and tugging, Remus’ forehead landing on Sirius’ sternum with a soft ‘oof’ of surprise. Sirius can feel the big bump of Remus’ nose, the uncomfortable press of his glasses, the warmth of his surprised exhale. He can smell Remus’ shampoo; apples, apples, apples everywhere. Sirius wrestles his legs out to bend his knees up either side of Remus, squeezing him in, ready to flip them both over like he might in rugby, and Remus’ body slips further down, all his weight falling against Sirius and then pressing. Deliberate, maybe. Almost. That jolt shoots along Sirius’ spine again and his knees squeeze harder involuntarily and he sort of wants to—

“Stop,” Remus gasps, going stiff in Sirius’ grip. “Sirius, stop.”

Sirius’ hold slackens all at once, and Remus scrabbles himself backwards, upright, away. He’s not looking at Sirius. The air is cold again, buds withdrawing back under the snow in a withering retreat.

Hauling himself up to sit, too, Sirius forces out a cough. A gruff, boorish thing that does nothing to combat the return of the chill. “Sorry.”

Remus looks red, his knees hugged to his chest like a shield. “No, it’s me. Sorry. You were...you’re fine.”

Sirius blinks, confused. “Are you...okay?”

Remus nods, tight, still staring at the ground. “Sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

Remus opens his mouth. Winces it closed.

Sirius almost laughs at this. He suspends a finger, prods it into Remus’ shin. Tap, tap, tap. Look at me.

It’s a bid that he always wins, but this time Remus shifts out of reach, obviously trying to make it seem casual, unfortunately failing miserably.

That stings. “What?” Sirius snaps.

Remus shakes his head.

“No, you keep being weird.”

“I know,” Remus says, admits—proof. “I’m sorry.”

Sirius gnashes his teeth, trying not to snap at him for saying it again. “Why?” he asks instead.

Dream-Remus says to him: Don’t you know?

Real-Remus says to him: “I don’t mean to be.”

“Okay, so then don’t be.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

Remus’ eyes close. “Sirius.”

“Remus,” Sirius returns, tetchy and temperamental sounding. It rings an alarm bell of familiarity in his head that he doesn’t wish to hear. Another voice, another snip-snap back and forth, somebody who understood this snarling, fang-filled language Sirius speaks, somebody who would actually bite back, would draw blood, would tear into Sirius until the both of them were shredded right open.

(“Sirius!”)

“I’m—handling it,” Remus whispers, defeated.

Frustration fizzles out under a wave of guilt in Sirius’ gut. No, you’re not meant to be sad. This wasn’t meant to make you sad. You were just laughing. That’s all I wanted.

“Handling what?” Sirius says, voice now a too-pleading thing. Tell me, tell me, tell me something. I don’t even know what’s happening in my own head, let alone yours. “Remus, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” Remus shakes his head again. He scratches at his knee like he’s scribbling out a line of writing, and glances at Sirius. “I think I should go home. S’getting a bit cold.”

It’s no colder than when they arrived and they both know it.

“Yeah,” Sirius says anyway. “Okay, sure.”

 

---

 

It also goes something like this:

Sirius has invited himself over. Sort of. He’d been bored, you see, and so he’d messaged Remus asking to do something. Remus mentioned being a bit tired and asked if they could not go out. And Sirius had said he could just come to Remus.

So. Here he is. He’s bought Remus’ tea (asking for the full three sugars upfront, of course) and his own coffee, and also decided to add two little custard tarts. They were sitting there and they looked good and Sirius just fancied something sweet. Plus, he thinks maybe the extra sugar would be nice for Remus’ fatigue.

True to his word, Remus has left the front door unlocked and Sirius pushes it open with a loud, “Hello!”

Partly, in case Frank is around; he’d rather not be jump-scared by that unawares.

He gets no response, but Remus likely has his headphones in like he usually does. Sirius kicks off his boots at the door the way Remus likes, and shuffles smoothly along the wooden floors down the hall towards Remus’ bedroom.

Sirius has been to the flat a handful of times, mostly to pick up Remus’ ugly picnic blanket, but they’ve never strayed from the living room. He finds his pulse quicken a little at the thought of seeing the room that is all Remus’; the things he keeps in there, the way he’s arranged it; what colour of bedspread does he have, and will it be messy or clean?

He thinks it will be a little bit of both—chaotically organised in a way that makes sense only to Remus, neat enough, but decidedly lived in. He thinks the bedspread will be a light colour—blue or green. He thinks there will be a chair somewhere for Remus to read. He thinks that’s where he’ll find Remus, curled up like an ampersand, as he knocks softly on the door and pushes it open.

“Moons? I brought—”

Sirius stops talking upon seeing Remus sat on the left edge of his bed, right leg dangling over the side like he’d just perched there to wait, head lolled on one shoulder and mouth ajar. Fast asleep. His glasses are sat a bit askew on his nose and there’s a book fallen open in his lap, a hand beneath it as though he’d been reading. Something warm bleeds in Sirius’ chest, seeps out through his body, and he smiles.

Instinctively, his eyes flicker around, crossing his predictions off like a bingo card: the bedspread is a pale sage green; the room neatly arranged, but with piles of things scattered on the floor around the edges; there is a chair by a big, square window, charcoal grey curtains parted to let in the weak winter sun.

Sirius picks his way across the space, setting down the drinks and bag of tarts on the bedside table to the right of the bed, and shuffling back around to Remus’ side. Carefully, so as not to wake him, Sirius reaches out to pluck Remus’ glasses off his face, seeing a pink line has already formed along his temple where the metal arm had been digging into his skin. Sirius folds the frames up and lifts the book from Remus’ lap, placing the glasses between the open pages like an odd bookmark. Standing, he walks back around the bed to set the two things down on the bedside table next to the purchases he’d brought, debating about where he’s going to perch himself.

He’s not going to just leave—he was bored at home, and regardless of Remus’ state of consciousness, Sirius likes being around him. Besides, for all he knows, Remus might wake up in ten minutes or something. Not that Sirius is going to wake him; he looks too...serene. Not something to be disturbed.

Another part of him thinks they can’t argue if Remus is asleep. Sirius can’t get snippy. He can’t make Remus sad and himself frustrated. But he can be here. He can sit in their little world of quiet.

Remus’ bed is definitely a single, but Remus himself is shoved right over on the left side, and so there’s room there for Sirius if he wants. There’s the little armchair by the window, or a worn-looking desk chair, too.

Sirius thinks for about three seconds before making up his mind and sinking carefully down on the free edge of the bed, swinging his legs up onto the mattress. Remus makes a little noise and Sirius whips his head to the side, freezing. But Remus only shifts his head, cat-like, almost nuzzling it into the pillow, and his body slips a little closer to lying down.

Huffing out a fond laugh, Sirius stifles the urge to comb his fingers through Remus’ hair. He’s not going to disturb him. Instead, he picks up his coffee and takes a cautious sip, smiling when it lands on his tongue at a perfect warmth.

He can’t help glancing back at Remus again, as though the act of drinking coffee might have accidentally woken him. But he dozes just as soundly as when Sirius had first entered. It’s funny seeing him without his glasses on. Sirius has only ever seen him without them at...the party. And he’s not thinking about that night anymore. Mostly, anyway. Trying, anyway.

It always takes him by surprise just how long Remus’ eyelashes are. Dark right at the root, and then stretching paler at the ends, almost translucent. Though, sometimes, when the sun catches them just right, it gilds them like strands of spun honey. He seems especially softened in sleep, expression slackened and breath slowed and heavy. Something to be careful with, not bitten at with the teeth Sirius keeps baring. He tells himself he’s going to try to be better about that. He’s going to let Remus come to him with whatever is making him act strangely whenever he’s ready. It’s hardly his fault that Sirius doesn’t even understand what’s going on in his own mind.

Sirius passes the first bit of time drinking his coffee and looking at Remus. It’s hardly Remus’ fault that he’s so handsome, either. Sirius has been thinking about that, too. Well, not thinking about it, but thinking about it. Thinking about why it took him by such surprise. He thinks he might’ve worked it out. Remus—sweet, shy thing that he is—is handsome in such a casual, quiet way. That’s why Sirius hadn’t noticed it for so long. Because Remus wouldn’t yell and scream his handsomeness. No, he’d keep it tucked away and hidden, just like his big toothy smile, always too modest to throw it in your face. But he’d been drunk, very drunk, and he’d let it out, and had, very likely unknowingly, hurled it right at Sirius and it had hit him in the face. Hard. Hard enough to bruise, even, the ache of it still lingering as it heals, black to purple to splotchy yellow-green. Every time Sirius sees Remus, it’s like a finger pressing at the heart of the colour, confirming: yep, still hurts, yep, still handsome.

As he sleeps, Remus’ face crawls with a red flush sort of like that sunburn from way back when. Sirius did wonder briefly about getting a blanket, but now he’s worried Remus is too hot; maybe he’s got a fever. Maybe he needs a cool towel.

This is the other thing. Sirius can admit that, maybe, perhaps, probably, he treats Remus just slightly differently to the rest of his friends. Can admit that he’s likely a bit more careful with Remus, a bit more hesitant, that he cares a bit more about what Remus thinks of him—whether that be his personality, his clothes, his art, his rugby. He can admit that he spends a lot more time thinking about Remus than anybody else. Can admit that he considers Remus a best friend, someone closer to him than most, closer than everybody bar James, though close in a different way.

It’s that Remus makes him nicer, he thinks. Makes Sirius want to be the version of himself that Remus seems to see; the one that is nice at his core and only has the capacity to be rude when he chooses, rather than the one that is rude at his core and only has the capacity to be nice when he chooses. He’s always thought of himself as the latter. It’s...almost disconcerting to feel like Remus sees him as the former. It’s like looking at a picture’s negative space and suddenly noticing a whole different image. It’s dizzying, almost. In a good way though. At least, Sirius thinks. It’s all so hard to tell.

He attempts to distract himself by eating his custard tart next, careful to catch the crumbs in the little foil case it came in, thinking Remus will likely not be thrilled to wake up to a spray of crumbled biscuit all over his sheets.

He looks around the room as he eats, taking in the posters Remus has hung up with little tears around the edges, the tickets and postcards he’s taped to the walls. His desk is a mess of books and note pages; Sirius thinks he even sees some of his own handwriting atop one of the piles and he smiles. There’s a small wardrobe near one corner with its doors semi-ajar, knitted material peeking out of the gap like the whole thing is moments from bursting open at the seams.

When he finishes his tart and Remus is still asleep, Sirius begins to feel a tad restless. He stands carefully and pads over to the small, overfull bookshelf that is wedged in one corner of the room, almost tucked behind the wardrobe. Books are stood upright and lying atop one another and wedged into gaps too small for them to really fit. Each shelf looks like it’s sagging slightly in the middle, but the books on the shelf beneath keep them propped up regardless. It’s all a bit wilted and wobbly looking. It’s all a bit so very Remus.

Sirius runs a finger along the spines, catching on a book that’s sticking out a little further than the others, far enough out that it seems safe to pull free. Frankenstein. Sirius hasn’t read it. Thinks he’d probably like to, though. He wiggles it out carefully, startling when a little flurry of papers tumble to the ground. Not papers—photographs. Sirius bends to gather them up, flipping over the pile to have a little look.

The first photo is of Remus, Frank, and Alice, sat on the sofa in their living room with big laughing smiles and arms slung around each others shoulders. Sirius rolls his eyes (Frank), but he can’t deny his smile. Remus’ cheeks are red in the picture and his head is ducked, but not enough to hide one of those soft dimples brought about by Sirius’ favourite smile.

The next photo is just of Frank and Alice and Sirius immediately shuffles that one over—boring. The third, though, is of him. He hardly remembers it being taken. He’s sprawled on his back on Remus’ picnic blanket, the tree-shaded sunlight dappling him, a solid slice of gold thrown across his face. His t-shirt is all askew so one side of his waist is bare, and he’s got one hand up to shield his eyes, nose scrunched as he throws a middle finger up at Remus with the other hand.

Sirius stares at it for a long time, heart pounding all of a sudden. He flips the photo to the back of the stack. The next one is of him, too. Well, sort of. It’s of him and James and Lily in a tangle on the sofa at Sirius and James’ flat, limbs blurry as they flail. Sirius’ face is the only one in proper focus, open wide in a big grin.

There’s one after that of Mary, Marlene, and Peter, the girls sat with heads bent together over one of their laptops and Pete peering overtop, the three of them forming a little pyramid with their faces. 

The next photo is Sirius again, at the last rugby match, his hair tied back, a few loose strands sweat-plastered to his temples, winding down to drip off the edge of his jaw. He’s mid-stride, ball wedged in the crease of his elbow, face turned profile, brow furrowed in concentration.

The one after: him again. Holding two takeaway cups, one extended towards Remus with a raised brow and a little smirk on his lips. He vaguely remembers making some joke about the paparazzi.

Sirius is very aware of his own breathing all of a sudden. He feels like he’s snooping where he’s not supposed to be, but also they were all just sitting here, right within reach! And it’s not like it’s that weird. There are others of Remus’ friends in this stack. All of them, really. It’s nice. Sweet of him.

But Sirius’ heart is racing and his breath his coming faster and he can hear dream-Remus’ voice in his mind, echoing again and again and again: Don’t you know? Don’t you know now?

Shoving the photos back onto the bookshelf, Sirius strides back over to the bed, sitting down and opening his book to a random page, forcing himself to stare at the ink, stark against the pale pages, and to breathe. The letters curl into monochromatic tree branches, long vines, fronds of grass. They do not form intelligible words.

A draft, cool against damp skin by his eye. A thumb sliding down his cheek.

Sirius breathes in, holds it there. Until it burns.

Noses pressing together, dragging along each other. A gasp—Remus’. Almost as lovely as his face.

He blows it out, harsh. Snaps the book closed and scrubs his hands over his face.

Looking over at Remus again, so peaceful in his slumber, Sirius’ stomach twists and twists and twists—a screw being driven in too tight, splintering the wood of him.

There’s a muffled noise from the hall, and Sirius startles. Somebody is home.

He hastily picks the book back up, shoving it shield-like in front of his face.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “Rem?” And then Frank is stepping into the room. For fuck’s sake. Really? Sirius was rather busy having something of a moment.

Frank startles when he sees Sirius there, but Sirius just stares him down. He’s the one being interrupted, after all.

“Oh, hi, sorry,” Frank whispers. “Is he asleep?”

Is he asleep? Really? Obviously he’s asleep. Jesus. Does Frank want a silver spoon with that information?

Sirius nods anyway, lets the silence spread his annoyance across the room like spilt milk.

Frank pads over with a furrowed brow and Sirius suppresses the urge to tell him to get out. Regardless of who is interrupting or being interrupted, this is sort of Frank’s flat; Sirius isn’t quite so entitled as to order him out of it. Yet, at least.

As Frank reaches out and combs his fingers through Remus’ hair, Sirius immediately wants to swat them away. You’ll wake him. But then, he also feels a bit stupid for not letting himself do that earlier. Especially when Remus does not even stir.

“I’m worried he’s in for another bad one,” Frank murmurs.

Sirius stares, heart thudding steady and loud. Another bad what? What’s going on? He doesn’t want to ask, to admit he doesn’t know what Frank is talking about, but he doesn’t exactly know what to say, either.

He used to think he knew so much about Remus. How does it feel like he doesn’t know anything anymore?

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily, depending how Sirius decides to look at it), Frank doesn’t seem to take much offence by his silence, and simply draws back with a sad smile. “Thanks for staying with him.”

Sirius shrugs. “Sure.” It’s not like he did it for Frank. It was for himself, mostly.

Frank nods, like he’s not sure what else to say, and backs away a bit. “Right, well...see you, Sirius.”

“Bye.” Sirius turns back to his book. As if he’s ingested a single word of it. He waits until he hears the retreat of footsteps before lowering it again.

Immediately, there’s a loud crash from the direction Frank just left from, and Sirius rolls his eyes. What an absolute disaster.

Remus makes a small noise, wriggling; his nose presses into Sirius’ waist.

The attic. Goosebumps. A gasp.

Sirius can feel the warmth of Remus’ breath through his t-shirt. His heart pounds out a thud, thud, thud.

Sirius, Sirius, Sirius.

“Sirius?”

He startles, looking down. Remus is blinking heavily, brow furrowed as his eyes try to focus on Sirius’ waist.

Sirius twists to pick up Remus’ glasses and holds them out to him. “Hi, sleepy.”

As round and rosy as sweet Pink Ladies, the apples of Remus’ cheeks stain with a delicate blush. A thought lightning-flashes through Sirius’ mind: bite them. 

He blinks, hard. What is he—drunk?

Remus scrubs at his eyes before sliding his glasses on. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to sleep. How long have you been here? You should’ve woken me.”

Sirius shrugs, shaky with it. “Not long. I brought you tea, but it might be a bit cold now. And a custard tart if you fancy it.”

Remus pulls the leg that had been dangling over the edge of the bed up atop the mattress with a poorly concealed wince. Sirius’ eyes latch onto the movement, his mind burning with questions. He feels like he ought to have known to adjust that when he arrived. He didn’t even notice it might have been a bother.

“Shit, I’m really sorry, Sirius,” says Remus, frowning, his thumb sliding up to rub at his hip. His hip again. Just like in the library.

“Remus, it’s fine.” Sirius reaches for the paper bag with the custard tart and holds it out to him. He’s not baring teeth. He’s waiting for Remus. He’s being patient. “I wasn’t going to wake you, but I didn’t feel like going home. Sorry for hijacking your bed.”

Remus peers into the bag, smiling. “Thank you. Want half?”

Sirius shakes his head. “I ate one already. Want a replacement tea?”

“No, it’s okay, I’m sure that one’s alright.”

Sirius raises a brow. “Right. I’m making you a new tea, I’ll be back.”

Remus makes a noise in protest, but he doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t do that anymore, Sirius realises. He doesn’t touch. He’s deliberately careful not to. It should not sting as badly as it does. “Sirius, it’s fine.”

“So, you don’t want a tea?”

“I want...that one.”

“It’s cold, Remus.”

Remus squirms, eyes averted again. Again. “It’ll be fine.”

“No. It won’t.”

“Sirius, please, it’s fine.”

“Why can’t I make you a new tea?”

Remus’ eyes seem to droop at their sides, his brows wobbly, wormy things. He nods, resigned. “Okay. You can.”

It’s the answer Sirius wanted, the answer he’d been fighting for, but it does not bring any satisfaction with it. Rather, it leaves a funny taste in his mouth, like a promised fruit that has just gone bad.

“Remus,” he says, trying to soften. “Are you...okay?”

That pushes Remus’ eyes shut. Sirius doesn’t know how he keeps stepping in all the wrong places, throwing salt in wounds he can’t even see.

“I’m fine,” Remus whispers. “Sirius, please don’t worry about me.”

I can’t help it, Sirius thinks. It’s like asking me not to breathe. Out of his mouth, comes, “You’re red again.”

Remus’ hand darts up to his nose, swiping across his cheeks with an evidential guilt coating his expression like varnish.

“It’s not a sunburn,” says Sirius quietly. “Is it?”

Remus says nothing.

“But it is the same thing as before. As that day in the library.”

Remus shifts, still not making eye contact, still not looking. “Sirius...” he mumbles. “Just—it’s fine, alright?”

Sirius stares, bores his eyes into the side of Remus’ head, hopes Remus can feel the weight of his gaze the same way he always feels Remus’. Hopes it burns. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“How do you get it, Remus?”

Remus’ eyes close, pained. “Can we just...not right now?”

Sirius feels his jaw clench. There are countless questions clamouring at the walls of his traitorous teeth, creeping through the cracks between them. He grinds down on nothing, on those spaces he can’t close, gnashes every word he wants to say into tasteless sawdust.

Two manage to escape anyway, emerging torn up and gritty, demanding in that way he’s trying so hard not to be with Remus: “When, then?”

Sirius knows if they were not a demand, they would be a beg, a plea. Give me something. Just this one thing. There’s so much I don’t know when it comes to you and I hate it. I hate the not knowing. But this—this is the one thing I know how to ask.

He stares at the lengths of Remus’ eyelashes: two neat fields of lush wishes, prime and ready to be plucked.

Here, you can steal one of mine.

Only, they’re stowed behind the walls of his glasses again, maddeningly out of reach now.

Something, give me something. Please.

Sirius swallows. Please. Inhales. Please. Opens his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Remus admits quietly, unknowingly drowning out the word.

The six letters curdle one at a time in Sirius’ mouth, suddenly overripe and sour on his tongue. He’d almost said them. He doesn’t know what it means that he had.

“I’m not—I’m not ready,” Remus continues, finally looking into Sirius’ eyes again, a kaleidoscopic smear of somethings swimming in his gaze. “But...I will be. Alright?”

“Do you promise?”

Remus stares, the corners of his mouth sinking down slightly. Sirius hates him just a little bit for that. For the way it immediately makes him want to apologise, the way it stirs something almost like shame in his gut.

At a familiar table; a flippant question stoppered inside of a clinking glass bottle, cast without expectation into the steady stretch of sea between them: “Do you always mean what you say, then?”

Remus’ flickering gaze; his foreign honesty stowed away on the lilting, bobbing boat of his voice: “Yes.”

Remus won’t lie, Sirius knows—not blatantly, anyway, not directly. So he won’t promise it.

“Right,” Sirius mutters. “You know what, just forget it. Not like I’m entitled to know anything, anyway.”

Remus’ fingers sneak under the lenses of his glasses, press into the loose, wish-stitched seams of his eyes, the threads of them squashed under his touch. “That’s not fair. Sirius, I’m trying.” He whispers the words, shipwrecks, into the heels of his palms.

Sirius slumps back against the bed’s headboard. “Me too,” he admits—and what a terrible thing it is, to be trying.

“I’m sorry.”

Sirius nods, swallows. He knows. “I know. Me too.”

He doesn’t know how to do this. How to try.

Make a wish.

Yeah, okay. He wishes he’d never taken Remus up to the attic.

 

Notes:

i say i promise on the update frequency, but really i mean that i will Try Very Hard.... what i do definitely promise is that this WILL get finished. i love them too much to even think of abandoning it :~)

hope u enjoyed the chapter, and thank you if you're here and you haven't forgotten about this fic!! i really so appreciate all the lovely lovely comments i've been getting even in its little absence <3

p.s. i have updated and fixed up the playlist! thank u to rae for the song to prompt this much needed revamp, mwah!!

Chapter 8: Gift

Summary:

Yours, Remus.

Notes:

we have a tentative total chapter count... v much subject to change, but it'll be thereabouts!

The final two weeks of semester are clashing, contrasting things, refusing to offer Sirius anything but whiplash.

Remus is away ill for the whole time, and this sprawl of days without him feels foreign now; empty. It’s like returning to a hometown and being met only with the yawning space of change, nostalgia-warmed shops boarded up and swapped by vacant replicas. Sirius does not know how he used to do it, truthfully. Everything is discoloured by the space that should be filled by Remus, nothing able to satiate Sirius’ mind quite the same.

But then come the nights. This is where Sirius sees him. Every single night without fail, Remus comes back to him as though in apology, like some sort of compensation for his absence. But it is agonising having his existence confined only to Sirius’ dreams. Only to that dream—that terrible, torturous travesty of a thing.

It’s extended itself now. Like a director’s cut. Some nights, Remus goes off script. They’ll be there, nose to nose, and Sirius’ name will spill from his mouth on an upward curve, whispered like a question—like a plea instead of a prayer.

“Sirius?” it will come, in a timid rush of breath, tinged plum-purple with desperation. “Sirius, please.”

Sirius will shiver with the sound of this, and he’ll ask, craving the answer like something forbidden, an out of reach fruit, those Pink-Lady-blushed apples of Remus’ cheeks: “What is it?”

Remus’ breath will shake, will shudder into his mouth. He’ll press his nose more insistently into Sirius’, he’ll drag it up, linger there a moment, he’ll tilt his head, and he’ll plead, “Can I? Please, can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Sirius,” he’ll breathe out, frustrated. He’ll knock his forehead into Sirius’, his glasses digging into both their nose bridges. “Please. I want—”

“Anything you want,” Sirius will breathe back, his voice clear as fresh rainfall with how honest the words drip from his lips. He’d never be this honest in real life—doesn’t know how.

Remus will whine here, and Sirius’ mouth will sting with the sugar of it, his belly will contract so tightly it aches. And, “You don’t mean that,” Remus will say. “You don’t really mean anything.”

“I do.” Sirius will shake his head, his nose pressing into Remus’ with the movement, almost nuzzling, encouraging. Go on. Anything, anything, anything you want.

“You don’t mean this.”

“And what’s this, Remus?”

And Remus will groan, he’ll lick his lips—a movement Sirius only knows is happening from their closeness, the way he can just hear it: the barely there smack of Remus’ lips parting, the soft slick of his tongue slipping over already wet skin. Sirius’ tight belly will light up in flames now.

“It’s...” Remus will whisper, ghost-quiet and tentative. He’ll nod, like a conviction, his breath sucking in sharply. “It’s this—”

And then Sirius will wake up. He’ll wake up gasping, or panting, or with his face squished into the pillow instead of against Remus’ nose. He’ll wake up sweating, or flushed, or with his heart thudding so hard against his ribs it hurts. He’ll wake up with his body tingling, his mind racing, his gut tied in impossible knots.

Sirius will wake up and he won’t be able to get back to sleep. He’ll feel weirdly guilty. He’ll feel worked up. Frustrated beyond belief.

He’ll feel a tiny bit like crying. He won’t—but he’ll feel like it.

Sirius. Sirius, please.

He’s taken to going on runs when this happens now. Regardless of the hour, he scrambles for some clothes, for his headphones, his skin crawling, prickling, itching to move. He’ll start running right from their front door, sprinting too fast in the first two kilometres to last properly. His feet will drum hard against the pavement, the impact jolting lightning up his shins. His breath will haul in the damp cold of the midnight air, the wind will smack at his face, sting his nose, have his ears aching something fierce. He’ll be struggling to breathe by the fourth kilometre because he still won’t have stopped sprinting. He’ll get a stitch and have to slow for the next two. He’ll realise he didn’t bring any water and curse himself for it, every breath slicing another notch into the stinging dry of his throat, tallying his confusion.

Don’t you know? Don’t you know now?

He’ll end up having to walk back home, the winter air against his sweat-slick skin making his teeth chatter by the time he gets there, side still needle-stabbing with each inhale. He’ll turn the shower up as hot as it goes and relish in the near burn of it against his icy skin. He’ll stay in there for too long, trying not to think, but his mind betraying him anyway.

Sirius. Please. I want—

Anything you want. Anything, anything, anything.

He’ll be in the kitchen before James for once, antsy and fidgeting. Eventually, though, he’ll get too restless, and he’ll leave early to go to the studio. He’ll still be thinking about Remus. Inescapably. Infuriatingly. But he’ll decide to try putting it to good use, and so he’ll work on his Christmas present.

This is where he’s gone a bit mad. Or, this is evidence of where he’s gone a bit mad. Sirius was only planning on doing the one thing. A small thing, long since finished now, that seemed good at the time, but now feels like not enough. So he’s scrapping it. Starting over. Because, well. Sirius is being tortured by Remus by night and he misses Remus something terrible by day and he’s just—he’s trying to make it through to the holidays now. Not knowing when Remus will be back, Sirius has only one light at the end of this tunnel and it shines on the porch to a home that is not his, but opens its door for him as though it ought to be. A home that he will never really be able to call home, but is more like one than the place he still thinks of. A home that is not his home, but is as good as. With warm lights and warmer laughter, gentle voices and gentler hearts. With the amalgamation of nearly all Sirius’ very favourite people clumped in the one place.

But he has these final days to make it through first. And so Remus is getting a new gift. A better gift. Sirius had not had it in him to focus on a typical sculpture, instead finding himself sat before the pottery wheel, moulding clay into a mug, the hypnotic spin reminding him of Remus’ earring when he twists it around and around and around.

The thing is, Remus has favourite mugs. He has a favourite mug at his own flat and he has a favourite mug at Sirius’. And the one he owns himself is chipped to the high heavens. So. Really, it only makes sense. He needs a new favourite, and Sirius is pretty sure he knows what Remus likes well enough to make one worthy of being his favourite. Big enough to hold the egregious amounts of tea he likes. Thick enough to keep it all warm for as long as possible. The handle wide enough that he can wrap his fingers through and hold the mug by its body.

Ticking off all of these customisations, Sirius cannot stop himself from thinking, sickeningly so, that it is a distinctly lucky thing, this mug, to be crafted with the express purpose of being loved by Remus. Perfectly sculpted to ensure Remus will use it day in and day out, will smile something soft when he sees it, will hold it cupped between his gentle hands and drink from it with chapped lips, will carefully hand-wash it because he wants to reuse it so many times in the day, will run his thumb along the rim for no reason, will hold it pressed to his mouth whilst he thinks.

Thoughts like this, dizzying and cloyed with sugar, are crossing Sirius’ mind more and more frequently. They barely even have to barge their way in, simply blowing through like leaves caught on a gentle breeze, fluttering to rest on the ground. And they should make him feel sick, should be something he scrambles to rake away. But they do not, are not. They only fill him with an autumnal warmth; a Remus-warmth. Thick and sticky and sweet.

Sirius does not speak of the thoughts. Can’t. Thinks he must be going a little crazy, really. Thinks there is almost certainly something wrong with him.

But, also, like in some stupid bid for vindication, making Remus a new favourite mug means that Sirius can paint it himself, and make it something personal. Secretly, selfishly, something that might yank at the marionette-strings of Remus’ subconscious, might puppeteer an inescapable show in his mind, chock-full of Sirius, in that way that keeps happening, conversely, to him in his dreams.

The mug is sculpted now. 

It’s very nearly all painted with underglaze, too. Sirius is really quite proud of it, actually. The body is all designed like their park, bleeding from winter to spring to summer to autumn as the picture wraps around. Sirius isn’t sure it’s quite distinguishable as their park as opposed to any other, but he knows that’s what it is. Remus’ ugly picnic blanket has even been draped beneath the flowering tree of the spring segment in indication. The deep blue handle is adorned by the phases of the moon, waxing and waning in slightly raised shapes along the curve of it. The inside of the mug marbles with plain colours to match the outside, washing along the walls until, at the inside’s base, he has painted the Lupus constellation, clung there to be revealed at the end of every drink like fate-telling tea leaves.

Now all that is left is to add a clear glaze on top and give it a second visit to the kiln. There is over a week, still, until the end of semester. At the rate Sirius is going, Remus will have another five gifts by Christmas.

 

---

 

It’s the very last day of semester when he gets the call from Remus. They’ve texted here and there, but nothing much. Nothing comparative to how much time they usually spend together. Because every interaction now is clouded with that lingering awkwardness they keep inevitably running into every time they’re together. Like at the library, like at the park, like in Remus’ bedroom. There will be moments of normalcy, fleeting bits of sunlight, but then the next cloud will move into its place, dark and heavy with things unsaid, things unknown, stubbornly refusing to burst.

Sirius slows his footsteps, mere metres from Remus’ flat building, tilting his head to wedge his phone between his shoulder and his ear. “Hey!”

He hears Remus sigh something sweet; so they’ll begin sunlit today. “Hi.”

The line crackles then, ticking away the pause. Sirius feels his brows furrow a little in bemusement. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I just...nothing, really,” Remus mumbles. There’s another spill of silence and Sirius imagines Remus chewing his lip, or his thumbnail; fiddling with his earring, perhaps, that hypnotic twist. There’s the skittish sound of an inhale. “I just missed you.”

Something inside of him goes terribly warm at that. It’s only because Remus has said it now, for a second time, that Sirius realises he has half been waiting for this to run out. With all their sort-of-fights and their tension and Sirius’ pushing at Remus’ quiet defences, he has, subconsciously, like an inhale, been holding his breath: until when, until when, when does this become not worth it anymore—when do I become not worth it anymore? But here Remus is, missing him still, despite it all. It’s a reminder Sirius had not even known he needed, some exhaled assurance: not yet, not yet, we’re still here—I still want you around enough to miss you, even if we only ever end in the same cyclical arguments with no resolution in sight. I would still rather you be here than not.

It is a turning over of some internal hourglass, renewing that assurance, off-setting that secret worry. At least, for now, until whenever the sand next runs out.

But these thoughts are, once again, so incredibly, painfully saccharine. Sirius tries to dispel them with a huff of laughter that he intends to be blasé, but only emerges soft-bellied and dripping sap, thoughts clung stubbornly to the stick. “You bleeding heart, you,” he teases, tone so far free of bite it might as well be liquid.

What is wrong with him, what is wrong with him, what is wrong with him?

But Remus laughs, too—a breathy rasp of a thing, and Sirius is warm all over again, pushing open the building’s heavy door and making for the cramped stairway.

There’s a moment of rustling, and then Remus asks, voice all lullaby-lilted, “What are you up to?”

“Er—I’m, well, I’m...” Sirius laughs a little as he trudges down Remus’ hallway, dim light flickering overhead. “I’m sort of outside your flat.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m...at your front door?”

The line pulls taut with a sudden silence, and Sirius goes a bit still himself, worrying at the wrapping on the package in his hands.

Remus’ front door bursts open. He stands, phone to ear, mouth hung ajar, his eyes wide and bright behind his glasses, tiny twin suns streaming light in through windows. His curls cloud-fluff up on one side of his head, the other side all squashed down like moss. His bright orange flannel pyjama pants absolutely do not go with the faded grey long-sleeve he wears, and the thick pair of socks on his feet are quite a jarringly horrendous multicoloured knit.

Two weeks. That’s all it’s been, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Sirius’ tormenting dreams have been so impossibly lacking in their recreations of Remus. He is not translatable to anything but this. Anything but the skew-whiff, ill-assorted, mismatched reality of him. Oh, Sirius thinks on a hitched breath, the word hooking into the tender skin of his throat and sinking deep. Hi.

Then, Remus’ mouth spreads into that big wide smile of his, crooked incisors showing their face and dimples prodding into his cheeks. He drops his phone to the carpeted floor with a dull thunk, cheeks flushing a lovely rosy red. “Who’s the bleeding heart now?”

Sirius’ pulse races in answer, tripping over itself as if to say: me, me, me, it’s me. There is, here, something rising rapidly inside of him, some unnamed, unknown surge of feeling swelling like a wave come to drag him out to the depths of the ocean and drown him there. Somebody, too, has hidden away his breath, giving it back to him in insufficient rations. That cresting feeling hovers at the back of his throat, pulsing in warning. He has not a clue what it is. All he knows is that, yes, this is right. This is the colour everything is supposed to be. This is the hometown he remembers. Remus, Remus, Remus: there you are.

His mind this well of sickly thoughts, his mouth hacks out a harsh laugh in compensation, as if Remus might have developed a knack for telepathy while ill, might be able to sense it if Sirius lets anything else show. “I didn’t really come to see you, I just came to drop this off.”

Remus only then seems to take note of the package—very obviously a gift—the ‘u’-curve of his smile slipping open into a small ‘o’. “What’s that?”

“Christmas present,” says Sirius, amusement needling one corner of his mouth up in erratic little stitches, too messy to sew a proper smile.

“Oh.” Remus blinks, slow behind his glasses. A hand lifts, absentminded-seeming, running back and forth over the squashed side of his hair as if to fluff it up; it does nothing. “For...for whom?”

Sirius’ tongue pokes into his cheek, far too entertained—for whom, indeed. “For Frank.”

Remus gapes, brows magnet-snapped together. “For...”

“Remus,” Sirius says, exasperated and amused and fond, fond, fond. “It’s for you.”

Remus’ eyes shoot up, golden-wide and full to the brim with sunlit surprise. He blinks again. “Really?”

Holding the package up, Sirius taps at the little gift tag very clearly reading, To: Remus. “Think so, yeah.”

For one long moment, Remus is very still. And then, in truly the most bafflingly unpredictable of reactions, he whirls around and hightails it back inside the flat.

Sirius blinks, genuinely thrown. He calls out: “Erm. Remus?”

“Wait—just wait there!” Remus yells from somewhere, his voice muffled by the distance.

And Sirius does; trusts—knows—that Remus will come back to him the way he has been doing every night for the past fortnight. He only realises that the thought to barge into the flat regardless of what Remus said did not even cross his mind when he sees Remus hurrying crookedly back to the doorway.

“Here,” says Remus, a little breathless, a little sweetly shy, a little dreadfully pink in the cheeks, thrusting something towards Sirius from behind his back. “I have something for you, too. I didn’t think I’d see you in time, so I thought I’d have to give it to you when we got back, but—well, yeah. Happy Christmas.”

Sirius’ smile is a slow blooming thing, sticky with the saccharinity that only Remus is capable of wringing out of him. The package held out to him is lumpy and misshapen, too much sticky tape crosshatching over the crooked seams of the wrapping paper—dark blue and freckled with silver stars.

“Happy Christmas,” Sirius returns in a murmur as they swap gifts. His from Remus is squashy beneath his fingers, as malleable as the heart somehow now stamped with an unerring permanence to his sleeve. He shakes his head, looking up with a pointed glance, dancing fruitlessly around all the puddles of stick. “Don’t open yours until the actual day—don’t want you getting all sentimental on me now.”

As if Remus is the sentimental one of the two of them right now. As if he’s the one going mad, choking on sugar.

Remus pushes his lips towards one cheek, thumbs running over the crinkled bit where his new mug’s handle warps its wrapping paper, seeing right through it all. “Is sentimentality allowed in a phone call after opening, then?”

A sweet thrill curls itself around Sirius’ tongue. “I think I could permit that, yeah.”

“Alright, then.” Remus nods, still smiling down at his present. 

There’s a moment here, drawn out, where Remus is staring at the gift he holds and Sirius is staring at him stare. Staring at the faded freckles across Remus’ nose, kissed there by the eager mouth of a summer sun, mere memory-marks of a past lover now they’re sat so deep in this chill of December. Staring at the indecisive dimples that keep appearing and disappearing in his cheeks as his lips twitch, playing a childish game of peekaboo with Sirius as the sole enraptured audience. Staring at the long curve of his eyelashes, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the honeyed hue of his now back-to-normal skin tone.

“Are you...feeling better?” Sirius remembers to ask.

Remus glances up with a heavy blink, knuckle meeting golden wire, shifting his glasses up. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, a bit.”

Sirius swears he can hear the distant rumble of thunder here; so the clouds are near. He nods, fingers tapping at the crinkles in the paper over his gift. “Okay. That’s...that’s good.”

This next moment stretches too long, weakening under the tension of its pull. Through the frayed edges, the air saturates with awkwardness all at once, turning heavy and humid with all these walls of things they keep careening into.

“Yeah...” Remus looks down. “Sirius, I—” He wipes a palm on his pyjama pants, fidgets with an unruly corner of sticky-tape. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Sirius mutters, wishing the words emerged with just a little more bite than they do.

“I know.” Remus’ brow crinkles. “Because I am.”

Well, I wish you didn’t have to be, Sirius thinks.

But he says, “It’s okay.” Because there is nothing else to say. Because it has to be okay. Because tomorrow, they won’t see each other again and Sirius doesn’t want this last moment to be yet another fight that is not really a fight and yet feels just as wrong. He only wants to remember the look on Remus’ face as Sirius had said it’s for you. Only wants to remember the warmth of that surprise in his eyes. Only wants to remember that surge of feeling upon seeing him again, that sense of drowning, of being smothered by everything being exactly as it should.

“Is it?” Remus asks, quiet and doubt-filled.

“Yeah,” Sirius assures him, both truth and lie all at once. “Promise.”

“Okay.” Remus smiles, shy. “Well...have a good Christmas, then.” His teeth take the corner of his lip and begin to chew on it; his fidgeting fingers find his earring and twist, hypnotic.

There, again, comes that surge, that hot pulse at the back of Sirius’ throat, that sticky-thick overwhelm. He has no choice, really, but to do something with it all. Two irrevocable steps forwards. His arms lift, find, pull, wrap. He and Remus: chest to chest, arms to back, chin to shoulder. Hair. Apples. Skin. Musk. His own heartbeat, frantic. Another, not his, but knocking at his ribs all the same, call and response: mine-yours-mine-yours.

Here, there is a little puff of breath from Remus, surprise-coloured. But then his arms replicate Sirius’, returning the hug, a thumb brushing absently over one vertebra-stair of his spine. Sirius’ eyes flutter closed at this, his lips parting with incomprehensible calm. All at once, that feeling inside of him settles, his erratic nerves simmering into quiet. He thinks they really ought to have done this much sooner, can’t work out why he has never thought to hug Remus before. He thinks, who knew that someone so bumpy and bony could feel like this. Warm—sunlight warm. Bumps like sand dunes. Breath like a sea breeze.

Sirius’ hand not holding his gift is a fist, unsure how to loosen it, how to place the whole flat of his palm against Remus’ back, how to feel that expanse of him and have the ability to press. The threads at the seams of his eyelids pull, scrunching them to a tight gather. He does not want to step back. He wants to stay right here. He wants to loosen, to flatten, to press and dig in. 

On each of his shoulders, like devil and angel, sit calm and storm. He feels both at once. He feels neither at all. He feels only Remus. Remus, who is both and neither and everything there has ever been. Remus, who is his. His boy. His moon. 

Long, everything-fingers curl slowly against Sirius’ back, drawing in the thick fabric of his hoodie, tugging it that tiny bit tauter across his body, pulling it into the pocket of Remus’ free palm. At this, Sirius’ heart makes itself known in his chest, ricocheting off his every rib, chasing the rhythm of Remus’, failing to fall in sync.

He thinks: what is wrong with me?

He thinks: nothing; this is it, this is everything as it should be.

He thinks: yes, yes, yes, this is so much better than the dreams. 

“I’ll miss you,” Sirius says, hoarse, words torn from his throat without permission, grating against the serrated edges of his teeth when they try to clamp together in obstruction.

Remus’ fingers tighten. He releases another breeze-quiet breath. His words are the opposite to Sirius’: smooth and soothing and all in one piece: “I’ll miss you, too.”

Sirius’ storm, Remus’ calm. Or perhaps the opposite, for what they each stir in the other. Sirius doesn’t know. He wonders if he will ever become used to this not knowing. It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

It’s a terrible thing, pulling away. The process screams in protest. But Sirius does it anyway: loosens his grip, steps back, drops arms. A dismissive clearing of his throat—swinging a bat at a ball and missing completely, momentum hurling him into embarrassment.

“Right,” he says then, as if it isn’t all anything but now. “Well.” Hands dive into denim pockets. Shoulders bunch into a shrug. An unnecessary sniff, all dry and full of too much air. “See you when we get back.”

Remus nods, cheeks a fierce red. “Yeah.” His eye-contact is suddenly a fickle, flickering thing, amber flames like fragile candlelight, at risk of blowing out with hardly a moment’s notice. “See you then.”

 

---

 

Christmas at the Potters’ is an affair that Sirius had once thought existed only within a Hallmark movie—a fictional fabrication, an exaggerated extravagance of what anybody’s reality could actually legitimately look like. But then he’d spent his first Christmas here, and he’d been proven so very comically wrong.

It’s not something tangible. Not something even really identifiable. It’s just...there. Sits in the warm lights strung from every possible tree and perch outside of the house, twinkling star-like in the dark of night. Tucks between the wreaths and tinsel and ornaments of every which variety cluttering all the shelves and benches and doorways inside. Lingers in the abundance of saliva-beckoning scents that waft from the kitchen at all hours of the day, permeating every last room in the house. Hides in the carols that are on constant rotation on Monty’s old record player, him getting up to flip the disc or fit a new one on every so often. Waits in the family photos on the mantelpiece, the three Potters together in their pyjamas, up until a few years ago, when a new boy joins them on the stairs, his smile growing a bit wider with each new photo. Peeks out of the stockings, already stuffed full of gifts, draped above the fireplace, names painstakingly hand-embroidered in beautiful cursive by Effie’s careful fingers. Showers from the fake sprig of mistletoe that Monty keeps in his pocket to pull out every other hour just to demand a kiss from his wife.

It had been an assault to the senses the first year Sirius had arrived. He’d been overwhelmed and grateful, sad and angry, confused and hurt and impossibly homesick for a place he didn’t even like.

(Impossibly homesick for somebody he didn’t even like, too, but had worried about all the same. When there had been somebody still to worry about. Oh, god. He’s still there. What does he think? Did he stay behind or did I leave him? Where is that line drawn?)

But it was here, faced with proof of what could have been, what should have been, that Sirius had been forced to see just how broken things were. Forced to see that, no, that was not how most children grew up. Not how they are supposed to grow up. Here, among this abundance of warmth and light and gentle edges, he had only felt like his every bloody wound, every jagged crack, every violent instinct were all the more exposed in the contrast.

It had been a reckoning, to say the very least. Messy and violent and shameful to think back on. Sirius had not been raised to exist in such a place—had had to learn how. But it has landed him here, wrapped in Euphemia’s arms on the porch, and he does not think he would take any of it back even if he could. Regret may stay forever wedged like old rot between his teeth, but that does not mean he shouldn’t still smile.

“My boys are home! I’ve been waiting months for you two to get here. Oh, Sirius, you only get more handsome every time you come back.”

“Wow, thanks, Mum,” an unserious James says flatly from behind where Effie now has Sirius’ face trapped between the palms of her hands as she hauls him down to get a good look at him.

“I must say, green is really not your colour, Prongs,” Sirius sings smugly, hands wrapped around Effie’s wrists, smiling, smiling, smiling.

He hears Monty give James a commiserating pat on the back. “Not to worry, Jamie, you look just like me and this is the face she fell in love with.”

“That’s...not exactly helpful, Dad,” James mumbles as Sirius cracks up.

“What!” Monty cries. “You’ve not got the greys to match yet if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“James, my darling, you look perfectly dashing,” Effie cuts in before they can keep going. “Even more handsome than your father.”

Monty bristles at this, faux-offence wiping over his face. “Now hang on, hang on, hang on just one second!”

“In you come,” Effie says, ignoring her spluttering husband as she ushers the two boys through the front door with a conspiratorial wink. “We’ve your usual rooms set up, and there’s biscuits on the table, and Monty’s just put the kettle on. I want to hear all about your term.”

And so Sirius has returned home. Not to his home, but to this place that holds all the fondest connotations of the word despite what he had once been taught. 

 

---

 

Some indeterminable late afternoon hour on Christmas Day finds Sirius cross-legged on his bedroom floor, alone. He has been waiting all day for this. For this private, precious moment where he unwraps Remus’ gift. This is not a family affair. This is something just for Sirius. Something sacred, almost; a prayer whispered in solitude.

He hardly knows how to begin. The process will take maybe two minutes. And then it will be over. And he has been waiting for this all day and suddenly he won’t have it to wait for any longer. But he also can’t wait any longer; it’s been long enough.

Peeling at the tape is revealed to be a fruitless effort after all of five seconds, and so Sirius resorts to tearing the paper open with all the childlike eagerness of a gift from Santa. He never did get any of those.

A slip of paper flutters to the floor as he pulls out a wad of thick knit, spreading it out carefully across his lap, slipping across his knees like a river. It’s a scarf, all black and white, big seven-pointed stars stamped this way and that down the length of it, knitted stitches painfully neat. Black-yarn background, white-yarn stars on the one side; the reverse when Sirius flips it over.

He knows, intrinsically somehow, that Remus has knitted this himself. The notion—the image—of him sitting hunched over a pair of needles, his glasses slipping down his nose every few minutes as he works on this specifically for Sirius; spends the precious, finite hours of his free-time doing this specifically for Sirius, wraps around Sirius’ stomach and squeezes.

It is so very neat. It is so very neat. Intentionally neat. Effortfully neat. Unlike all of Remus’ own lumpy creations for himself. Sirius can see the care, the labour, tucked between the stitches, woven into the smallest of imperfections still there despite it all.

He can see it all clear as day. Does not know what to do with these so transparent truths.

Peripherally, his eyes, which cannot stop running back and forth along the length of the scarf, snag on the slip of paper on the floor from before, and he picks it up, almost trance-like. It’s notebook-ruled, edges torn; not really a card at all, but fulfilling the same purpose. Remus’ slender, slanted handwriting scrawls over the page.

 

Dear Sirius,

Happy Christmas!
I am unthinkably thankful to have become your friend this year. Sometimes I still can’t believe we are. You bring me more than you can know.
I hope your holiday is nice ◡̈
Stay warm.

Yours,
Remus.

 

Sirius’ thumb draws, magnetised to those last two words, brushes gently over them as though he might absorb the ink like a tattoo. Yours, Remus.

Yours.

Remus.

Yes. That’s right. His boy from Latin. His. Remus. A truth they both know, but now confirmed, written out, by Remus’ hand.

Inside Sirius’ mind, a memory curls like incense: chest-to-chest, arms to back, chin to shoulder.

Two heartbeats echoing one another, a call and response: mine-yours-mine-yours.

A question and answer: Mine? Yours. Mine? Yours.

A confirmation: His. His. His.

 

---

 

Three mugfuls of spiked hot chocolate and his entire shirt’s worth of undone-buttons later, Sirius floats, like a man possessed, back to his bedroom to pull out his scarf from Remus to admire. It is dreadfully soft. It is inanely neat. It is such a complete contrast to everything Sirius has seen come from Remus’ hands: his wonky handwriting and his messy gift wrapping and his unidentifiable tattoo-drawing.

Sirius does not realise he’s smiling like a sap-drenched sod until he begins to wonder why his cheeks ache. The recognition makes him laugh, alone in his bedroom, snorting and shaking and still holding the scarf. He flings it around his neck, an end draped front and back over his left shoulder. He tucks his chin into the knit—it is really so very soft—and draws in an unexpected lungful of Remus-scent. Apples and musk and gentle detergent. His mind floods: Sirius. Sirius, please.

He finds himself wondering if Remus tried it on at all; perhaps to check the length, perhaps to better picture it on Sirius.

Sirius. Please, I want—

He wonders what Remus is doing right now. Wonders if he has opened his mug yet.

Don’t you know?

“James!” he yells, startling even himself as he strides out of his bedroom. “Tell me. How do I look?”

James materialises from his own bedroom doorway, just across the hall. “Like a drunk. Neat scarf, though; where’d you get that?”

Sirius’ smile spills smugly across his face. “Remus made it for me.”

James’ eyebrows lift and he huffs out a little laugh, nodding. “Of course he did.”

Sirius flicks him across the nose with one end of the scarf. “What’s the laugh for?”

“Nothing.” James shakes his head, smiling. “Come show Mum, she’ll love that.”

 

---

 

The first call comes from Sirius, barely an hour later.

“Remus!” he crows when the line clicks over in answer. “This is fantastic. Did you make it? It’s absolutely brilliant! I’m wearing it right now; Effie says it’s very dashing.”

“Hi.” Remus laughs, the sound as familiar and looked forward to as a comfort meal. “Are you drunk?”

“Mm.” Sirius wrinkles his nose, lifting a hand pinching two fingers close together above his face in some unseeable indication to Remus. “A wee bit. Me ’n Monty made spiked hot chocolate. You’d like it. I’ll make you one when we get back.”

“Okay. That sounds nice.” The tiniest pause here draws up at either end like a smile. “So you’ve opened your present? I haven’t yet.”

“No? Do it now.”

“On the phone?”

“Yes.” Sirius nods, flopping backwards on his bed to sink into his pillows. “I want your live reaction.”

Remus huffs a little laugh at this. “Okay, one second.” Here, there is some muffled talking, the heartbeat-esque thud-thud of footsteps on stairs, the whining creak of a door. “It’s in my bedroom, hang on. You like the scarf, then?”

“Yes!” Sirius grins, holding one end of it dangled over his face so the soft knit brushes his nose with every gentle pendulum sway. He bunches it in his fist and brings it closer, inhaling: Remus, Remus, Remus. “I love it. I thought you said you were a bit rubbish at this whole knitting thing still. But this is so neat.”

“Oh, no, I am. That took me ages. I had to undo so many rows trying to get it right. But I knew it was for you. I wanted it to look good. I wanted it...perfect.”

“Wow,” Sirius laughs, sort of slurred, attempting to smother the sudden swell of emotion that surges inside of him behind a weak facade of teasing. “You must really like me.”

This, unexpectedly, makes Remus crack up, all breath and rasp and grains of sugar. His answer is low, a ghost-whisper, something Sirius isn’t even sure he’s supposed to hear: “You have no idea.”

Inside the cage of his ribs, Sirius’ heart ping-pongs between the rungs.

Remus clears his throat suddenly, a gentle call to attention. “Okay. I’m opening it.”

“Okay.” Sirius sits up straighter, spine soldiering in response. There is scarcely a sound; his pulse dots an ellipsis across the waiting silence.

Paper crinkles, tears. The moment pulls taut, stills. Sirius feels very odd all of a sudden; needlessly nervous. Perhaps the mug is much uglier than he remembers. Perhaps it’s messier. Perhaps it’s wrong.

But then, “Sirius,” comes Remus’ voice, breath-buoyed in their little sea of quiet. “This...this is beautiful. Where did you find it?”

“Ah, well, I made it, didn’t I?”

There is a spluttering sound at this that would ordinarily be much more amusing, it’s just that Sirius’ pulse is still racing and his mind is brandy-slowed and his nose is burying itself into the Remus-scent of his new scarf all of its own accord and he is feeling very strange indeed.

Remus’ voice comes tucked between the hinge of disbelief and awe when he asks: “You made this? From—like, from scratch? From nothing?”

“Yeah,” says Sirius, landing somewhere roughly five paces south of casual. “Well, from a block of clay if we’re being technical about it. But your one’s too chipped. Needed replacing. And your favourite things are too specific—would’ve taken ages to find in a shop—was easier just to make it myself. I hope it’s big enough.”

“It’s—Sirius. I love it. It’s perfect. I love it so much. It’s... I’m going to use it everyday.”

Sirius finds his mouth continuing to run, like if he stops, something unwanted will catch up with him, will close its jaw around him and shake, force him to reckon with it. “I know you like to hand-wash, but it is dishwasher safe. You know, just in case. And microwave safe. Obviously. And—”

“Sirius,” Remus says again, as though it’s more than simply a name, like it carries so many meanings and Sirius is supposed to just know which one Remus has chosen. “I... I don’t even know what to say... Hey! Is that my picnic blanket?”

“Yep.” Sirius grins.

Remus’ laugh tumbles over the line, a delighted thing. “Oh my god. I can’t believe you. You’re so... Oh. That’s not your constellation, is it? On the bottom?”

“Nah.” Sirius traces the zig-zag of the stars on his scarf, imagines they’re the jumping lines of his pulse on a heart rate monitor: up and down and far steadier than what is actually being echoed inside of him. “It’s Lupus.”

“Oh,” says Remus, wounded, almost.

“Y’know...for Lupin.”

“Yeah.” Remus sniffs a little, dry and compulsive-sounding. “Sorry. I’m just— Thank you, Sirius. I love it so much.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So much.”

Sirius smiles, the genuinity in Remus’ voice wrapping around his ribs like a scarf of its own. This is yet another victory, another try scored, another match won. It rewards him with the same thrilled, giddy feeling of success. “Good. That’s what I wanted.”

“I can’t believe you made this for me.”

“Why? You made my scarf.”

“Yeah, but...s’different.”

“How?”

A pause, a tangible thing, suspended somewhere in the distance between London and Wales. “Doesn’t matter,” Remus mumbles.

Sirius laughs, rolling his head around on his shoulders. It’s probably the sort of thing he would push if he were sober. Perhaps drinking is the solution to his issues, dulling his teeth and claws right along with his inhibitions. “If you say so.”

There’s a sudden series of quiet noises over Remus’ side of the line. “Yeah, okay—hang on, sorry, Sirius.” The rest of his speech is muffled, another voice just barely distinguishable over the line. Then, again, “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” says Sirius. “D’you need to go?”

“Erm...yeah.” Remus sighs. “Yeah, we’re to go to my aunt’s for sweets.”

“Nice. What’re you having?”

“Er...well, usually there’s about four things too many. There’s always trifle and a fruitcake and some sort of pudding—usually plum. Shortbread, too, and then there’s often one wildcard that it’s generally wise to avoid.”

“Fuckin’ hell. And your aunt makes them all?” Sirius hears Remus moving around: footsteps and rustling and his breath coming that minute bit heavier.

“Mhm. I swear her days have more hours in them than mine.”

Sirius laughs softly. “What’s your favourite?”

“Hm? Oh. I like the shortbread best. But apparently that’s not really one of the desserts even though it’s laid out on the table with everything else. So, I guess it’s either the pudding, so long as it’s not some absurd new flavour, or the trifle. And then I’ll just steal some shortbread on the way out.”

“I hadn’t pegged you for a thief, Remus. How scandalous—pillaging goods from your poor old aunt.”

“She’s forty-three; she’s hardly old.”

Sirius laughs, too-heartily really, but he is so warm and he is so happy and it feels so good just to laugh with hardly any reason.

“Ah, sorry,” says Remus again, sounding embarrassed for some reason. “My mam’s hassling me. I’d best say goodbye.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’ll talk to you later. Enjoy your sweets.”

“Yeah, thank you. And—thank you again for the gift. Really.”

“’Course. Thank you for mine.”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Bye, Remus.”

“Yeah. Bye, Sirius.”

Once the call has clicked off, Sirius stares at the screen of his phone for a long moment, open on his message thread with Remus. Just for the fun of it, he opens the camera and takes a photo of himself in the scarf, unbothered to sit up again from the bed, his hair a messy spill over the pillows, tilting his face sideways to better display the scarf around his neck, his mouth ticking up into an automatic smirk.

 

moony

[20:15]

padfoot:

[Attachment: (1) Image]

rate my look rn

 

It’s not until hours later, just crawling into bed, that he gets a reply.

 

moony

[23:42]

moony:

8/10

do your shirt up.

 

padfoot:

rude

the answer i was looking for was “ruggedly handsome”

 

moony:

the unbuttoned shirt + scarf just feels contradictory

also I didn’t know you had tattoos on your chest

 

padfoot:

ogling my chest there are you ;)

 

moony:

you’re the one who sent me a photo half-topless with pleas to “rate your look”

 

padfoot:

yeah yeah whatever

yes i have tattoos on my chest

did you really think they were exclusive to my arms?

 

moony:

I don’t know

maybe

 

padfoot:

nah

arms, chest, back

so far

 

moony:

oh

right

you want more then?

 

padfoot:

eventually yeah

 

moony:

cool

 

padfoot:

is it?

 

moony:

yeah

it’s really cool

 

padfoot:

alright

good

 

moony:

is it?

 

padfoot:

yeah

i think it is

 

moony:

alright

merry christmas Sirius :)

 

padfoot:

merry christmas :)

night remus

 

---

 

The second call comes from Remus, almost a week later, right at the end of the holiday. 

Sirius misses it, playing a messy, too-competitive game of backyard rugby with James and his parents in the snow.

He calls back, still sweaty and breathless, sprawled out backwards over his bedroom floor.

“Hi,” says Remus, voice slip-soft and listing.

Sirius smiles, closing his eyes. “Hey. Sorry I missed your call.” He tips his head, pinching his phone between his shoulder, his cheek, and the floor, folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh, that’s alright.”

There’s a pause, not quite silent, trickling stream-like. They haven’t really spoken since Christmas Day.

Remus makes a quiet noise on the other end of the line, like a sort of snuffle. “Have you had a nice day?”

“Mm,” Sirius hums, sated with so many consecutive days of the Potter-effect, now sinking into the quiet lull of Remus’ voice. “Really nice.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

And so Sirius does. Not just of this day, but of all the days. He tells Remus of the impossible reality that exists in this house. Of the music and the cooking and Effie’s little library that Sirius just knows Remus would love. Of the games they play all together and the fond arguments that are never really arguments and how his belly hurts from laughing so much. Of how he has so missed this place, but had hardly even realised how much until he got here. Of how today, and every day since arriving, have been some of the nicest days he has ever had in his life.

“Did you?” he asks eventually, a little breathless from talking so much. “Have a nice day?”

Remus doesn’t answer immediately. In fact, he doesn’t answer at all. The silence is quick to crawl worry over Sirius’ skin.

One of his eyes pokes open like it might help him see Remus more clearly. See him in fucking Wales. “Remus? You okay?”

“Sorry, yeah.” He sighs, and Sirius realises then that the slanting sound of his voice is tilted in the wrong direction—is tilted sad. “Just—my day was actually a bit shit, is all.”

“Oh.” Sirius blinks, taking his phone in hand so he can straighten his head. He suddenly feels a bit awkward about spending so long on all his nice things. Like he was bragging. He feels, also, ill-equipped to say the right things now. He doesn’t know what those are. “Do— Should I go?”

“No,” Remus says hurriedly. “Please don’t. I wanted to— I want to talk to you.”

“Okay.” Sirius nods, unsure where exactly to go from here, if not away. He doesn’t want to push. They’ve been going so well lately. Well, the one time they’ve spoken—but still.

“I, erm. I went to see my doctor. Is...the thing. Sort of.”

Sirius sits fully upright at that. “Your doctor? Is everything alright? Are you—?”

“It’s fine, I’m fine, yeah,” says Remus quickly. “I just...I need something I don’t really...want.”

“Oh.” Sirius blinks. “Like, medicine?”

“Erm. Sort of. In a way. I mean, well—no, not really, actually. Just—they think it might help.”

“You don’t think it will?”

“I don’t know. It probably will. It’s just...” Remus sighs, dejected sounding. “I’m not even twenty. I shouldn’t need—I don’t want—” There’s a wounded noise here, and then his voice turns quieter; fragile. “I’m sorry. I was supposed to have told you already. I thought I could— I just didn’t think I’d need this.”

Sirius feels the slow thump-thump of his heart like a gong-beat. “Alright, it’s alright,” he says, unsure who he’s trying to convince. His walls, perhaps.

“It’s not,” Remus protests in a whisper. “You might see it. If I— You’re going to see it. I never know exactly when and I don’t want... I want to tell you first, in case you don’t—in case it, like, changes things, and—”

Sirius can’t say he’s not at least a little bit concerned now. Remus is talking in circles he’s desperately trying to follow, but he feels blindfolded, fumbling around in the dark with no direction in mind.

“I don’t want it to,” Remus mutters then, voice muffled by something, like he’s buried his face in a pillow.

“To change things?” Sirius ventures.

Remus hums a strained sound that Sirius takes as a yes.

“Why would it?”

“Because,” Remus mumbles, the word coming through the phone slurred, almost—all squished together like too-tight cursive at the edge of a page, “it’s not very...it’s ugly.”

“Who says?”

“Sirius. Objectively. Objectively, it’s ugly. It’s, like, I mean, it’s really not—cool, or—or even inconspicuous. But they want me to try it and I just... I should try it. But I think you might hate it, too.”

“Why don’t you let me decide that?”

“I honestly don’t even want you to see it,” Remus whispers, the letters cracking on their way out of his mouth and over the phone. He clears his throat abruptly, as if he might shove them back together with it. “Sorry. I’m sorry. This is entirely unhelpful and you probably don’t want to listen to me complain, especially when I know you don’t like me keeping things from you and I’m still doing it, I just—”

“You can complain,” Sirius cuts in, desperate for even just these scraps of information. “Remus. I don’t know what’s going on, but you can still...you can talk about it. You’re talking about it. I don’t need to know...everything.”

Remus exhales, audibly shaky. “I want to tell you everything, though. I want to tell you properly. I’m sorry. I kept trying to, I really did. When we get back, I promise I will. And you’re right. You can...decide for yourself. About everything. And I won’t be upset about whatever you say, so...you can—yeah, you can be really honest.”

Sirius nods, slow. “Okay. Yeah, whatever you like.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Sirius nods to himself, clinging to this promise. He’s not entirely sure how to leave that subject behind. He tries, anyway. “So...we’re, erm, we’re thinking of having everyone over tomorrow night. Me and James. If you’re back in time. And you want to come.”

“Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I want to.”

“Okay. Cool.”

There’s another long pause here, like a flatline. Very still, very quiet; dead-like. But then Remus sighs softly, kicking the pulse back into motion. “Sirius?”

“Yeah?”

“I really miss you.”

There, again, flips the hourglass. There, again, is that surging, smothering swell of somethings. Sirius feels so spoilt to be given these words again so soon.

Until when? When does this become not worth it anymore?

Not yet. Maybe even never. I would still rather you here than not. Still.

He closes his eyes. Oh, to be missed. Me too, me too. My Remus. My Moony. Mine, mine, mine. “Yeah. I miss you, too.”

 

Notes:

inspo for the scarf remus knitted! just imagine the blue as black

i would love to know your thoughts if you have a chance! chat with me in the comments!! <3