losing my mind, thinking about you

The black kohl along his water line is smudged, black flecks of it dusting his cheekbone. His hair is still flying everywhere, whipping across his face. He’s a mess. He’s the blurred edges of a photograph. He’s a heartbeat and stinging lungs. He’s the rattling behind Remus’ ribcage. And Sirius grins at him, tongue between teeth —illecebrous and tantalising and all things beautiful and dangerous— and all the air rushes out of Remus’ lungs in one fell swoop. He’s lightheaded and dizzy and burning.
or:
Flat-sharing, jealousy, grocery shopping, a war, a party, a broken sink, a pub quiz, and a love that won’t sit still.

Notes:

Hello, hello! This is my little self-indulgent fic because I just wanted them to be flatmates and domestically and stupidly in love <333
This is kinda long for a one shot but, because of the pacing, there was no good place to separate it. It’s still divided into parts though, so if you don’t/can’t read it in one go you can stop at the dividers etc etc. Also each part changes POV (between Remus and Sirius). I think it should be pretty obvious once you get going :))

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Saturday, July 29th, 1978

It’s a small flat. Not much room for the both of their things so they’ve ended up overlapping, bleeding into one another; Sirius’ cigarette box, the corner smoothed from the imprint of his thumb —the only way to cool his nerves barring the nicotine itself— sitting on top of a stack of Remus’ worn paperbacks, the corners disintegrating, the spines broken from use; Sirius’ leather jacket sharing a hook with Remus’ mangy wool coat he got from the second hand shop across the street; two toothbrushes, one red, one green, in the jar next to the bathroom sink.

There is no place where Sirius ends and Remus begins; it simply just is.

On the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, there’s two mugs; one a dark scarlet, initials messily carved into the bottom of it; the other a faded green with several chips around the mouth rim. It’s not often that Remus is the first one up, but, seeing as it is, he grabs both of the mugs and places the kettle on the stove.

On the floor of the living room, next to their lumpy, yellow couch that they picked up from the side of the road, is a crate of records; Sirius’ Bowie and T. Rex mixed in with Remus’ Steely Dan and Small Faces. Remus rifles through it before pulling out the new Rolling Stones album and placing it on the turntable.

As he crosses back to the kitchen, he looks down the hall, at Sirius’ closed door, at the garish golden sunlight spilling out lazily from beneath it.

And, when he gets back to the kitchen, he’s pleased to find the milk has not gone sour yet.

As he prepares the tea, he hums the opening lyrics, an indulgence he normally wouldn’t participate in if Sirius was awake (I’ve been holdin’ out so long / I’ve been sleeping all alone / Lord, I miss you).

He finishes them off; milk for Sirius, sugar for himself. And walks the two mugs to Sirius’ door, only realising the dilemma of two mugs in hand and a closed door when he’s standing in front of it. Cursing under his breath, he makes to manoeuvre the mugs, attempting to tuck one into the crook of his elbow. But the door suddenly swings open and both mugs very nearly become ceramic shards on the floor.

Standing in the doorway is a dark skinned man. He steps back, a bit surprised, and tilts his head at Remus. There in causing his single gold earring to catch the light from the window behind him; an uncomfortable glint in Remus’ eye. “Ah,” the man says, “you must be the flatmate.”

Remus looks over the man’s shoulder at Sirius, who’s leaning against the windowsill, shirtless, hair a mess, amusement in his eyes. Remus tears his gaze from Sirius’ exposed skin, from the smirk on his lips, to look back at the stranger. “Yeah,” he says, coughs, “the flatmate.”

The stranger looks from Remus to the mugs in his hands. “Right, well I’m just gonna…” He points behind Remus and only then does Remus realise he’s blocking the way.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” he says, stepping to the side, allowing the man to walk past him and down the hall.

In the stranger’s absence, Sirius makes his way to Remus, eyebrows raised. “That for me?” he asks, nodding to the red mug.

Remus grunts, thrusting it at him. Sirius chuckles as he takes the cup in one hand and leans languidly against the doorframe.

His eyes flutter close as he brings his mug to his lips and Remus allows himself the indulgence of tracking the movement of Sirius’ throat as he swallows down the tea. But when Sirius eyes blink open, Remus averts his gaze, heart seizing, and pointedly looks down the hallway. “Shouldn’t you walk him out?”

“It’s a small place. He’ll find his way.”

“Would be a shame if he stole our couch.”

“Mmm,” Sirius hums, smiling around his cup as he takes another sip. “Then we’d have nowhere to sit.”

“Would have to eat breakfast in bed.”

“Shame indeed.” Sirius’ grin is pervasive, it warms Remus in the same way the heat from his mug of tea warms his fingertips; seeping through the skin, the cracks, the margins of his ribcage; golden light pooling in his chest.

There’s a shuffle and a crash from around the bend of the hallway; the sound of a cardboard box sliding across the laminate floor and a body stumbling to the ground. The following curse echoes against the walls of the small flat.

Sirius and Remus turn to look at each other.

Sirius raises his eyebrows at him, giving him a pointed look. Remus interprets it as: It’s been a month, Remus. Why haven’t you finished unpacking?

Remus gives him a look back: Shut up. Just go.

And then Sirius stalks down the hall, disappearing around the corner, the warmth in Remus’ chest evaporating with his retreating figure.

Twenty minutes later, tea gone, mug discarded in the kitchen sink, Remus is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth.

Sirius walks in and hops up on the bathroom counter, sitting on the gaudy turquoise tile.

“So,” Sirius says, feet dangling over the edge, his calf brushing against Remus’ thigh, “paint day?”

“Mhmm,” Remus mumbles around his toothbrush.

Sirius nods once, a half smile curving into his cheek, and then he leans over to pick out his own toothbrush from the jar by the sink.

***

“What’s wrong with Divine Pleasure?”

“You mean besides the name?”

Sirius rolls his eyes and reaches forward for another swatch. “Okay, what about Chantilly Lace?”

Remus shakes his head. “Too clean.”

“Too— don't you want our flat to look clean?” Sirius splutters.

“It’s going to look weird. Nothing in our flat looks clean.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Remus pinches the bridge of his nose. They’ve been staring at paint swatches for the past half hour. “Fine. I don’t care. Pick whatever you want.”

Grinning, Sirius leans down to grab the can of Chantilly Lace, and then turns on his heel. Remus turns to follow and immediately drops to the floor, ducking behind the paint primer display. Sirius looks down at him, eyebrows knitted, before sliding down to the floor.

“Whatcha doing, Moony?” Sirius asks, hot breath fluttering against Remus’ neck.

“Nothing,” Remus says. He lifts his head a bit to peak over the display, before turning back to Sirius. “Just— you go ahead and check out and I’ll wait for you outside.”

Remus braces a hand on his knee, preparing to stand up, but not before chancing another glance over the display. This time Sirius follows his eyeline. “Holy shit,” he says.

“What?” Remus hisses.

“You fucked that store clerk.”

“Shhh,” Remus hushes him, reaching over to push at his shoulder. Sirius stumbles backwards, knocking a couple of the primer cans to the floor.

A pair of tan loafers step in front of them. “Everything alright?” Remus recognizes the voice immediately. He turns away, covering his face with his hands. Sirius, however, smiles brightly up at the store clerk.

“Splendid,” he says, “sorry about the mess.” He reaches over to clap Remus on the back. “John here is a bit of a clutz.”

Remus rolls his shoulders, brushing Sirius’ hand off. Sirius' smile does not falter.

The man looks between them both. “Er, that’s okay. Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, you already have,” Sirius says, voice syrupy. Remus can hear the smirk around his words and he turns further away, attempting to curl in on himself. He would very much like to disappear.

The store clerk just blinks back down at them.

Sirius holds up the paint can. “Just this for us.”

***

Remus expects to get an earful of it as soon as they leave the store but instead Sirius launches into a monologue about his latest task as curse-breaker and the little old lady who had found a tea kettle in her attic that spurted out tea, burning anyone who came near it. It wasn’t exactly thrilling work, but still, Remus was a little jealous that Sirius got to get out and do stuff. Remus mainly stayed at home, doing translation work, a job without a set schedule to avoid monthly issues that would surely come up with any standard employment.

It isn’t until they’re sat at their favourite fish and chips place, a small corner shop with peeling blue paint and tile floors, that Sirius brings it up.

They’re sitting across from each other, the can of paint on the table between them, and Sirius is licking malt vinegar from his fingers when he asks, “Did you know his name was Keith?”

Remus drops the chip he was about to eat back into his basket. He looks up to meet Sirius’ gaze. “Yes, I knew his name was Keith.”

“Hmm,” Sirius humms, tongue circling his thumb. “I saw it on the name tag. Weird name to moan out don’t you think?”

“Christ. Why are we talking about this?”

Sirius shrugs. “I just think it’s a weird name.” Sirius goes back to picking at his chips. His hair falling into his eyes.

“Yes, because you and I are the poster children of normal names.”

“Better than Keith,” Sirius mumbles, picking at his chips.

“This is really bothering you, huh?” He means it as a tease, but Sirius’ head snaps up and Remus’ mouth runs dry.

“It’s not bothering me,” he says, “I’m simply curious. You never tell me about these things.”

Remus raises a brow. “I didn’t realise I had to consult you every time I had a one night stand.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and picks at his chips. “Just seems like you’re keeping it a secret.”

“It’s not a secret. I just—”

“—And when are you inviting these people over anyways?” Sirius interrupts. “I’ve never seen you bring anyone home.”

Remus scratches at the taut skin behind his ear. “You know how last week you and James went to that quidditch game and you spent the night at Effie and Monty’s?”

Sirius gasps. “Oh, so that’s it then? You wait for me to get out of your hair first. What? Are you embarrassed of me?” Sirius’ voice is light and teasing and the corner of Remus’ lip tugs into a smile.

“Your words not mine,” he says and Sirius gasps again and Remus ducks as Sirius throws a chip at him.

***

When they get back home they paint their living room.

One coat done, Sirius stands back to observe their work, white paint in his hair, hands on his hips.

The sunlight through their window reflects off the white walls like light in a mirror. It’s blindingly bright and it makes their shabby couch and scruffed wooden floors look even shabbier. “Hmm,” he says, “I think you were right. This is too bright.”

Remus just glares at him.

The next day they go back to the paint store and do the whole thing again. Remus picks the colour the second time around, giving Sirius a look, as he leans down to grab a can of Linen White . Sirius huffs and rolls his eyes.

Wednesday, August 2nd, 1978

James stumbles his way through the crowd. He ordered them all some girly, fruity looking drink that Lily turned him on to. And when he finally makes it to their table tucked away in the corner, he gracelessly sets the four drinks down. With a smile, he pulls out four straws from his back pocket and tosses them onto the table.

The drinks are bright pink with several cherries floating on the surface like buoys, the liquid still moving in ripples from James’ jostling. “Bloody hell,” Remus says, eyeing the cocktails with horror. Sirius looks over at him. Their corner of the pub is rather dark, the majority of the light coming from the single pendant above their table throwing Remus’ features into shadows, his eyelashes long spidery things across his cheek.

“It has rum in it,” James says, squeezing behind Remus’ chair to get to his own. “You like rum.”

Remus turns to look up at James, raising a single eyebrow.

James sits down between Peter and Remus. “Just try it,” he says, nudging a straw closer to Remus.

Peter reaches forward to grab his own straw, unwrapping it halfway and then blowing it at James, hitting him on the cheek before dropping limply to the table. James turns to face Peter, eyes wide, and Sirius snickers. And that’s when Remus blows his wrapper at James, the paper landing between his right eye and the wireframing of his glasses. James squeals, his hands immediately reaching up to pluck it out and Sirius takes his aim, the wrapper landing in James’ open mouth. And Remus laughs, bright and heavy and loud. And Sirius turns to look at him again.

The pub is stuffy and hot and Sirius is sweating through his t-shirt, but still, Remus is wearing a jumper. An ugly, worn out thing, with several moth-eaten holes but, when Remus throws his head back in laughter, it dips just low enough to expose his collarbone and Sirius thinks that maybe the sweater isn’t so bad.

Next to him Peter starts coughing, loud and jarring.

“Merlin, that’s strong,” Peter says, voice hoarse.

James smiles. “Good, yeah?”

Peter shakes his head, unable to speak as another coughing fit erupts from his chest. With one finger, he pushes the glass away leaving behind a condensation trail on the table.

James turns to Remus, who takes a sip and makes a face— puckered lips and a nose scrunch. Something in Sirius’ chest hitches at the sight and he quickly looks down and away, taking a sip from his own glass. It’s strong, but it’s also sweet and tangy.

“I actually kinda like it,” he offers. James turns to him, his smile bright and slightly crazed, as he reaches up to clink their glasses together.

“Right, well I’m going to get an ale,” Remus says, standing up. “Pete?”

“Yeah,” Peter squeaks. “I’ll come with.”

After they leave, Sirius slides Remus’ abandoned drink towards himself, sipping from them both and nodding along as James begins sputtering on about what teams he thinks will make the upcoming Quidditch World Cup. However, upon Peter and Remus’ return (Peter with a manic grin pulled across his face and Remus’ face flushed an embarrassed pink), James abruptly comes to a silence, looking up at them with interest.

“What?” James says.

Peter licks his lips. “A woman at the bar was flirting with Moony and bought us our drinks.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “She was not flirting.”

“Please, she was touching your arm and asking if you came here with someone.”

Remus pulls his chair out and sits down. “She was just being friendly.”

James leans in excitedly, always happy at the prospect of romance, of playing match-maker. “Did you get her name? Her number?”

“No,” Remus says, voice terse. “Can we talk about something else?” He hastily takes a swig of his drink.

“No, no, no. Moony!” James cries. He’s swinging his drink around as he talks, the liquid sloshing precariously. He looks ridiculous. “This could be good for you. You should be more open to things. Go on more dates. I mean when was the last time you went out? Or even had a good shag?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Sirius says, voice impish.

Remus sends him a warning look from across the table.

“No,” Remus says to James. “You can’t live vicariously through me. It’s not my fault you got engaged at eighteen.”

James huffs. “To the love of my life, I might add.”

Remus smiles at that, a dimple burrowing in his left cheek.

James pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Come on Moony. I dare you to go introduce yourself.”

“You dare me? We aren’t twelve Prongs.”

“Just give it up, James,” Sirius interrupts. “Moony is too abashed to do anything in front of us. He hasn’t got it in him.”

Remus turns to Sirius, giving him a funny, unreadable look. Sirius raises an eyebrow —a challenge— and then Remus tilts his head back, swallows the last dregs of his ale, wipes his mouth with his sweater sleeve, and stands up. His chair scratches against the floor, the sound reverberating in Sirius’ chest, splitting him in two, nails on a chalkboard. And suddenly Sirius wants to take it back. Only kidding! Stay here. Stay. Stay. Stay. But it’s too late.

Remus is lost to the crowd.

James watches him go, surprise poorly hidden on his face. “Holy shit,” he hisses. Peter giggles. Sirius says absolutely nothing.

Sirius is watching from his seat. The pub is teeming with people. He’s only able to catch half-glimpses; the top of Remus’ head; a stray smile; Remus’ boot scuffing the floor. But then the crowd parts and there’s Remus; leaning against the bar; mousy curls in his eyes, an indentation of a smile in his left cheek; his eyes on the girl in front of him.

“Can you see anything?” James asks. His head is bobbing around, trying to catch a glimpse through the crowd.

“They’re just talking, Prongs.”

“What else?”

“She… She just laid her hand over his on the bar,” Sirius hears himself say.

“Okay! Okay! What else?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Sirius.” James sounds disgruntled.

“They're not doing anything else, James,” Sirius snaps, suddenly upset. “Maybe Remus isn’t into it. Maybe we should go save him.”

James waves him off. “What about the girl? Does she seem into it?”

“I don’t know. Her back is to me.”

James huffs. He stands half out of his chair, his hands splayed on the table as he tries to look over the crowd. Sirius turns back to his drink, swirling the cherries with his straw.

“He’s coming back!” Peter squeaks.

“That was quick,” James frowns as he sits back down.

When Remus returns he’s holding a napkin between his fingers. Sirius stares at the red numbers etched into the square of the white paper.

“Atta boy,” James cheers, clapping him on the back as he sits down. Remus rolls his eyes and stuffs the napkin in his pocket.

James leans into Peter and starts talking about— something, Sirius isn’t listening. Instead, he’s watching Remus, who is tapping his forefinger on his mug, his eyes unfocused as he stares down into the empty depths of it.

When Remus looks up, his eyes catch Sirius’. They stay like that for a couple heart-thrumming seconds until Remus raises an eyebrow and Sirius turns away, sipping his drink.

At the end of the night the four of them part ways outside the pub doors; Peter and James one way, Sirius and Remus the other.

After they say their goodbyes, Sirius turns to start walking away, shivering as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. He makes it all of a few steps before he realises Remus isn’t following. Turning around, he finds Remus standing in front of the dumpster in the alley next to the pub. He watches as Remus reaches into his coat pocket, and discards a chocolate bar wrapper and the napkin from earlier— Sirius recognizes the red scrawl as it falls into the bin.

“You don’t want that?”

Remus shrugs and keeps walking, moving past Sirius, the sodium gleam of the street lamps lighting his way. Sirius hurries to catch up, his footsteps echoing off the pavement.

“We need to go grocery shopping soon,” Remus says. A black cab rushes past them on the street. Sirius waits until it turns the corner and disappears before responding.

“Alright.”

“This weekend.”

“Alright.”

“So if you need anything let me know. I’m making a list.”

Sirius snorts at that and smiles down at the pavement.

Remus looks at him from the corner of his eye. “What?”

Sirius hands dig further into his jacket pockets, twisting across his stomach. He shrugs. “Nothing. Just— you and your lists. It’s adorable, is all.”

Remus huffs. “It’s not adorable. It’s practical.”

When Remus gets addled, a little crease appears between his brows. Sirius thinks it’s really quite delightful and he bites his cheek to keep from smiling.

“Okay,” he says.

Saturday, August 5th, 1978

Remus drops a packet of crumpets into the trolley and then crosses off ‘circle things that are bread,’ from the list. Fleetingly, he sends a weary look Sirius’ way. But Sirius only smiles up at him crookedly, his elbows resting on the trolley handles.

For the past couple days Remus had left his list taped to the refrigerator so Sirius could add to it. Sirius had written down random things such as ‘disco ball,’ and ‘blowtorch’ and ‘firecrackers’ all of which Remus had crossed out and written ‘why?’ and ‘no’ and ‘definitely not’ next to.

Remus is scanning the list now, absentmindedly chewing on the end of his pen. “What’s next?” Sirius asks.

When Remus looks up, Sirius is staring at the pen between his lips. He removes it — nasty habit — and looks back down at his paper.

“I’ll get pasta. You get… er, ‘shit for margaritas.’” It’s another Sirius addition. Next to this one Remus had only written ‘maybe.’

“Cheers!” Sirius says, turning the trolley around to head in the opposite direction.

They meet again in the breakfast aisle. Remus is bent over scanning the tea selection when Sirius, riding the trolley down the aisle bumps Remus softly in the hip as he attempts to skid to a halt. Remus throws him a faux-exasperated glance. Sirius only grins up at him, tongue caught between incisors, his eyes glistening, high strung on ebullience.

He’s infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. Remus turns back to the tea.

“Whatcha looking for, Moony?” Sirius asks, walking over.

Remus sighs. “That tea I like. The black one.”

“Hmm,” Sirius humms, bending down next to him to search the shelves.

They both reach for the box of Yorkshire Tea at the same time, hands brushing, a pinprick of something —something— and then Sirius pulls back, arm snapping to his side like a magnet. Remus recovers quickly; grabbing the box and standing up.

“That everything?” Sirius is back at the front of the trolley again.

“Think so,” Remus says, dropping the box of tea in the basket. He scans the contents and then pulls out a bag of chelsea buns. He quirks an eyebrow at Sirius.

Sirius shrugs. “They were on sale and I remember you saying your mam you used to make them for you when you were little. Thought they might be nice.”

Remus is taken back by that. He blinks down at the buns and places them carefully back into the trolley.

“They’re not on the list,” he says because he’s stupid and discomposed and doesn’t know what else to say.

Sirius widens his eyes— mock taunting. “Then add them to the list,” he says.

Remus smiles at that— a small, clandestine thing. And then he turns on his heels and heads for the till.

Sirius gives the trolley a shove, hurrying to catch up, until their walking is set in sync.

It’s half past ten by the time they leave the Fine Faire, each with a paper bag of groceries in their arms. As soon as they walk out the door, the early August breeze slips through their hair and Remus grabs onto his bag tighter as if the wind is going to carry it off.

Silently, they walk down the street, the lazy humid air creeping up their backs. Somewhere, in the distance, a tin can is being pushed down the street, rattling, rattling, rattling, until it hits the curb.

When they make it to the end of the street, Remus balances his paper bag on his hip, and reaches into his back pocket to fish out the key to his mother’s car. Ever since she passed away last year, Remus keeps his mother’s wedding ring on a chain around his neck and the key to her Ford Corsair in his back right pocket. When he finally fishes it out, he pops open the back trunk so they can tuck the groceries away.

They don’t have much use for the car— seeing that apparition and the floo network are both far more convenient— but Remus would hate for the car to sit in a park and rot so when they run weekly errands he uses it. It’s nice —cathartic in a way— to travel by muggle transportation; slower, more relaxed. Sirius doesn’t seem to mind either. As soon as they’re sat in the cab, he’s already rolling down his window and, as Remus pulls out, he’s leaning over to fiddle with the radio, long black hair falling into his eyes.

He scrolls through the channels sporadically before landing at one seemingly at random. He dials the volume up higher and then settles in his seat, back against the door, knees curled up, head tilted back.

He’s like a dog with his head out the window and Remus tells him as much, a slight laugh in his cadence. And Sirius huffs and squints his eyes at him and, in retaliation, reaches out to lightly nudge Remus’ side with the toe of his boot.

“Cut that out,” Remus says. “I’m driving.”

“Mmm,” Sirius mumbles. He leans back against the door, scooting around until he’s comfortable again.

At the drum fill, a taut and erratic thing, Remus lolls his head to look over at Sirius right as the bridge rives.

Everytime I get hot / You wanna cool down / Every time I get high / You say you wanna come down

Sirius’ neck is arched, the pale, white column of skin exposed to the night air. His head is completely out the window, the wind throwing his hair in wild disarray, untamed hair wisps flying everywhere. The lamplights along the streets light his features in gold and then coat them in shadow in a dizzying kaleidoscope of light. And he’s laughing; a soft, vivacious thing.

And Remus wants to reach out, his fingers itch at the thought but they stay on the steering wheel; white-knuckled, gripping tight. Because this is not how this works. The sempiternal truth of it is this: Sirius is fire, burning, burning, burning. And Remus is weathered leaves on the forest floor; dried out kindling. Sirius would ruin him and Remus is more than willing. Because the sempiternal truth of it is this: Remus is making him tea after Sirius wakes to another man. He’s the flatmate. He’s the best friend— and isn’t that all just terribly unfair.

Sirius’ head pops back up. Eyes catching Remus’ and holding. The black kohl along his water line is smudged, black flecks of it dusting his cheekbone. His hair is still flying everywhere, whipping across his face. He’s a mess. He’s the blurred edges of a photograph. He’s a heartbeat and stinging lungs. He’s the rattling behind Remus’ ribcage. And Sirius grins at him, tongue between teeth —illecebrous and tantalising and all things beautiful and dangerous— and all the air rushes out of Remus’ lungs in one fell swoop. He’s lightheaded and dizzy and burning.

“Eyes on the road, Moony.”

Remus turns back around.

Right, eyes on the road.

Sunday, August 6th, 1978

Sirius is already waiting by the window with five knuts by the time the paper owl comes with The Daily Prophet. He’s learned the hard way to always have the coins ready. The owls at the Prophet tend to be rather impatient and crotchety. Not two weeks ago, one in particular had followed him around the flat, nipping at his hair and the back of his neck, as he searched the couch cushions and kitchen drawers for spare change.

Newspaper tucked under his armpit, Sirius places the five knuts in the pouch tied to the owl’s leg. He expects it to fly off, but the owl remains perched on the windowsill. He motions towards the open window. Nothing. Instead, wide, yellow eyes blink up at him expectantly.

“Bugger,” Sirius huffs. Grabbing his plate from the windowsill, he breaks off a piece of his crumpet and offers it to the bird, who takes it eagerly. “Okay, on you get,” Sirius shoos the owl away and, with one final squawk, it turns and flies out the window.

With the bird gone, Sirius throws the paper onto the couch and then gathers his plate and mug of tea from the windowsill and places them on one of Remus’ unpacked boxes. In lieu of any furniture other than their mangy, munsell yellow couch, he has been using one of Remus’ boxes as a side table.

He then sinks down onto their couch, the springs groaning in protest and jabbing relentlessly into his buttocks. But before he can shuffle around in a vain attempt to get more comfortable, he hears a rustle of linen and a soft, irritable groan; the tell-tale signs of Moony waking up. Smiling to himself, Sirius gets up, newspaper in hand, and shuffles to the kitchen to make Remus his morning tea.

It’s not often that Remus wakes before him, only when Sirius is particularly hungover or when he has guests and his morning routine is thus delayed. But usually Sirius is up before him and, consequently, Sirius usually takes it upon himself to make them both their morning tea. Not that Sirius minds. Remus is right narky when he wakes up, tea sometimes being the only thing able to lift his mood. And besides, Sirius likes making tea, the routine of it, the banality of it. He makes it the muggle way, the way Remus taught him, with his beaten up stovetop kettle. He doesn’t need his wand for it, but it all feels very magical nonetheless, especially when Remus gets his hands on it.

Remus will wake up with a rumbled t-shirt and his flannel pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips. His hair sticking up in all different directions and his eyes half-closed, and he’ll shuffle through the flat, cursing under his breath as he bumps into things (not that there’s not much to run into in their mostly empty flat but Remus, in his sleep-addled state, always finds a way— running into his own unpacked boxes or their couch or their kitchen counter). And then Sirius will hold out the mug of tea he made for him and Remus will blink at it as if he’s surprised every morning when Sirius makes him tea despite it being basically a routine at this point. And then he’ll mumble something that sounds vaguely like a thanks and he’ll sip his tea and only then does his eyes light up, his posture straighten out, and a small sleepy smile appear around his mug. It’s magic. And so yeah, Sirius doesn’t mind it.

As he waits for Remus’ tea to steep, he leans against the counter and pulls out the newspaper. In the mornings Remus likes to do the crossword and Sirius likes to hover over his shoulder and fill the blanks in with the most creative curse words he can think of. He’s about to flip through and pull out the page for Remus, when his eyes catch on the front headline and the picture beneath it. His blood runs cold, there’s a sense of dread, molten grey and ice cold that runs down his spine. And he’s not really sure how he ends up on the floor, but that’s how Remus finds him half an hour later.

“Sirius?” Remus kneels down in front of him, his head ducked so he’s eye-level. His voice is rough with sleep.

Sirius says nothing and Remus gently pries the newspaper out of his hands. Remus’ breath hitches when he turns the paper over.

“Is that…” he says.

“The Dark Mark.” Sirius’ voice is toneless and small.

“In the sky?”

Sirius pulls his knees up against his chest, folding in on himself. He feels like a pile of bones, the marrow of which is slowly seeping out, leaving him hollow. Remus looks up at him, taking in his slumped posture, his out of focus eyes, the tendrils of hair falling into his face. Without a word, he scoots over and sits next to Sirius against the kitchen cabinets. Sirius leans over, placing his head on Remus’ shoulder and together they read through the article.

Four muggle towns had been attacked overnight. For the past year, there had been several isolated murders believed to be done by the Death Eaters but never confirmed. This time it’s clear who was behind the attacks: Hovering over each town is The Dark Mark; a green skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. That’s the picture below the headline; the reptile’s forked tongue flicking out of the page and reaching up towards Sirius and Remus.

Two days later there is an Order meeting. Sirius, James, Peter, and Remus had all volunteered to join the Order long before they had graduated Hogwarts, but they had never been invited to an official Order meeting before.

Lily is invited as well along with some of their other friends from school; Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadowes, Mary Macdonald, Alice Fortescue, Frank Longbottom, and the Prewett twins.

Dumbledore is sat in the front of the room. Alastor Moody stands in front of him, rattling off information about the attacks. There’s projected images on the wall behind them that journalists and other Order members had taken the morning of, likely while Sirius and Remus had been huddled together on their kitchen floor. Technically, they are still wizard photos, but there’s no movement, no life. Just skeletons of burned down houses and bodies laid out on the ground, bloodied and mutilated. Some of the photos are so disturbing that Sirius has to look away. Instead he looks straight ahead, across the table, where Remus is sitted, face drained of any colour. And then Remus turns and matches his gaze and they both just stare at each other; faces ashen, eyes torpid; two ghosts.

The thing about war is it’s ubiquitous. It lingers like a blood stain on white cloth, like a just extinguished candle, like fog on lowlands, like a dreary January afternoon. It’s an open wound left to fester until it infects, until it spreads. It started in school with the children who bought into their parent’s archaic beliefs about blood supremacy. It began with jelly-leg jinxes and now it’s here with four muggle towns destroyed and dozens of innocent people murdered all in one night.

It’s always been present, for as long as he can remember, there has always been a war festering just below the surface, just below his consciousness, but in his flat with Remus and in the pub with his friends Sirius could almost forget about it. And he hates that, he hates how selfish and naive that makes him. It feels like a rug is being pulled underneath him, everything slipping from his fingers, and he just wants to hold on —to Remus and his friends— for just a little bit longer.

Sirius feels like he’s already fought a war. Between him and himself, between him and his parents, between him and that house. And Sirius feels like he lost that war. He got out, he escaped, but there were casualties. His brother for one— left behind because Sirius couldn’t get him to follow, because Sirius failed to save him. It’s his biggest regret, his biggest failure, and it lingers, it never goes away.

Sirius knows Regulus got the Dark Mark. He saw it at school, protruding from his sweater when he had rolled up his sleeves. And no matter how many times James tells him it’s not his fault, Sirius takes blame for that too. He should have gotten Regulus out of there before his parents could sink their nails into him further, before they could infect him with the ‘responsibilities’ of the Black family name.

And that’s another thing Sirius can’t seem to escape; his last name. He knows that some of the people at the Order have been eyeing him suspiciously. He can feel them staring. He can hear their hushed whispers from across the room. It doesn’t matter that he left, he doesn't matter that he hasn’t spoken to his family in years, it doesn’t matter that he’s been disinherited, it doesn’t matter that he’s been burned off the family tapestry, because there will always be people who will look at him and just see a Black; the remnants of bond he will never truly be able to sever.

When Moody finishes recounting the attacks, Dumbledore begins talking about the Order— what it is, what it means to be a member, what is expected of them. “This is a war,” he says. “No one’s safety is guaranteed. It takes great courage to sit in this room, and it will take great vigilance to remain unscathed. If you wish to back out, best to speak up now.”

The room falls deathly quiet.

At the end of the meeting, Dumbledore and Moody retreat to an adjoining room. Sirius leans over to whisper something into James’ ear. “I have to…” But the words get caught in his throat. James, lovely James, just nods his head, reaching out to squeeze Sirius’ shoulder and Sirius stands up, turns around, and almost runs into Remus.

“Ready to go?” Remus asks.

“No. I— I have to talk to Dumbledore.”

“Oh. Do you want me to—”

“No. No, it’s okay. I’ll meet you at home.”

Remus nods his head. “Okay.”

***

Sirius is sitting on their windowsill, smoking his way through a box of his cigarettes, when Remus sits down next to him. “Hey,” he says. Sirius just grunts.

“Didn’t hear you come home.”

Sirius shrugs. He’s rubbing his thumb over the corner of his cigarette box. Gently, Remus pries it from his fingers.

Remus shakes the box close to his ear. It’s empty. He raises an eyebrow at Sirius, who averts his gaze, but offers his own cigarette out to Remus. Wordlessly, Remus takes it.

The two of them sit there in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth until one of them stubs it out, until the stars appear above them, bright and relentlessly shining, bleed their way through the night sky like a curse.

Sirius works as a curse-breaker but he hasn’t been able to break this one. Not yet.

Absent-mindedly, Sirius tugs at the laces on his boots. He hadn’t bothered taking them off when he came home, just strode straight to the window.

He shuts his eyes, hard, hard enough to create phosphenes. It’s easier when the stars behind his eyes belong solely to him. “After the meeting I told Dumbledore I’d be willing to do anything for the Order, but that I won’t spy on Regulus.”

Remus looks over at him, but doesn’t say anything. Sirius continues: “Does that make me a horrible person?”

“No,” Remus says automatically. And oh, Sirius wants to believe him.

“Shouldn't I be willing to spy on anyone?”

“He’s your brother.”

“He’s a Death Eater.”

Remus bites his lip, but says nothing more. The both of them falling into silence again.

“I’m scared, Remus.” He doesn’t mean to say it. It sort of just slips out, hushed and under his breath. And he thinks for a few seconds, when it’s met with silence, that Remus hadn’t heard him, but then Remus clears his throat and then, just as softly, says, “I know. I am too.”

Sirius stands up then, rushed and a bit wonky from having been sat for so long. Remus looks up at him, worry etched into the crease of his forehead.

“We should throw a party,” is what Sirius finds himself saying.

“What?”

“We should throw a party. We were meant to throw a flat-warming party ages ago, but we never got around to it because you never bloody unpacked.”

“Bit late to throw one now, isn’t it?”

“We should though. Doesn't have to be a flat-warming one, it can just be a party.”

“Sirius—”

“Moony, please.”

Remus bites his cheek, but his face softens. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll throw a party.”

Friday, August 11th, 1978

Sirius has a habit of packing his feelings and his fears away and shoving them into a metaphorical box under his bed. Out of sight, out of mind. And Remus realises it would be hypocritical of him to fault Sirius for it. Because it’s the same thing Remus does with his fears; the same thing he did with his lycanthropy when his friends found out and he shoved them away before they could do it first; and it’s the same thing he has been doing with his feelings for Sirius— shoving them away before the fears can manifest, before he can get rejected, before he can get hurt.

And so they throw a party and Remus is only a little bit worried about Sirius. Only a little worried because from his seat on the couch, past Lily, Mary, James, and Peter singing karaoke, across the bar where Dorcas is standing with her arms around Marlene’s waist, he can see Sirius, putting his ‘shit for margaritas’ to good use, and he’s smiling. And if a party is what will make Sirius smile, then Remus is more than willing to give it to him.

Mary and Lily are singing an overdramatic karaoke duet of Take a Chance on Me when Sirius plops down next to Remus on the couch. The couch dips, the springs groaning, and Remus slides a little closer to Sirius.

Sirius offers him a margarita which Remus takes hesitantly. Sirius watches him, eyebrows raised, until Remus sighs and takes a sip.

“Well?” Sirius asks eagerly.

His demeanour comes off as that of an excited puppy and Remus tries to not show how endearing he finds it as he struggles to keep his face blank. “It’s not completely terrible,” he acquiesces.

Sirius beams. “We should sing a duet,” he says.

Remus snorts. “I’m gonna need five more of these before that happens.”

“That can be arranged.” Sirius is watching him, his lip curled up, his eyes wide and full of zest. Remus feels a bit dizzy with the attention, especially when Sirius takes a sip from his own margarita glass, never once breaking eye contact. Swallowing, Sirius opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he’s interrupted by a horrible, high-pitched whistling sound.

They both turn to find that Peter has whipped out his harmonica from Merlin knows where —he probably keeps it in his back pocket at all times— and he’s now playing along, completely out of tune and way too high-pitched.

He has effectively drowned out James, who’s singing More Than a Woman. And it’s not often that someone sounds worse than James during karaoke, but Peter is managing it, his face quickly growing red as he blows into the instrument, the high notes catching and squeaking like the squawks of diseased birds.

“Christ, I’m gonna need five more of these just to get through that,” Sirius says.

Remus nudges Sirius’ heel with his socked foot. “Stop it. He just needs practice.”

“Clearly.”

Remus leans over to bump Sirius’ shoulder. “We can’t all be musical prodigies like you. I’ve lost count of how many instruments you can play. The piano, the guitar, the flute...”

Sirius squawks. “Keep your voice down. I told you that in confidence! If Marlene heard…” Sirius shakes his head. “As far as anyone else is concerned I can play the piano and the guitar and that’s it.”

A smile curves its way up Remus’ cheek. Sirius squints his eyes at him. “This is an unbalanced relationship, Moony. You have too much dirt on me.”

“You have way more dirt on me,” Remus says.

It takes a few seconds for it to click and then Sirius’ face falls. And oh, Remus hadn’t meant it like that. But he knows they’re both thinking about fifth year when Sirius had tried to send Snape to the shrieking shack; when Sirius had been reckless with Remus’ biggest secret.

“Remus, I would never, I wouldn’t—”

“I know. I— That’s already been forgiven, yeah? I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Okay, but—”

“Stop it, Sirius. Or I’ll tell Marlene about the flute.”

“Tell Marlene about what?” Marlene asks, sitting down on the arm of the couch.

Remus grins and twists around to face her and Sirius kicks him in the ankle. Remus yelps. “Nothing,” Sirius says.

Marlene squints her eyes at them, looking between the two of them suspiciously. The appraisal, however, doesn’t last long as she flinches, startling at another high-pitched squeak from Peter’s harmonica. The three of them turn to watch. Even James, supportive to a fault, is grimacing.

“I’m gonna need another drink,” Sirius says.

“Me too,” Remus agrees.

Sirius smiles, standing up and offering Remus his hand. Remus takes it.

Evidently it only takes two margaritas for Remus to perform a duet with Sirius. Or, well, Sirius is doing all of the singing, but still Remus is holding up his own wand humming noncommittally into it, which is a big step up from his usual participation which is to say he usually doesn’t participate at all. But it’s worth it because Sirius is bopping his head and smiling and he turns to face Remus as he sings (I don't mind you comin' here / And wastin' all my time / 'Cause when you're standin' oh so near / I kinda lose my mind). And Remus feels like he might just keel over and die and would that be so bad? To die with Sirius’ smile tattooed to his retinas? And it’s worth it because at the end of it Sirius turns to him, grasping his arm and says, “That was brilliant, Moony. You're brilliant.” And Remus’ cheeks heat up and his head spins a little bit, and he feels warm and light and flush like he’s drunk, like he really had had five margaritas.

At the end of the night, when the muffliato charm finally wears off the walls of their flat, and their guests have all left, Remus begins gathering the few discarded glasses that had been left on their windowsill while Sirius begins wiping down their kitchen counters.

Remus hears a squeak and then a very calm, “Uh, Remus?”

“Hmm?” Remus humms.

“Bloody hell.” Some shuffling and then: “Can you come here?”

Remus shuffles into the kitchen and immediately comes to a halt. There’s a hole where their sink faucet should be and there’s water gushing out of it like a geyser, arching in an angle and landing onto the tile of their kitchen floor. Sirius stands in front of it, wand raised like he’s about to engage it in a duel.

“Merlin,” Remus says, “what the fuck did you do?”

Sirius glares over his shoulder at him. “A little help, Remus.”

Remus blinks. “Right. Er, repairo?”

“Doesn’t work.”

“Right, uh, have you tried the stop valve?”

“The what?”

Remus rolls his eyes and pushes Sirius out of the way, ducking down before he can get sprayed and reaches beneath the sink for the valve. Once he finds it and twists it close, the stream of water comes to a gurgling stop.

Remus stands back up and turns to look at Sirius, giving him a once over. His shirt is completely soaked through, clinging desperately to his torso, and the ends of his hair are drenched and plastered to the column of his neck.

“Merlin,” Remus says, “you’re soaking wet.”

Sirius frowns before slowly smiling. He holds out his arms and steps forward, towards Remus.

Remus yelps, scrambling to retreat and slips on the wet floor. Sirius reacts instantly, reaching forward to grab Remus by the forearm and yank him upright. But he yanks a little bit too hard and Remus ends up falling into him. Remus doesn’t even have the presence of mind to complain about getting wet because Merlin with their chests pushed together he can feel Sirius’ chest constrict and recoil as he takes a sharp inhale and then lets it out slowly and he can feel Sirius’ heart thudding in his chest and Remus’ mind turns haltingly blank.

“Sorry,” Sirius mumbles. He lets go of Remus’ forearm, but he doesn’t pull away. Remus leans back, just enough to look at him, and still, Sirius doesn't pull away; they just stand there for a few heart-thrumming seconds breathing in each other’s air. And maybe it’s all the carbon dioxide rushing to his brain that’s causing his head to go fuzzy and his higher functionings to turn off, maybe it’s the lack of oxygen that’s making him feel reckless, causing the warnings that would usually be flashing through his mind right now to dissipate or maybe it’s the faded freckle above Sirius’ lip that he’s been staring at for the past few seconds —and for the past few years— that finally does him over because he’s thinking of nothing but that freckle and how it would feel to run his lips over it as he leans forward.

And still, Sirius doesn’t pull away. Remus is toeing over the threshold, tentatively leaning over a precipice, and Sirius rushes forward to meet him.

And it’s messy and desperate and tragic and wonderful. And there’s teeth and fingers in hair and hands up shirts. And Remus doesn’t know what he had been expecting —surprise, rejection, something— but it wasn’t this— it wasn’t Sirius’ tongue down his throat and his hungry hands riding up his shirt, but he certainly isn’t complaining.

Sirius keeps pushing forward like he wants to bleed into Remus, breathe him in, climb into his ribcage. And Remus stumbles, losing his footing on the wet floor and sliding backwards again. And Sirius saves them just in time, turning them around, and slamming Remus into the kitchen counter, anchoring him as Sirius pushes forward again, with roaming hands and an open mouth.

Remus’ loosens his grip on Sirius’ hair and Sirius whines, low and broken in his throat, but then Remus grabs hold of the hem of Sirius’ shirt, twisting the fabric and pulling up, and Sirius whines again, this time in encouragement. “You should… take this off,” Remus breathes, breaking away between kisses. “Put something dry on.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says around a gasp, breaking for air. “Yeah, take it off.”

Sirius lifts his arms up so Remus can pull his shirt up and over his head. Remus throws it to the side, not really caring where it lands. And then his mouth is on Sirius’ throat.

“We should… go to your room… to get… a dry shirt,” he says peppering kisses up Sirius’ neck. Sirius tilts his head to the side to give Remus more room. “Yeah,” he says, and Remus can feel the vibration of his throat beneath his lips, “let’s… my room, yeah.” Remus makes it up to Sirius’ ear, licking and biting at the sensitive skin there and Sirius groans and pushes Remus away. “Now,” Sirius practically growls, voice strained, pupils dilated.

And then they’re both rushing out of the kitchen and down the hall, both stopping intermittently to push the other against the wall. By the time they make it to Sirius’ room, Remus has already lost his shirt.

Once in his room, Sirius kicks his door close behind them and walks Remus backwards until the back of Remus’ knees hit the bed. Remus falls back on the mattress and scrambles up on his elbows to watch Sirius, who’s standing in front of him, out of breath and eyes darkened. Remus shivers and then Sirius is crawling over him, stopping only when he’s right above him, their faces inches apart.

“You sure about this?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Remus replies automatically.

Sirius grins and then ducks down, kissing Remus’ collarbone and nipping at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Remus groans and then reaches up to grab Sirius and flip them over so he’s the one on top now. “What about you? You sure?”

“Yes,” Sirius says, voice crystal. And then he reaches up, fingers slipping beneath Remus’ jeans to dig into the dips of his hip bones. “Yes,” he repeats, like a prayer, like an oath. And then his fingers find their way to the button of Remus’ jeans and Remus ducks back down to kiss him, swallowing down Sirius’ whimpers.

***

When Remus wakes the next morning it’s to a pillow that smells like oud wood and cardamom and smoke and sheets tangled at his feet. When he lifts his head and opens his eyes, it’s to the brazen gilded sunlight spilling through the window. He blinks rapidly, sun spots appearing behind his eyelids. Groaning he turns away from the offending light and is met with a cold, empty bed. He doesn’t think much of it until he nuzzles his nose further into the pillow and slowly, in his sleep-addled state, he begins to recognize the smell as Sirius. And he bolts up. He’s in Sirius’ room. In his bed. And all he’s wearing is his boxers. And Sirius is very much not here. Probably long gone, judging by the cold sheets next to him.

Blinking, knuckles wiping at his eyes, last night comes back to him like waves crashing on the tide; the broken sink; Sirius’ wet shirt; Sirius’ mouth; racing to Sirius’ bedroom; and god Sirius’ mouth. And then Remus remembers sometime in the middle of the night, while he had only been half asleep, the bed creaking and the whine of a door opening and closing. That must have been Sirius. He must have woken up to Remus in bed next to him in —Merlin, in his boxers— and had left and then just didn’t return. Because where was he supposed to go? Remus was in his bed. And oh god Remus needed to leave. Right fucking now.

Remus stands up so fast he feels dizzy, dark spots clouding his vision. He looks down, the vignette around his vision closing in on his discarded jeans and he plucks them from the ground and shoves them on. Hurrying over to the door, he slowly opens it and pulls it close behind him. He winces as the door hinge whines ever so slightly, but it can’t really be helped, and then he’s standing in the hallway. And fuck he hadn’t really thought this through, they fucking live together, it’s not like he can sneak out and leave without a trace, because it was Sirius. And oh god, it was Sirius.

Remus turns, planning to retreat to his bedroom, but the floorboards creak beneath his feet, obscenely loud in the quiet flat, and then he hears his name from down the hall, from the kitchen.

“Remus?”

Remus’ shoulders sag. He has half a mind to continue on to his room, but he doesn’t. Chewing on his cheek, he pivots and heads down the hallway. He finds his shirt on the way and he bends down to pick it up and shrug it on.

“Morning,” Sirius says as Remus walks into the kitchen. His flannel pyjama bottoms are riding low on his hips and he’s wearing a grey, cotton t-shirt. And he’s standing in front of the stove, his back to Remus, as he —from the smell of it— fries some bacon and eggs.

“Morning,” Remus repeats, voice groggy from just waking up. He leans against the counter opposite of Sirius.

“Made you tea,” Sirius says, still not turning around. “Had to use aguamenti.”

“Cheers,” Remus says, picking up his mug from the counter. The mug warms Remus’ fingers; Sirius must have placed a stasis charm on it.

Sirius flips over a few pieces of bacon. “Sleep well?” he asks, voice genteel and flat.

Right, so they aren’t talking about it.

When Remus doesn’t respond right away, Sirius turns to look over his shoulder at him and Remus shrugs. Sirius frowns and then turns back around to tend to the eggs.

“Pub quiz tomorrow,” Remus says, just to say something.

“Should we… tell the others?” Sirius sounds nervous.

Remus swallows. He’s glad Sirius is still facing away from him. “Tell the others what?”

Sirius turns around then. “You know…” he says, pointing the spatula between them both.

“I don’t see why we would.”

Sirius’ brow furrows and Remus’ heartbeat picks up. “I just thought…” Sirius trails off. “I mean at least James, but… I mean if you don’t want to yet then—”

“There’s nothing to tell. Just a bit of a drunken night is all. We’re not obligated to tell James —or anyone— about any random hookup.” He very pointedly looks into his mug of tea, avoiding Sirius’ eye.

“Oh,” Sirius says. “Right.” Remus can feel Sirius’ heavy gaze as he studies him, but Remus refuses to look up. Eventually, Sirius turns back around.

It’s a couple minutes before Sirius says, “We both only had two margaritas.” It sounds like an accusation. And Remus isn’t really sure why Sirius is harping on this fact, why he can’t just use the excuse Remus handed to him and chalk it up to a drunken mistake. Remus doesn’t understand why he wants to have this conversation so badly, but Remus doesn’t, he doesn’t want the rejection, he doesn’t want to have to explain why he did it or that he doesn’t have an excuse other than Sirius was willing and Remus would take whatever he could get even though maybe he shouldn’t have because Sirius had been emotional and fragile just the other day and even though Sirius was a willing participant and even though he had said he was okay with it, clearly he hadn’t been, and Remus should have known that, and so Remus chews on his cheek and says nothing.

When Sirius finishes cooking, he hands a plate to Remus, without even looking at him. And then he stalks off past him down the hall, his own plate in his hand, and retreats to his room, with his ruffled sheets and half-cold bed, and slams the door behind him.

Sunday, August 13th, 1978

With his finger, Sirius connects the drops of condensation on his glass of ale before wiping the offending moisture onto his jeans. As Arthur Weasley’s voice echoes around the small pub, he slumps down in his seat.

“What is the national bird of France?”

Sirius, James, Lily, Peter, and Remus are all sat at the Hog’s Head. It’s pub quiz night and they're all pretty shit at it. Especially since Arthur, who runs the event with the help of his wife, Molly, insists on only using muggle questions so Sirius, James, and Peter have no idea what’s going on half of the time.

“Is it a pigeon?” Peter asks.

“Why would it be a pigeon?” Sirius grumbles.

“They’ve got a lot of pigeons!”

James’ brow furrows. He’s nervously twirling his quill between his fingers. Like most forms of competition, James takes pub quiz nights far too seriously. “Maybe a jobberknoll?” he offers.

“Muggles don’t know about jobbernolls, James,” Lily replies.

“Well, if you were French, what would be your favourite bird?” James asks, eyes on Peter.

“Er, maybe… a duck?” Peter says and then shakes his head. “Well actually they eat a lot of duck. Would that be considered treason— to eat your national bird?”

James hums, tilting his head in consideration.

“Christ,” Remus says, cadence high in his voice. “Why are we here?”

Sirius’ head whips up, eyes finding Remus across the table. Remus seems surprised by the attention; Sirius had been staring at his mug of ale for a good half hour. “No one is forcing you to be here,” Sirius says.

Startled, the other three all turn to look at Sirius as well and Sirius looks back down at his ale.

“Just put pigeon,” Lily says, drawing attention back to James and the quiz sheet in front of him.

As soon as James finishes scribbling down their answer, Arthur announces they’re moving on to the art and literature category. From the corner of his eye, Sirius notices Remus sit up straighter upon the announcement. This is usually where they get most of their points.

“What famous English poet is said to have drunk wine from hollowed out human skulls?”

“What the fuck?” James mutters.

“It’s Lord Byron,” Remus says, reaching out to tap the paper in front of James. James makes a face, but he scribbles down ‘Lord Byron,’ below the word, ‘pigeon.’

“Bloody hell,” Peter grumbles, taking a swig from his drink and then grimacing as he looks down at his mug that’s shaped, well, like a hog’s skull.

“Alright,” Arthur announces, reading off the cue cards handed to him by Molly, “who is the Greek god of misery?”

James reaches over to elbow Sirius. When Sirius looks up, James is looking at him eagerly, both eyebrows raised, prompting him to answer.

Sirius huffs. “Why are you asking me?”

Lily rolls her eyes. Next to her, James shrugs, completely unperturbed. “Last time they asked a Greek mythology question you knew the answer,” he says.

“Is it Anteros?” Remus asks.

Sirius’ eyes snap up, meeting Remus’ from across the table. “Anteros is one of the Erotes. Oizys is the god of misery. Quite a difference between the two.”

Remus frowns. James, however, hurries to jot down the answer, misspelling the name horribly (Owahzis).

When the quiz is done, their team coming in at ninth place out of twelve, Sirius grumbles some excuse, shrugs on his leather jacket, and heads outside.

The bite of the parky night air and the cold brick wall of the Hog’s Head exterior is a welcomed comfort as he leans against the brickwork and rummages around his jacket pocket for his box of cigarettes. The sound of his fumbling echoes against the walls of the alleyway, making his small movements more pronounced, rising and meeting the tension and his need for tobacco between his teeth.

There’s flames, licking their way up his chest, and he aches to put them out in the only way he knows how— with more fire. More, more, more. Until he’s suffocating on it, until it turns him numb.

Just as he finally pulls out his box of smokes, the door next to him is pulled open. He glances over casually, and then fumbles, standing up a little straighter.

For a moment, Remus stands in the doorway, backlit by the tawny glow of the pub’s lanterns, the tips of his mousy brown curls lined in gilt. There’s a cacophony of sound, the mirth of the people inside, and then the door falls shut behind Remus, casting him into shadow and the silence between them quickly grows sullen like the alley is the cabin of a sunken ocean liner and they, the drowned passengers.

Remus leans against the wall next to him. “Hi,” he says.

Carefully, Sirius pulls a cigarette from his box. “Hi.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Sirius stuffs the box back in his pocket and places the cigarette between his teeth. He tries a few times to create a spark between his fingers, but, in his agitated state, the flame keeps blinking out. Remus reaches out, snapping and easily creating a lasting flame. Sirius hesitates, before leaning forward to take use of it. Once lit up, Sirius hastily pulls back away.

“Nothing is wrong,” he says, removing the cigarette from his lips as he blows out smoke, the eddies of it curving up into the night breeze.

“You weren’t acting like—”

“You seem fine though,” Sirius remarks casually like he was only commenting on the weather.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” There’s confusion laced in Remus’ voice and Sirius chances a glance over and what a fucking mistake that is because Remus is standing there, looking at him, his brows furrowed, that adorable little crease pinched between his brows.

Sirius’ fingers twitch around his cigarette as he fights the urge to reach out and smooth the crease away —or worse, kiss it away. Merlin, it’s so much worse now, knowing what Remus’ skin tastes like. Sirius is a dead man, sixty miles underwater, tied to the mast of the ship.

“It just seems like we shouldn’t be here doing a fucking pub quiz when there’s a war going on.”

“And what was the party the other day? Not a distraction?”

“That party was a mistake,” Sirius says, without thinking, just wanting something to spit back.

Something like hurt flashes behind Remus’ eyes before hardening and twisting into something closer to steel; a dagger raised against Sirius’ fiendfyre. It’s not a fair fight; Sirius has always been so good at ruining things; his relationship with his brother; Remus’ trust in fifth year; McGonagall’s patience following his snarky remarks and endless detentions; Euphemia’s hospitality after she took him in and then caught him smoking on the back porch after she had specifically asked him not to; and now, now this too, whatever this is, he’s ruining it. He can feel it, the fiendfyre. He can feel it curl up his lungs, up his throat, burning until all there’s left is Black.

“Right,” Remus says. “I’ll leave you to your strop then. Must be a heavy weight to carry, being the only one who gives a fuck about the war while the rest of us do fuck all.”

“That’s not—” Sirius starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of the pub door being pulled closed.

Tuesday, August 15th, 1978

There’s an oak tree outside their flat window, the branches of which are taping against the glass. Remus flinches everytime there’s a strong gust of wind and the taps turn from soft brushes to abrasive scratches, like nails on chalkboard, like the frail, bony branches of the tree are reaching past the window and tapping between the burls of his spine .

At some point, long after his tea had turned cold within his grasp, Remus had begun counting the taps. He’s on one hundred and thirty six and he's decided that once he gets to two hundred, that’s when he’ll start to worry.

He’s on one hundred and eighty nine, when the front door is flung open. Remus stands up quickly, pain shooting from his joints in protest both from sitting still for too long and from the moon hanging heavy and nearly full in the sky.

He hears the sound of cupboards and drawers being pulled open and shut close from the kitchen and instinctively his fingers curl around his wand. “Sirius?” he says.

“In here,” is the response. Remus relaxes.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you,” Sirius says when Remus steps into the kitchen.

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

Sirius is staring into the fridge, his head ducked down into it, his back to Remus. But he turns now to face him, looking over his shoulder, the weak refrigerator light lighting half of his face in blue. He thinks for a moment there’s a smudge of dirt on Sirius’ forehead, the colored lighting making everything seem black and blue and strange. It isn’t until he steps closer that he realises it’s blood.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, voice hollow.

“What?” Sirius’ forehead creases in confusion before flattening back out like a taut rubber band. “Oh. Damn thing keeps opening back up,” he says as he pulls out his wand. He mumbles a healing spell under his breath and then turns back to the fridge.

“Sirius. What—” Remus starts.

“Just a cut, Remus. You should have seen the other guy.”

“Sirius,” Remus strains.

Sirius’ arm darts into the fridge, shoving aside half-empty cartons. “Kidding. James and I got out of there just fine. Special orders from Moody: Any sign of trouble and get the hell out. Only scraped myself after I apparated and landed in a fucking bush. Have you eaten?” Sirius says the last sentence so casually. Like he hadn’t just gone on his first order mission, like he hadn’t had to abort it midway through, like he hadn’t come home four hours late, like he wasn’t bleeding.

Sirius doesn’t wait for an answer. “There’s nothing here,” he says, standing up and shutting the fridge door. “Let’s go to that Chinese place down the street.”

Remus opens his mouth either to protest or demand Sirius sit down and actually talk, but Sirius is already walking out the front door, leaving it ajar, expecting Remus to follow.

***

Lucky’s Chinese is nothing special. The food is both overly greasy and slightly chewy from being overcooked. The tile floor is scuffed, the red vinyl of the booth seats peeling, revealing the foam underneath, and the lights are constantly flickering due to an overloaded circuit. Sirius’ mother would absolutely hate it, would never even set foot in it, and that’s exactly why Sirius loves it.

“Not hungry?” Sirius asks, covering his mouth with one hand and using the other to point his chopsticks at Remus’ untouched paper carton from across the table.

Remus frowns but picks up his chopsticks and starts picking at his own oyster pail.

“Gideon was attacked,” Sirius says.

Remus looks up, but Sirius is staring out the window, eyes unfocused. “Him and Fabian were on one side of Knockturn Alley, James and I on the other. Dumbledore thinks the Death Eaters are meeting in one of the shops there. We were all under polyjuice, but,” Sirius shakes his head, “they knew we were coming. Gideon got hit with a hex and Fabian barely sent us a warning signal before he apparated him and Gideon out of there.”

Sirius stops to chew on his bottom lip. When he lets it go, it’s bleeding, little beads of crimson forming between the cracks.

“There was a lot of blood,” Sirius says, voice eerily toneless, his eyes still trained outside the window. “We met back at the safe house and he was laid out on the coffee table while the healers tended to him. The way he looked— I thought he was already dead.”

“Is he…” Remus trails off, stuck between not knowing what to ask and not wanting to know the answer.

Sirius shakes his head. “They said he’ll be fine, but he could have just as easily not have been. And it could have just as easily been James or I. What if,” Sirius voice cracks and he starts over. “What if next time it’s James or Peter or you lying on that table?”

Remus drops his chopsticks. They fall messily into his cartoon, spinning in a wobbly half-circle around the corner of his box until they run out of momentum. He reaches his hand over to meet Sirius’, the edge of their fingertips just touching.

Sirius looks down at the contact, his eyes glazed over like he isn’t really taking anything in, like his mind is somewhere else. Remus wishes he could say something, anything to ease the tension in Sirius’ shoulders, to weather the storm behind Sirius’ eyes even just a little bit. He wants to tell him it’ll be okay, he wants to pull him close, and pet his hair. He wants to drain the fear from Sirius and carry it for him, he’ll weigh himself down if it means Sirius will be free of it. He wants to be the panacea to all of Sirius’ woes, but he just sits there, mouth dry, under the flickering light in a manky booth of a Chinese restaurant, offering the anchoring touch of his fingertips and just hopes that it’s enough.

“When we were still in school,” Sirius says, voice low, “joining the Order felt like the noble thing to do. The right thing to do, the brave thing to do. But I don’t feel so brave anymore.” He bites his lip, sucking up the blood. “I’m scared.”

“You can be scared and still be brave,” Remus says. “I think maybe it makes you even more brave to be scared, to admit to it, and still face it head on anyways.”

Sirius sniffs, before pulling his hand away and picking up his chopsticks. “Since when did you get so clever?”

“Oi,” Remus huffs, “I’ve always been clever.”

Sirius smiles at that, the side of his mouth moving up ever so slightly. And Remus stares at it, at the upturned corner of his mouth, and hopes that it’s enough.

“Sorry I worried you. They wouldn’t let us contact anyone until it was all cleared.”

Remus shakes his head. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Sirius nods his head and then turns back to picking at his food.

They eat in silence, chopsticks scraping at the bottom of their cartons. When Sirius finishes, he sits back in his booth and watches Remus as he tries to pick up his last dumpling only for it to slip from his chopsticks.

“You’re hopeless, Moony,” Sirius says around a grin.

Remus glares at him and Sirius perks up, sitting up, and leaning across the table to pick up the dumpling with his own chopsticks. He holds it out in front of Remus, offering it to him. Remus just narrows his eyes at him so Sirius shrugs, turning his wrist to turn the dumpling to himself, his mouth open. And Remus reaches out, fingers curling around Sirius’ bony wrist, as he turns the dumpling back toward him. Leaning forward, he eats the dumpling from the chopsticks, eyes flicking up to Sirius as he takes it into his mouth.

As Sirius stares back at him, something darkens in Sirius’ gaze, something ineffable and something in Remus’ chest pinches at the sight. Abruptly, Remus sits back, creating distance between the two of them, as he swallows and looks away.

In their silence, the waiter takes the opportunity to approach their booth. “Everything tasting alright?”

“Yeah, we’ll just grab the check,” Sirius answers.

“Oh, no need. It’s on the house.”

Remus glances over at the waiter. He looks about their age. He has dark, slicked-back hair, straight, broad shoulders, and a bright, white smile with a slight gap between his two front teeth. And he’s very clearly checking Sirius out. And Sirius seems to be soaking it all in, smiling right back, eyes bright. Remus feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Is that right?” Sirius asks, his lips tugging into a smirk.

The waiter very clearly blushes. “Yeah. And,” he clears his throat, “I think you dropped this.” He places a piece of folded paper onto the table, pushing it towards Sirius.

“Oh. No, that’s not mine.”

“No, I think it is,” the waiter insists, albeit awkwardly. He reaches over to unfold the paper, revealing a phone number.

Sirius’ eyebrows raise. “Oh,” he says, sounding a bit surprised. He darts a glance over at Remus and Remus quickly looks away. “Er, thanks then.”

When the waiter finally walks off, Sirius frowns at Remus and Remus fumbles for his water glass, taking a long sip to avoid his gaze.

“Does it bother you?” Sirius asks once they’re outside, the neon green Lucky’s sign buzzing above them.

“What?” Remus asks. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his corduroys and begins walking down the pavement. Somewhere down the street, a car is laying on its horn.

“When people hit on me in front of you.”

“Why would that bother me?”

“It just seemed like… when the guy came over, I mean, that you were—”

“—Sirius,” Remus cuts him off. “It’s fine, okay? I don’t care. It’s whatever.”

“So it doesn’t bother you? Not even a little bit?” Sirius sounds like he doesn’t believe him. Which is fair, Remus is lying through his teeth, but still, Sirius’ disbelief irritates him, makes him want to grind his molars.

Remus shrugs, the movement stilted and laggard.

“Well, why the hell not?” There’s something sharp in Sirius’ voice, something close to hurt.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Sirius,” Remus says, irritation growing in his tone.

“I want you to say that it bothers you!”

“Why are you doing this? This isn’t funny, Sirius.”

“I’m not taking the piss. I just thought—”

“Well it doesn’t bother me, okay? Just fucking drop it.” Remus picks up his pace and Sirius reaches out to grab his elbow. Sirius stops walking, planting his feet on the pavement like a toddler in tantrum, and Remus is forced to turn around and face him.

“It bothers me,” Sirius says. “That guy at the paint store and that girl fucking flirting with you at the bar. It fucking bothers me.”

Sirius drops his elbow and Remus just stands there staring at him, his mouth slightly open and his face blank like he’s been hit with an immobulus charm. Sirius swallows, blinking, and then steps back, slipping into an alleyway between two shops and Remus hears the faint crack as Sirius apparates back to their flat.

Wednesday, August 16th, 1978

“Remus?” Sirius taps his knuckles on Remus’ door, but there’s no response. Sighing, he cracks open the door and slips in. Briefly, golden light floods into the room, and then the door clicks close behind Sirius and the room falls back into shadow.

Outside of Remus’ window there are signs of life —the distant sound of people yelling across the street and cars driving by— but Remus’ curtains are pulled tightly across his window, shutting it all out, making his room quiet and still and dark. And Sirius has to stand still for a few moments, his back to Remus’ door, as he lets his eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

Remus’ room is a mess. There’s a few clothes strewn across the floor and half-drunken cups of takeout coffee left out by his windowsill. And there’s a plant Lily had given them as a housewarming gift now wilted and droopy in the corner of Remus’ room.

Stepping over one of Remus’ sweaters, he has to fight the urge to tidy up, as he makes his way over to Remus’ bed. The air in Remus’ room is like a summer night; hot and muggy and thick and Sirius’ skin prickles with the heat, he feels like he’s choking on it.

Next to Remus’ bed is a stack of boxes that make up a makeshift bedside table. A bottle of dittany sits on top of it along with some spare knuts and a mug of untouched tea that Sirius had left out earlier. And, under a pile of blankets on top of the bed, is Remus. Sirius is sure he must be sweating under all that bedding.

“Remus?” Sirius says, poking the pile of blankets.

There’s some grumbling that Sirius can’t quite make out.

“Remus?” he tries again.

This time the grumbling sounds a bit like, ‘Go away,’ but Sirius ignores it. Reaching forward, he pushes until Remus rolls over with a disgruntled huff and Sirius plops down on the bed, sitting upright with his legs crossed out in front of him, and a paper bag in his lap.

“What will it be, Moons?” he asks. “I got those biscuits you like, and that jam that your mam used to buy, and those muggle sweets you like.”

Remus’ head pops out of the blanket at that, his front curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, the rest of them sticking up in every direction, and Sirius bites down on his cheek as something warm and saccharine swells in his chest. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He doesn’t want to think about last night and his half-confession and the way Remus just stood there.

“Where’d you get all that?” Remus asks, voice hoarse.

“I went grocery shopping.”

Remus’ nose scrunches up. “You hate grocery shopping.”

Sirius shrugs. “We didn’t have anything.”

“I would have gone with.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

Remus grunts at that, laying his head back down. “Did you make a list?” he asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“No.”

“You made a list.”

“I didn’t want to forget anything.”

Sirius can’t see Remus’ face, but he can see the dip in Remus’ cheek; the dimple of his smile.

“What?” Sirius asks.

“You’re right.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s adorable.”

Sirius blinks down at the paper bag in his lap. “Shut up.”

Turning his head to look up at Sirius, Remus says, “You didn’t have to go out and get me anything. I’m fine.”

“Shut up, Remus,” Sirius repeats.

Remus grunts, but he doesn’t argue. Usually he's more resistant.

“Bad moon?”

Remus makes a muffled affirmative and Sirius sets the paper bag on the floor and moves to lay down.

“What are you doing?” Remus asks.

“Laying down.”

“You don’t have to.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Budge over would you?”

Once he’s supine, he turns to look at Remus. He’s breathing slowly, each exhale shaky and taut, like each rise of his chest is painful. His skin is pallid, his forehead thick with sudor, and the corners of his mouth are turned down in a weak frown. And still, he’s beautiful. Sirius stares at Remus’ brown eyelashes, the way they flutter each time he exhales, and then Sirius swallows down the uncomfortable knot in his throat and stares up at the ugly popcorn ceiling. “I know it’s not the forbidden forest,” he says, “but the lot behind James’ parent’s house wasn’t so bad, right? The wards are pretty strong and there’s no one around for miles. We could go there again… or maybe somewhere in Cornwall?”

“About that…” Remus says. Sirius lolls his head over to look at him. Remus’ eyes are closed, his face hallowed from where he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Dumbledore wants me to spend the moon with the werewolf pack up North. Integrate myself into their community. Act as a spy.”

“Alone?” Sirius’ voice comes out small and swollen.

Remus opens his eyes and stares straight ahead, at the ugly popcorn ceiling. “I’m the only werewolf in the Order.”

“But there’s only one of you and what? Fifty of them? That’s not safe.”

“It’s a war, Sirius. It’s not supposed to be safe.”

It’s quiet then; Sirius can hear the faint shrill of a siren from blocks away; He can hear his heart in his chest; He can hear the rustle of linen as Remus turns his head to look over at him. The humidity in the room is weighing down on him, seeping into his pores, crawling down his throat, it feels a bit like drowning.

And then there’s another rustle of linen and then Remus’ clammy hand is laying over his own, an exigent, winsome weight anchoring him down.

“I’m coming back, Sirius,” Remus says.

Sirius just stares at their hands; one on top of the other.

Eventually the siren outside their window fades away.

***

It takes almost the whole day, but eventually Sirius gets Remus to eat something (a handful of biscuits and a piece of toast). It’s not much, but it’s a victory nonetheless.

Sirius is collecting the plate now, full of crumbs, along with Remus’ half-drunken mug of tea, both left discarded on top of Remus’ makeshift bedside table where Sirius had left them earlier that evening.

If Remus’ curtains were open, the moon would be framed by the window, almost full and taunting in the sky, and the room would be lit by its eerie, macabre gleam, but the curtains are still drawn and the room is as dark as the rest of the night sky, as dark as its been the whole day. And Remus is still under three wool blankets. He looks like he’s asleep; his cheeks pink from the heat, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted, and the stray curl on his forehead moving ever so slightly each time he breathes. Sirius reaches out tentatively, his lithe fingers gently brushing the curl away and tucking it behind Remus’ ear. A little crease appears on Remus’ forehead, a small ripple disrupting his peace, and Sirius wrenches back his hand like he’s been burned, but Remus doesn’t stir any further.

As Sirius turns to walk away, Remus’ hand darts out from beneath the blankets, long, calloused fingers wrapping around the pulse point of Sirius’ wrist, holding him there.

“Remus?” Sirius says, staring down at the contact.

“It bothers me.”

Blood pounds in Sirius’ ears, his mouth feels itchy. “What do you—”

“That boy at the restaurant,” Remus says, his grip on Sirius’ wrist growing tighter, cutting off the blood flow. “I mean I was right there, across from you at a restaurant, and he assumes you’re gay, but what? Just writes me off? Assumes that the gay bloke sitting across from another bloke at a restaurant isn’t on a date?”

“We weren’t though.” Sirius clears his throat. “On a date, I mean.”

“Could have been.”

“But we weren’t.”

Remus’ eyebrows draw together. His fingers let go of Sirius’ wrist and his hand retreats back into the blankets. “Nevermind, then,” he says, voice small and rough.

Remus starts to turn over in bed, and Sirius feels the movement like a tug, like there’s an invisible string tying them together, like their two magnets, desperate, frantic, for one another, and he chases after him, abruptly plopping himself down on the bed. Remus stops mid-turn, looking over his shoulder at Sirius before hesitantly laying back down on his back. “I didn’t mean it like that,” Sirius says. “I just thought, I mean, the morning after the party, you called it a random hookup.”

Remus frowns. “I woke up and you weren’t there.”

“I was making you breakfast.”

“And you wouldn’t look me in the eye. I thought you regretted it. I thought maybe I was just one of your distractions. Like the party.”

“You’re so stupid, Remus.”

“Oi, you said I was clever.” Remus’ voice is void of any emotion, but the corner of his lip quirks up ever so slightly and Sirius stares at it before swallowing down, hard.

“I mean you are a distraction though. But more in the sense that when you’re around I can’t think of anything else. I just— I was nervous. I was trying to ask you if you wanted to tell James that we were a thing.”

“A thing?” There’s amusement in his voice now and a dimple in his cheek, and Sirius reaches forward to place his finger in the dip.

“Shut up,” he says.

“Don’t leave this time,” Remus says.

Sirius looks over at Remus’ door before looking back at Remus. “Yeah, okay,” he says. And then he bends down to place the plate and the mug on the floor beside the bed. And Remus shuffles over and they both lay like that, side by side, Remus underneath the blankets and Sirius on top of them, until they both fall asleep.

Sunday, August 20th, 1978

“Was it horrible?”

Remus frowns down at the cup he’s currently scrubbing. They’re standing in front of their (recently fixed) kitchen sink, doing the dishes, the both of them in their pyjamas. There’s suds growing up their arms and they’re standing so close that they keep knocking their elbows together.

Yesterday, the morning after the full moon, Remus had stumbled into their flat and gone straight to bed. Later he had woken up to a mug of Yorkshire tea and a chelsea bun slathered in raspberry jam (like his mam used to make for him growing up) both set out by his bedside and he had felt the sudden childlike urge to cry. Remus had spent the rest of the day in his room. They haven’t talked about the full yet.

“No, it wasn’t horrible,” he replies slowly. “I— I kinda get where they’re coming from, you know? Like I got to go to Hogwarts and get an education and I have non-werewolf friends who accept me and I’ve had negative experiences, but also quite a few positive experiences with non-werewolf folk. But I think a lot of them haven’t had any positive experiences.”

Remus chances a glance over at Sirius, who just nods his head slowly, his focus on the plate he’s scrubbing.

Remus swallows. “They don’t really trust the wizarding community, so they haven’t really taken either side. They’re just sorta neutral, but Dumbledore wants me to keep spending the fulls with them, just in case. And I said that I would. I think that’s where I’m most useful.”

Sirius blinks down at the suds overflowing the tub of the sink. “That’s good,” he says.

Remus looks over at him. “Is it?”

Sirius pauses scrubbing. He’s wearing these ridiculous, yellow rubber gloves and they both stare down at them as Sirius’ flexes his fingers. “Sorry,” Sirius says, “it’s just… the war… and everything, and James and Peter are both going on a mission next week and, I don’t know, I’m scared, Moony. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me, Sirius. You have me.” Instantly, grey eyes look up at him. They haven’t talked about this either. Remus clears his throat. “I mean… if you want.”

A smile tugs up the corners of Sirius’ lips, lambent and clinquant, and Remus quickly looks away, down at the sink. “You’re the worst,” he says. “You’re not even pretending to help anymore… scrubbing the same damn plate for the past five minutes. I’ll clean,” he says, taking the plate from Sirius’ hands, “you dry.”

“They have spells for this stuff, you know,” Sirius chaffs, but he turns to fetch the dishcloth all the same.

They fall into a silent routine; Remus scrubbing and handing over clean dishes to Sirius, who then dries them. Silent, that is, until Sirius reaches into the sink, covering his hand with suds, and flicks the bubbles up at Remus. Remus wipes off the offending bubbles from his cheek and then reaches into the tub of the sink to splash water up at Sirius.

“Moony! You got it in my hair!” Sirius screaks, his nose scrunched up in distaste, and Remus bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny, Remus! The water is sodding brown.”

“You’re so posh, Sirius. So terribly posh.”

Sirius narrows his eyes at him and then reaches into the sink to splash at Remus and Remus moves to retaliate.

A few minutes later, after they’ve both call a truce, they fall down to the floor, their backs against the kitchen cupboards, and their wet shirts clinging to their skin and Sirius turns to lay down, resting his head in Remus’ lap. Remus’ fingers hover tentatively over Sirius’ head before he cards his fingers into Sirius’ hair and Sirius turns his head to look up at him.

“Do you think we ought to tell James?” Remus asks.

Sirius raises an eyebrow up at him. “You’ll have to be more clear, Moony, on what exactly it is you’re asking me.”

“Should we tell James…”

“Yes?”

“…that we’re… going steady?”

Sirius bursts out laughing.

“Wanker,” Remus says, lightly pushing at Sirius’ head.

“‘Going steady’ is way worse than calling it ‘a thing.’”

“Fine. Then what should we tell him?”

“Well we can’t tell him that I’m in love with you because he already knows that.”

Remus’ hand stills in Sirius’ hair. “What?”

“Mm, sorry. Been trying to find a way to slip that in. You remember year four when you came back to Hogwarts with those big leather work boots that your mam got you?”

“Yeah…”

“I think that’s what really did me over. I thought they were bloody sexy. Told James that day that I was in love with you. Not sure how serious he took me for, but…”

“Sexy? I was in year four.”

“Yes, well I was in year four at the time too so it was perfectly alright for me to be thinking that then. Not that I wasn’t mad about you before the boots. I mean, Merlin, you got everyone thinking you’re all innocent and shit but you’re the worst of us all, I think. And a bloody mouth on you to boot, even at eleven. And you're always chewing on the ends of your quills and you always got ink on your hands and on your chin and your handwriting —atrocious— Remus, I mean really, I have no idea how Minnie made sense of it in school.”

“What are you—”

“—And you get this funny little crease on your forehead when you’re thinking too hard and a dimple in your cheek when you laugh. And your laugh, oh god, it’s so loud, jarring really, like barking. And you always wear those itchy, ugly sweaters with the threads sticking out —you dress like a grandpa, act like one too; all grumpy in the morning, stumbling around the flat—”

“I don’t—”

“—well, until you get your tea that is, and then you peak up a bit, but you still kinda stumble around and your posture— it’s so bad. And your nails are always in a right fucking state. You really need to stop chewing on them, Remus. Oh and your hair—”

“—Right,” Remus interrupts. “Sorry, what exactly is your point? Or are you just having a go at me?”

“My point, Remus,” Sirius says, sitting up and kneeling in front of Remus so that they’re face to face, “is that you’re so distracting, so bloody distracting. I’m always thinking about you. I’m losing my mind thinking about you all the bloody time. You occupy all the space in my head. I know the top of your middle finger on your left hand is slightly crooked and I know that if the ends of your curls are frizzy it’s because you’re stressed and you’ve been yanking on them and I know that I love you. All of you.”

Remus says nothing. His head is all white static. Breathing, it seems, has suddenly become a laboured task; it feels like his lungs are turning to stone. He’s pretty sure he’s stopped doing it all together, breathing, that is. He feels rather dizzy actually and he’s only partially aware of Sirius reaching forward, his forefinger smoothing out the crease between Remus’ brows.

“You’re thinking too much, Moony. You know, just because I said it, you don’t, you know, have to say anything back or—”

“I love you too.”

Sirius looks up at him in surprise, dry swallowing, and Remus tracks the movement of his Adam’s apple before biting down on his own lip, sucking in a breath, and then: “You know how you pierced your own ear at the end of fourth year?”

Sirius’ nose scrunches up. “And it got terribly infected?”

“Yes, well, before that I thought it was very hot.”

“You don’t think it’s hot now?” Sirius pouts.

Remus minutely shakes his head as if he’s annoyed. He lays his hand on Sirius’ chest like he’s going to push him away, but he doesn’t, he just leaves his hand there, his fingers splayed. He can feel Sirius’ heartbeat, erratic and reassuring, beneath his palm. “Your handwriting, on the other hand, is very nice, all loopy and curvy. And you’ve never really gotten out of the habit of cutting your food into small little pieces. And you talk like the bloody queen. And sometimes you put on this facade, but I know you iron your band t-shirts and I know you’ll go absolutely mental if you don’t fold all your clothes nice and neat and I know you cried after graduation when you said goodbye to McGonagall. And you’d absolutely hate it if anyone knew, but you’re terribly sentimental and I know you keep a box under your bed filled with old notes and cards and shit. And you wake up way too fucking early, fucking hell. And you take fucking ages to do your hair. And it also takes you fucking forever to eat your breakfast while reading The Prophet; a whole minute just to lift your toast from your plate to your mouth. And you’re always messing up my morning crosswords and my grocery lists and somehow convincing me to do bloody karaoke. You’re so unbearable sometimes, so unbelievably unbearable.”

The corner of Sirius’ mouth twitches. “Your point?” he asks.

“My point,” Remus breathes, “is that I love you too. All of you.”

Sirius’ face cracks into a grin, bright and warm and dizzying, like a supernova, and Remus feels the heat of it swell in his chest. “Yeah?” Sirius asks.

“Yeah,” Remus answers in a whisper.

Sirius moves forward, lifting his legs to straddle Remus. He’s on his knees, taller than Remus now, and he’s looking down at him, his hot breath rustling the curls on Remus’ forehead. And he’s still smiling, bright and dangerous, and Remus feels the corners of his own mouth tug up, a smile forming, and Sirius surges forward to catch it.

When they breakaway, fucking gasping for air, Remus puts his hand back on Sirius’ chest until both of their breathing evens. “Your shirt is soaking wet,” Remus says, “you should take it off.”

“Maybe we should go to my room to get a dry one.”

Remus shrugs, biting down his smile.

And Sirius leans forward so that their faces are inches apart. “And then in the morning we’ll wake up together and then I’ll make you breakfast and you won’t freak out this time because I’ll come right back and we’ll eat it in bed and do the morning crossword.”

“Are you going to ruin my crossword by putting swear words in it?”

Sirius comically widens his eyes. “Obviously.”

Remus smiles, his fingers folding into a fist, gripping on to Sirius’ wet t-shirt. “Yeah. Okay then.” And then he leans forward to kiss him.

Notes:

you read that whole thing?? dasajkjska
no, but thank you sm for reading <33 would absolutely love to hear your thoughts. comments and talking to you all in the comments make my day :)
songs mentioned: Miss You - The Rolling Stones // Get Down, Make Love - Queen // Just What I Needed - The Cars (the amount of times i looked up “what year did the marauders graduate?” and the date these songs were released to make sure the timing made sense… it’s just a silly little fanfiction, but i’ll be damned if the songs aren’t era appropriate)
also, just wanted to mention that i’m about to start grad school which is gonna be, to put it lightly, hell. it’s always “women in stem!” until YOU are the woman in stem, innit? anyways, all this to say that i’ve been lowkey kinda on a roll this year, writing wise, but i’ll probably be a little slower to posting new stuff for now. i WILL still be writing, i just also gotta get this degree etc etc
p.s. peter’s passion for playing the harmonica while also just being god awful at it was inspired by the fic station to station by aeridi0nis. a wonderful, wonderful story that you should all read <3
come say hi on tumblr :)

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