Chapter Text
February is cruel.
Just as cruel as January. Just as cruel as the four months before January, as Valentine’s Day, as Sirius’ birthday, as Regulus’ birthday. As Christmas.
Ah, yes. Christmas.
The single most wretched, rotten, holly-scented, cinnamon-dusted, candy-apple-crusted, sleigh-bell-clanging nightmare of a Christmas Sirius has ever lived through. He can still feel it, vibrating in his ribs like the start of a thunderclap, that goddamn festive cheer, while the city swallowed him whole.
Somewhere in the suburbs, his parents were enjoying their peaceful, unbothered life, untouched and perfectly fine, and that, more than anything, was the real stab to the gut. Sirius would have killed to be there instead, holed up with Effie and Monty, peeling apples in a warm kitchen, bitching about the state of the world, letting their old house wrap him up like a childhood blanket. Especially after the absolute disaster that was The Breakup. Capital T, capital B.
Fate, apparently, has a shit sense of humor. Sirius is absolutely fucking howling.
Marlene told him he needed a change. To shake things up. Get out, get moving, keep living. And for once, Sirius actually listened, because crying his eyes out in bed for weeks on end had turned out to be not very fun, actually.
Which is how he finds himself here, at Pandora’s party, in the house she shares with Lily—married, settled, disgustingly happy—standing around with three fresh piercings on his ear cartilage, impulsively cut fringe, and a new coat of silver nail polish just for the drama of it.
Okay, fine. Maybe calling it an impulsively cut fringe is a bit of a stretch. They’re just curtain bangs. Neat, delicate, snipped with precision by Lily’s own hand during a sleepover at Regulus and James’ place. Harry and Luna had been off at Barty and Evan’s, leaving them all unsupervised, which was their first mistake.
And yes, Sirius had tried to wrestle the scissors away from her, and no, she hadn’t let him.
Yes, it had taken all four of them—Regulus, James, Pandora, and Lily—to physically restrain him from chopping his shoulder-length waves off into a regrettable fucked-up boyish mess.
Yes, he’s grateful.
No, they’re still absolute pricks.
"Want a smoke?" Marlene asks, half-tucked under Mary’s arm, who presses a kiss to her lips every now and then, just because she can. Muscle memory by now.
"Smoke, smoke!" Harry chants, hanging upside down from Sirius’ bent elbow, tongue sticking out like a manic little demon.
"Marlene!" Sirius and Mary snap at the same time.
Marlene gasps, all mock offense. "Oh, poppet," she croons, leaning in toward her godson. "We don’t say that, do we? That’s a bad, bad word."
“Wan’ smoke, wan’ smoke!” Harry shouts back, giggling.
Sirius sighs, hoists Harry up and swings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He gives his little bum a light pat.
“Alright, Haz. Keep saying that, and I’ll have Marlene take you home for a sleepover.”
Harry gasps like he’s just been sentenced to death. He kicks out his little legs, wiggles his way down, and bolts across the room, screaming, "No, no, no!" as he disappears into the crowd.
Sirius and Mary burst out laughing. Marlene gapes at Harry, scandalized, before yelling after him.
"Ungrateful little brat!"
Mary soothes her instantly, murmuring nonsense, tilting her chin up for another kiss. Marlene, predictably, melts like butter.
Sirius is happy for them. He is. They’ve been solid since university, a real, proper relationship with anniversaries and vacations and inside jokes. It’s nice.
It also makes him want to gag.
Not them, specifically, but the whole thing—the kissing, the arms around shoulders, the way one of them leans in like it’s instinct, and the other is just there, waiting. Because there used to be kisses in his life, too—morning, noon, and night, warm and laughing and easy. On his lips, his chest, his neck, between his—
"Right," Sirius cuts himself off, abrupt, like slamming a door shut. "I’m getting more mulled wine, and then we smoke."
Marlene bumps her knee against his, the little nudge half playful, half insistent. "What’s with the pout, princess?" Sirius glances down at her beat-up sneakers. She’s got on those ridiculous dinosaur socks under, and he glares at them. “Come on, at least pretend to be having fun. You finally left your cave."
"I don’t give a shit about leaving my cave," Sirius mutters.
Mary smirks. "Go say that to Pandora and Lily’s faces and let’s see how long it takes before your head ends up in the mulled wine pot."
Sirius narrows his eyes, pulls a bright, sharp, absolutely insincere grin, all teeth and bite, then turns on his heel.
"Get me a refill!" Mary calls after him.
Sirius sighs, stops, and wordlessly holds out a hand without looking back, fingers wiggling. Mary hums in satisfaction, passing him her glass.
Sirius side-eyes Marlene. "What’s the point of you if you can’t even fetch your own girlfriend a drink?"
"She’s very good at a lot of other things." Mary grins, all smug and stunning in her silky pink dress shimmering under the fairy lights.
Sirius clicks his tongue at their disgustingly healthy, nauseatingly functional sex life and turns away, slipping through the party toward the kitchen.
He had a sex life once, too. A damn good one. The kind that felt like a spell, so magnetic it was almost sickening. They fucked like they were starving, trying to crawl inside each other, as if it was the only thing in the world keeping them breathing. Kissing, touching, pressing forehead to forehead, palm to palm, sweat-slick shoulder to shoulder, taking each other anywhere they could—at restaurants, in the car, on the couch, the table, the goddamn washing machine.
Sirius had never been able to walk straight back then. And he hadn’t wanted to, because Remus was the only thing he needed.
Now? His libido is dead in the fucking ground. He looks at men, and all he wants to do is run in the opposite direction. He hears their stupid, booming laughter and wants to turn himself inside out.
Men are absolute idiots.
Sirius, unfortunately, is also a man.
"Stop, stop!" Luna shrieks, darting away from Harry, who chases after her, hands smeared with sticky, multicolored bits of play-dough.
She crashes straight into Sirius’ leg, clutching onto him like he’s some kind of shield. He barely manages to keep his grip on both glasses in his hands.
"Pads, tell him!" Luna demands.
Sirius sighs. "Harry, leave your sister alone."
"Girls don’t like boys who act like that, Harry!” Luna grumbles and tilts her chin up to look at Sirius with those eyes, so much like his brother’s. “Right, Paddy?"
Sirius just smiles apologetically and shrugs. Honestly, he has no clue what girls like.
He tries—really tries—to separate them, but they slip right through his hands, tiny limbs flailing, Luna wriggling out of reach like a little eel, Harry twisting past him with terrifying speed. James’ and Lily’s son through and through. It takes seconds for him to lunge at the poor girl again, hands still sticky and messy, and Luna bolts, screaming.
Sirius inhales. Deep. Very deep.
Because his heart is starting to hammer against his ribs, out of sync with the childish laughter, the stampede of little feet—Luna’s bare, Harry’s in those absurd Lightning McQueen Crocs that match James' pair exactly.
Sirius, honestly, truly, to his core, hates thinking about The Breakup, but the reason for it is everywhere.
It’s in Harry, in Luna, in their ridiculous little shoes. In Lily and Pandora signing their names on joint paperwork, in James and Regulus balancing car seats and grocery bags, in the way everyone around him is making choices, settling into lives, moving forward. It’s in every conversation about kindergarten pickups and shared mortgages and holiday plans.
It yanks him back five months—to the quiet, unremarkable, completely avoidable end of a three-year relationship that should have lasted longer. That could have lasted longer, if Sirius hadn’t done what Sirius always does.
Which is to say—freak the fuck out.
He could dress it up, polish it with a fair reason, but at the end of the day, that’s what actually happened, and that’s really what it boils down to. He’s a coward. And a dumbass. When the bloodthirsty, soul-crushing, terrible Walburga Black pushed her firstborn son out into the world, she must have forgotten to give him a functional brain.
For three years, things with Remus were good. Steady. No, actually, they were perfect. Comfortable in a way Sirius never expected to have. A relationship that didn’t feel suffocating, or like something he had to fight to keep. It was real.
The tragedy is that Sirius didn’t know what they both wanted at all. He and Remus had never talked about marriage, or kids, or the whole permanent, no-takebacks future. Sirius spent his whole life being told what his own future would be—the perfect little expectations, the perfect little standards, the perfect little prison. He never learnt how to ask for things and just took what he was given or ran when it got too close.
And then, one day, he looked at himself, at Remus, at their shared house and routines and the quiet, secure, beautiful thing they had built together, and he wanted more. More than what they had, than shared mornings and split grocery lists and the certainty of Remus’ hand in his every time they crossed the street.
Sirius went through everything with him. His parents cutting him off, the constant fallout of being the son they wanted to raise differently, the therapy—which, as he can see now, didn’t really help—the slow, unsteady process of trying to feel okay in his own skin.
By all accounts, and Sirius’ own carefully constructed life plan, Remus should have been with him through this, too. Through the messiness of trying to figure out what they wanted long-term. Through the paralyzing realization that Sirius did want those things—to marry Remus, to have kids with him—and that want didn’t feel like a hypothetical thing. It felt palpable. Within reach.
The thought alone absolutely terrified him, obviously, because what if he asked for more, and Remus said no? What if Sirius reached for him and Remus didn’t reach back?
The truth is, spending three years with someone who never once voiced their thoughts on something this big is unbearable. But it was pretty logical to assume, honestly—if Remus wanted those things, he would’ve said so. The silence wasn’t neutral, was it? It was an answer in itself, and some things just aren’t meant to happen.
So, before Remus could confirm anything, before Sirius could be faced with an actual conversation where he was told, no, I don’t see us like that, I don’t want that with you, he made the choice for both of them. Instead of talking about it, or working through the fear, or doing literally anything remotely healthy, Sirius did what he always did when the anxiety got too sharp.
He bolted.
That’s what he does. That’s what Remus used to sigh about, calling him a sudden spike of energy, no fuse, no control. Sirius understands that now.
He knows it was impulsive. He knows it was stupid. But what was he supposed to do? Sit down and pour his heart out? Ask Remus if he wanted kids and risk the reality that he didn’t?
Sirius doesn’t do uncertainty. He doesn’t do waiting around to be left. He did what felt safe. If he was going to lose Remus either way, he might as well be the one to decide when and how. After all, who the fuck else is going to protect him, if not himself? His parents taught him to always land on his feet. Well.
Maybe this time, they didn’t quite land right.
The breakup, it turns out, actually broke his heart. Who could have seen that coming? Shocking. Stop the presses, call in the photographers, the great Sirius Black has had his heart broken.
Not that he had much of a track record before Remus—whatever things he had before could hardly be called relationships. They never meant anything, never reached inside of him, never filled him up and burned him alive the way Remus did.
Five whole months, and Sirius hasn’t even tried to put himself back together. Hasn’t picked up the pieces. Hasn’t even looked for them. He just let his heart stay where it fell—somewhere behind his ribs, rotting in pieces. Who needs it, anyway?
He really tries to carry on with his life. Still pays taxes, buys groceries, goes to work at the studio, where he and Lily are currently restoring an Early Renaissance painting.
Remus used to love the Renaissance. He always admired the beauty of it, staring at those perfect bodies and flawless faces, tracing them with his eyes because he never believed he had either. What he didn’t know—what Sirius never told him—was that every time Sirius’ brush curved around the soft slope of a thigh, the dip of a back, the sculpted muscles of some painted masterpiece, he was thinking about him.
Now, before picking up his brush, Sirius pulls a blindfold over his mind. Renaissance is just Renaissance, early or late, perfect or flawed. Just a style. The painted bodies don’t mean anything.
Just like the fact that Sirius can’t touch Remus' body anymore.
He spent the first month crying himself to the point of physical exhaustion—until his eyelids swelled so badly that he could barely open them, and his whole face felt like it was burning from the inside out.
By the third month, nearly choking on his own sobs, Sirius caved. He asked if he could move in with James and Regulus, who shared their space with Harry and Luna—when they were looking after them instead of Lily and Pandora—and Oppie, their kitten, who took an immediate, violent dislike to Sirius. Which is great. Thanks for that.
James and Regulus took him in with open arms—well, James did. Regulus was considerably less enthusiastic. But Sirius was grateful, because staying in the house he once shared with Remus, surrounded by blank walls and an empty bed, wasn’t an option. Neither was smelling him in every room, in every fabric, in every goddamn corner.
Either the universe is laughing in his face, or Sirius really is having the shittiest karmic year imaginable.
He sighs, trailing through the living room to the archway that separates the warm, glowing living room from the kitchen.
Pandora and Lily’s place is absurdly festive. Everything sparkles—twinkling lights, wreaths, candles. Mistletoe hangs everywhere, still suspended above doorways since Christmas, so noticeable it makes Sirius want to choke himself. The whole house smells like mulled wine, rum, cinnamon, and fresh pies.
If he could eat, he would. If his stomach wasn’t still a black hole of grief, if food didn’t sit like a stone in his gut, Sirius would be the first to dig into those pies.
But no. Apparently, his new diet consists solely of chain-smoking his way through every cigarette he can get his hands on and eating chocolate brownies in the dead of night, parked on James and Regulus’ couch, watching absolute garbage reality TV about insane rich housewives.
Remus had always loved brownies. Hated that show. Thought it was awful.
The show is awful, to be fair. The brownies, though? Still embarrassingly good. That’s why Remus loved them.
Once upon a time, Remus had loved Sirius, too.
Sirius grips both glasses so tightly he’s almost surprised they don’t shatter between his fingers. He rounds the corner into the hallway, past the entryway, past the sound of laughter, and his heart stops inside his chest.
Boom, boom, boom.
Crash.
No.
No, no, no, absolutely fucking not.
That laugh. He could recognize it anywhere. Would recognize it anywhere, pick it out from under any conditions—deaf, four glasses of mulled wine deep, his face red and aching from all of Lily, Mary, and Marlene’s pinches to his cheeks. Sirius would still know.
It’s in his bones now. In his inner walls. It’s followed him for four months straight, slithering into every corner of every street he’s walked, whispering through the rooms of his house, of James and Regulus’ house, of his feverish dreams. It’s everywhere. It echoes in his ears even now.
Sirius turns his head, and there he is.
Standing in the hallway, right in front of Peter and Emmeline.
Fucking gorgeous.
Wearing that awful, ancient brown coat he’s refused to get rid of for years, looking like he just stepped out of a charity shop clearance bin, and laughing, the absolute bastard, mouth split open around that sound. That horrible, scratchy, breathless laugh that never even sounds like he’s having fun. There’s always that slight hitch at the end, the one that makes Sirius’ heart squeeze painfully in his chest, and those slightly crooked canines flashing, sharp enough to catch the light when he smiles. Sirius used to drag his tongue over them just to feel the unevenness, to remind himself that yes, Remus was real and his.
He shakes his head a little, the way he always does when he doesn’t want people to know he thinks something is actually funny. Too controlled, too quiet, always too good, Remus is here.
Sirius stops cold in the doorway, two glasses in his hands, and feels the space in his stomach collapse in on itself.
One second. That’s all it takes.
Their eyes meet.
Amber against silver, brown against gray. Charge, charge, voltage surge.
Remus stops laughing. Stands there with his hands shoved into the pockets of that ugly coat. Sirius wasn’t laughing to begin with. To be honest, all he wants to do right now is cry.
He turns and disappears into the kitchen before he can let himself.
Nope. No. Fucking never.
He sets the glasses down, maybe too hard, but who cares, who the fuck cares, and moves toward the big plastic tub of popcorn on the counter. He grabs a handful. Shoves it in his mouth. Another. Another. Another. Keeps pushing it in, cheeks full, until he can’t breathe, filling his mouth, stuffing it full, choking himself silent.
Maybe he can make it go up his nose. Maybe it’ll get stuck in his throat and kill him. That would be great, actually.
Sirius presses a palm flat against the counter, breathing hard. The cool surface does nothing to soothe his skin, his pulse, his buzzing nerves, his absolute mess of a body.
Remus is here, at this party, laughing with Peter and Emmeline, when James promised when they agreed to come that he wouldn’t be. The son of a bitch swore up and down that Remus wouldn’t come, because he had work, because he was supposed to be at home, grading his students’ shitty drafts, too busy to go out, too busy to be here, too busy to be a knife to Sirius’ gut all over again. Because when people are busy, they don’t just show up at parties. They stay the fuck home.
But Remus, imagine that, is not. Not home. Not grading essays. Here.
Wait—no. No. Remus is here.
Sirius can smell him. That nightmare of a scent, that nauseating, sexy, absurdly delicious cologne, the one Sirius bought him for their anniversary.
His eyes drift across the dark marble countertop, tracing the orange-brown veins streaking through it, and in the span of five seconds, Sirius regrets every single choice that has led to him shoving a fistful of popcorn into his mouth.
“Hi, Sirius.”
Just like that.
Three years in one bed, five months apart, and all he gets is hi, Sirius.
Calm. Casual. So fucking Remus.
Sirius hunches into himself, like somehow, if he makes himself small enough, he can undo this whole night. Because this—this cannot be happening.
Or, actually? Of course it can. This is exactly the kind of bullshit that happens to him, because Remus, getting nothing back, steps closer. And naturally, he finds himself face-to-face with Sirius, whose face now no longer looks like Sirius' face.
No. His face currently resembles that of a hamster.
"Oh," Remus breathes, a barely-there smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
Yeah. Oh.
Sirius holds up one finger. A silent request for a minute. A minute to, you know, chew through the absolute mountain of popcorn currently expanding inside his mouth like it was scientifically engineered to ruin his life.
A minute to process the fact that he is standing in front of his ex-boyfriend of three years, whom he still loves, who is still somehow infuriatingly handsome, even five months later, who has descended upon this party like some celestial being, smelling like heaven, sin, the motherfucking holy spirit, and—
"Want some water?"
Oh, shut the fuck up, Remus.
Sirius shakes his head violently, jaw working overtime, chewing through his humiliation, and forces out the friendliest, fakest smile his tragic excuse for a face can produce. He tilts his chin up—because, of course, Remus is a skyscraper—and speaks, voice light, unbearably casual, like this isn’t ruining him from the inside out.
"Hi, Remus."
"Starving, huh?" Remus asks, tilting his head.
Sirius clears his throat. "Can’t deny myself the little joys in life."
His own voice makes him sick. The forced casualness of it, the fakeness. But what the fuck else is he supposed to do? Look the man he left like an idiot in the eyes and just admit it?
Yeah. No.
Remus shifts his weight, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking over Sirius like he’s looking for something. Did he lose anything? Did he? Because if he didn’t, then Sirius doesn’t see any point for Remus to stare at him at all, looking like that, so simple, stunning, devastatingly beautiful.
“Good to see you,” Remus murmurs. In his hoarse voice. Which sounds shitty, thank you very much.
"Mhm."
Remus moves his tongue to press it against his teeth, waiting. Expecting something. An answer, probably. Maybe even a polite one.
Sirius doesn’t give it to him.
He hates his politeness. It’s too composed, too easy, too attractive, and it wakes up far too many unwanted feelings inside him.
He drops his gaze to Remus’ godawful sweater with sheep on it. Christ.
"Why are you here?" he asks flatly.
Remus blinks, then lets out a quiet, amused breath. "Wow. Thanks. I’m doing great. Love the concern, very nice of you to ask."
Sirius scoffs. "I’m not blind, Remus. I can see you’re doing great."
"And what exactly makes you say that?"
Sirius ignores that because, fuck no, he’s not about to tell Remus he looks fresh, like nothing happened, and seeing Sirius is about as exciting as picking up a carton of milk at the grocery store.
Remus doesn’t elaborate, either. Sirius turns away, grabs the glasses, and finally focuses on pouring the wine. He immediately regrets grabbing two at once because now he’s juggling a ladle, a glass, and another glass, with no idea what the hell to do with any of them. It’s too much, and no extra hand, which would be so great to have right now.
He’s barely managing not to make a mess when Remus steps closer. Close enough that Sirius can feel the heat of him.
"The bangs suit you," he observes, voice casual, shamelessly invading Sirius’ space. "You had almost the same ones when we first met."
Move, asshole. Move. Move. Move.
Sirius shrugs. “Well, yeah, but back then they were shorter—”
"…Just shorter," Remus says at the same time.
They go quiet. Their eyes meet again.
Sirius looks away first.
“Lils and I thought it’d be fun to change things up,” he mutters.
Remus hums, nodding slowly, like he doesn’t have to try so hard to be so stupidly understanding all the time.
“Yeah, I get it,” he agrees. “I was thinking about it too.”
Sirius’ gaze snaps back to him. Looks him over. Nothing seems different—same messy curls, same quiet, infuriating expression. Same ugly sweater. Remus looks a little more put-together, but he’s still Remus.
“Booked an appointment at Dorcas’ salon this week,” Remus explains. “Gonna get my ear pierced.”
Sirius swallows, throat suddenly tight, ignoring the way his stomach twists low and deep. He focuses, hard, on not picturing Remus with an earring. It doesn’t go well. All Sirius can think about is smashing Remus’ foolish, pretty face between his thighs.
“I’m sure it’ll suit you,” he grits out, still wrestling with the ladle and the glasses.
Remus, watching him struggle, mutters, "Here, let me—"
"Don’t."
"Come on, just—"
"Remus, don’t—"
Remus does anyway. Obviously.
He holds the glasses while Sirius pours, and for a moment, it’s just this. Familiar movements. A well-rehearsed routine. Sirius tries not to think about it too much.
"Seriously, though, why are you here?" he asks.
Remus sighs, shifting his grip on the glass. "I just wanted to see Lily and Pandora. Lils said she wanted to make sure we saw each other before—"
He cuts off, abrupt and awkward. Staring at Sirius like an idiot.
Like more of an idiot with every passing second.
Sirius sets the ladle down. "Before what?"
Remus’ nose wrinkles, quick, involuntary. That old habit—the one he has when he says something he wasn’t supposed to say. When it slips out on instinct, because for years, he told Sirius everything, and now, there’s no Sirius. No more things to tell each other. No more anything.
“I, uh…” Remus sets the glasses down on the counter. “I’m leaving.”
"What, already?" Sirius quips.
“No, no,” Remus mumbles. “Not—not now. Early March.”
He says it without looking up, eyes fixed somewhere on the cut-off hem of Sirius’ t-shirt.
Sirius frowns. “Early March?”
“Yes.”
"Well, it's still a while away," Sirius says, trying not to let the curiosity that eats him up creep into his tone.
"Mm. Just a lot to do before then."
Oh, sure. Because obviously, that’s why he’s here. At a party, in their friends’ house, surrounded by people he supposedly doesn’t have time to see.
“Lily’s busy a lot, too,” Remus continues. “With Harry and Luna. Work too. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, we’ve had a lot of orders at the studio,” Sirius confirms. “Working on a big restoration right now.”
Remus nods. "Not the best time to sit around catching up with me, I guess." He reaches for the popcorn, grabs one piece, pops it into his mouth. Sirius looks away. "We don’t really get together much these days. Not like we did back at uni, anyway."
“Times change,” Sirius mutters, swallowing hard, the taste of mulled wine and bitter regret sticking to the back of his throat. “Where are you going, if it’s not a secret?”
Remus hesitates. Too long.
When he speaks, Sirius wishes he didn’t.
“Jamaica.”
Sirius' heart stumbles in his chest, picks itself up, and starts beating faster. Not that he lets it show.
"You… you don’t mind if I stay at the boathouse, do you?" Remus asks.
Sirius does everything in his power not to break apart right there. He clenches his jaw for a single, unbearable moment, then speaks.
"Not at all."
Remus shifts his weight from one foot to another, exhaling softly. "It’s just… you were the one who found it. Not me."
Sirius forces out a smile, easy, breezy, fake as hell.
“It’s fine,” he lies. “Happy to share.”
He’s not.
"I just thought it’d be right to ask," Remus says, carefully. "I was going to, really. Closer to when I leave."
"You don’t need to ask for my permission."
"But we shared it," Remus starts, then stops. His mouth presses into a tight line. "Back when—"
“We shared a lot of things, Remus,” Sirius blurts out. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
Silence. Long enough to stretch between them like a crack in the floor, one wrong move from splitting wide open.
Then, quietly, like it costs him something, Remus whispers, "You’re right."
Sirius remembers their first Jamaican summer like nothing else. The relentless sun, insects buzzing through the thick air, the sharp scent of salt, Remus’ fingers pulling at the waistband of his swim trunks, the bruises he left behind, red and deep blue against sweat-slick skin.
Jamaica is a good place when you have someone to share a hammock with, to sip disgustingly sweet cocktails with, to stretch out in the heat beside and feel like you can truly belong somewhere.
Sirius swallows. "So… will you be back before your birthday?"
Remus shakes his head. "No."
"You’ll celebrate there, then?"
"Looks like it." Remus’ fingers curl against his palm, a small, uncertain motion. "I feel… very solitary this time. I think I just want to spend it alone."
Sirius bites the inside of his cheek, presses down, then lets go. He still doesn’t turn around, because he can’t look at him.
"Lily’s going to be upset," he breathes, as if it’s not a trapdoor of a sentence that’s going to send him plummeting through himself. "She’d probably want to throw you a party. Find the dumbest excuse to invite you over, and then everyone would jump out from behind the furniture when you turned on the lights."
Remus huffs, the corners of his mouth tilting just slightly. "You used to do that on my birthday."
Sirius makes a soft noise in his throat, which never makes it to a real laugh.
“That was fun,” he agrees. “And you always knew what was waiting for you at home."
Home. The word tastes wrong, spoiled on his tongue.
Sirius presses his fingers into the counter behind him. It’s grounding, the pressure against his skin, the cold surface, the weight of it beneath his grip. He stays facing the stove, eyes locked on the tiles, refusing to give Remus even a glance.
"I liked it, though," Remus admits, voice quieter now.
Sirius bites his lip nervously, closing his eyes. The tightness in his chest shifts—not fading, just pressing into different places.
"Me too," he breathes out.
When he opens his eyes, Remus is there. Not too close, but close enough to make Sirius poor heart stutter. Remus doesn’t touch him, but he mirrors his stance, existing in Sirius’ space, breathing his air, without permission.
Sirius wants to say something. A joke, a sharp remark, anything at all, but his tongue is useless in his mouth, heavy and thick, like cotton soaked in mulled wine.
He’s so angry, and not angry at all. At this point, Sirius is just waiting—desperate—for a poisonous weed to wrap around him and choke him to death. He doesn’t even bother pretending he cares about keeping his garden alive anymore.
"Would you come?"
Sirius blinks, dropping hard out of his own head.
"What?"
"To my birthday," Remus clarifies. "If Lily threw a party."
Sirius clenches his jaw. Unclenches. Repeats.
“You didn’t come to mine,” he states.
Remus shakes his head. "I wasn’t invited."
"You’re always invited."
Ah. What a stupid thing to say.
Sirius was the one who ended it. He’s the one who shoved Remus out of his life, cut the thread, broke the spine of them, and set himself adrift in the wreckage. Now he’s the one choking on it, having the audacity to tell Remus he is always welcome.
"I thought you wouldn’t want to see me," Remus mutters, frowning.
Sirius stays quiet.
I always want to see you, his heart screams. I want all of you. I want to hold you, I want to undress you, I want to feed you, read with you, take a bath with you, wash your hair.
Not yours, his mind warns. Not anymore. Keep your hands to yourself.
His mouth doesn’t say a single thing.
"Do you, uh…” Remus begins, very hesitantly, “have someone special at the moment?"
Sirius doesn’t hold back the laugh that slips out, because his body—his own traitorous body—reacts before his mind can stop it.
"No, Remus." He keeps his eyes on the empty space in front of him, breath tight in his chest, heart rising higher and higher in his throat. "Do you?"
Next to him, Remus stills.
Oh.
It’s brief—barely a second, nothing at all—but Sirius feels it immediately. The crack before the impact. The warning before the wreck. A single pulse of electricity beneath his skin, sharp and hot, and then his vision blurs at the edges.
He’s going to hear exactly what he doesn’t want to hear.
"There’s just… a new friend."
A new friend.
Sirius grips the edge of the counter so hard it aches. If he pressed any harder, his knuckles would crack apart, the tendons in his hands snapping clean from his bones.
If someone asked, they’d say he’s insecure now—post-breakup, post-Remus, post-everything. And sure, that’s true, but it’s also not the point, because Sirius knows who he is. He’s always known. Remus made sure of that.
Remus, who picked him up, held him close, smoothed his rough edges, and turned him from a shaking boy into a self-assured, loud man, gentle at the core and silver at the center. Remus, who called him the best thing that had ever happened to him, because that’s what he was. Once.
And Sirius never thought, never even considered that anyone else could take his place. A special place.
Remus, the bastard, keeps talking.
"I mean, it’s been almost half a year—"
"Five months," Sirius corrects.
"You know what I mean."
"So you fancy them?" Sirius asks, and his tongue betrays him just as much as his body did. “That friend?”
Remus sighs, louder than he expected, loud enough that he startles himself. Sirius sees the way his shoulders jerk, just slightly, the way his breath catches at the tail end of the motion.
"No, Sirius. It’s not special special," Remus explains, measured, laying bricks on top of a hole in the ground, burying whatever’s underneath. "She’s a friend."
Sirius snorts, the sound slipping out before he can do anything about it.
"You don’t believe me, do you?" Remus asks.
Sirius wants to cry. He really, truly does. Because belief has nothing to do with this.
Jealousy crawls through his veins, cruel and electric, pulsing in deep, violet bruises. His mind fires off every nasty, possessive, completely insane thing he could say.
Maybe I should join you two. Sit down, have a glass of whatever wine you’re drinking, and show her the way to your bedroom, where I can demonstrate exactly how hard I can press you into the mattress when you’re underneath me.
Or maybe I should park outside your house tonight, watch you two through the window from my bike, just to ease my nerves.
Or maybe I should just get there first, lock the door from the inside, and tell her to go fuck herself when she knocks.
Remus doesn’t get an answer. Probably takes the silence as doubt, because he shifts on his feet and adds, cautiously, "It’s a different kind of connection. I don’t feel anything romantic toward her. She’s just… someone I spend a lot of time with."
Sirius hums. Noncommittal. Empty.
“I’d make a fool of myself before I made one of you,” Remus reassures.
“Don’t, Remus.” Sirius shakes his head. “You don’t have to explain yourself. You’re—you’re a free man.”
The second it leaves his mouth, Sirius wants to vomit.
A free man.
Free. As in open to new things. Open to someone else.
“No, Sirius, listen,” Remus presses. “Dora—she likes women.”
Dora.
Sirius barely has time to process the name before Remus moves, stepping directly into his space, boxing him in without touching him.
Tall. Broad. Solid. Looking like home and grief and a thousand things Sirius will never get back. A wall of freckles and scars and familiar heat, with his mouth so obnoxiously magnetic that Sirius can feel himself leaning in before he even realizes it. Gravity has been waiting to drag him back.
He feels how close Remus is, enough that Sirius’ body remembers exactly where to fit against him. He stands just near enough that Sirius can feel the warmth of him, can smell the wood smoke and cheap soap, the kind Remus refuses to replace because it’s eco-conscious.
God, he can’t stop looking. Can’t stop. His eyes drop against his better judgment, because Remus’ hands are flexing near his hips, scarred fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do with themselves, curling in and out of loose fists. Sirius’ skin practically burns with the memory of them.
He watches his nails—short, jagged, bitten down. His cuticles are a wreck, red and raw where Remus has chewed at them, worrying at his skin the way he does when his thoughts spiral and he doesn’t know how to stop.
Sirius used to grab those hands, still them with a kiss and a soft laugh, but now? Now, Sirius’ own hands stay glued to the counter behind him, fingers digging in the cold surface. He swallows, hard, throat dry, vision swimming.
This asshole is everywhere. Pressing into Sirius’ solar system again, as if he was never meant to leave it. And Sirius—oh, Sirius doesn’t want him to. He wants to keep Remus right here, caught in his orbit, spinning and spinning until the world ends. To sink his teeth into the feeling, let it crawl under his skin, settle in his bones, and never leave.
“I would never find someone that quickly,” Remus murmurs.
Sirius tries not to stop breathing, not to die right there, because these words come with such softness from Remus’ mouth, as if he still cares about Sirius’ mental cages and wants to do everything to stop him from overthinking. Which, to be fair, Sirius is perfect at.
He presses his lips together, bites down hard.
Remus doesn’t stop. "You don’t just… move on from that overnight. A breakup, I mean. You know that. And ours, it really—"
"Moony!"
Harry crashes into the kitchen at full speed, making an engine noise deep in his throat, bzzzz, gripping a plastic toy plane in his small hands. He leaps into Remus’ arms, and Sirius almost scolds him for it—because Remus has a bad back, a bad hip, a body that always aches in places it shouldn’t—but he doesn’t say a word.
It’s not his place anymore, after all.
"Harry!" Remus says, just as warm, just as easy, shifting him onto his hip the same way he’s done a thousand times before.
Harry thrusts the toy in his face, wings flapping under his fingers.
"Papa Reg said you were here," he informs. “Look at m’plane.”
“Splendid,” Remus admits. “I wish I had such a cool plane.”
Sirius ruffles Harry’s hair. "Where’s Papa Reg now?"
Harry shrugs, still focused on the toy. "Upstairs," he mumbles, then points the plane at Remus’ face again. “You can have mine.”
Sirius smiles at him involuntarily, grabs both glasses from the counter—his and Mary’s, now filled with mulled wine—and walks.
Remus frowns, eyes flicking to him.
“Sirius,” he calls.
“Thanks for the help, Remus,” Sirius responds, voice light. “See you. Have a good trip.”
He doesn’t wait a second longer. He leaves the goddamn kitchen.
Pandora and Lily’s house makes winter feel softer, though Sirius' insides still stay jagged. Lights flicker, music hums in the background, and voices weave through each other in tangled, easy conversation.
Across the room, Barty and Evan are crouched next to Luna, looping a strand of fairy lights between their fingers, holding them up for her. Luna, head tilted, watches them with wide eyes, fingers brushing over the tiny glowing butterflies tucked between the bulbs. She’s all Pandora and Evan, spun from gold and tan, except for the blue-green of her eyes. That’s all Regulus.
On the couch, Dorcas leans in toward Alice and Frank, laughing into the rim of her glass, a half-finished bottle of rum resting on the table between them. Pandora flies past Sirius in a blur of energy, curls bouncing, bare feet barely touching the floor, always moving, always glowing. She nearly collides with him on her way to the kitchen, probably looking for Remus. Or more wine.
Sirius doesn’t stop. He moves through the room, shoves Mary’s glass into her hand without explanation as he passes by.
"Took you ages!" Marlene complains.
"I’m not even in the mood for wine anymore!" Mary echoes. “Bad puppy!”
Sirius ignores them. He downs the rest of his wine, heat crawling down his throat, sets the empty glass on the first surface he finds, and takes the stairs two at a time.
James Potter is so dead.
Sirius finds him exactly where he expects to—standing in the doorway with Regulus and Lily, completely at ease, hand resting at Regulus’ waist while he speaks to Lily about who the hell cares what.
Sirius sees red.
"You!"
James turns just in time to be wrenched away from Regulus, shoved back against the wall with Sirius right in his face, breathing fire down at him.
"You promised me he wouldn’t be here!" Sirius spits, fingers tightening on James’ red shirt. "Not only are you shagging my brother, but you’re also a fucking liar!"
“Hey, we are married,” Regulus corrects. “Get off him, will you?”
James blinks, mouth half-open. "What are you talking about? Who?"
And that’s when Lily gasps, loud, and slaps both hands over her mouth. Fast and telling.
Sirius’ grip slackens as he turns to her, the realization sinking in all at once whose house this is. Who invited the guests.
"Evans."
Lily winces. "Shit, Pads. I’m so sorry."
"How could you?" Sirius tightens his grip on James' shirt again, fingers curled so tightly into the fabric that the collar strains against his knuckles. "You know how I—"
"Hey, maybe you could—" James gestures weakly at his throat. "I don’t know, ease up a little—"
"—how much this fucks me up, how awful the breakup was, and how he keeps walking around in that—that nightmare of a coat, looking like a goddamn scarecrow!"
Lily plants her hands on her hips. Regulus calmly pries James out of Sirius’ grip, and James immediately collapses into his arms with a dramatic sigh, head pressing into Regulus' shoulder like he needs comfort.
Sirius scowls at both of them.
"You know what, Sirius?" Lily glares. "You’re being selfish."
"I’m the godfather of your child!" Sirius throws out an arm, gesturing wildly. He turns, looking between James and Regulus. "Your child too!" Then back to Lily. "And Remus—Remus is no one! Just a friend!"
"Exactly," Regulus cuts in, unimpressed. "He’s our friend. You breaking up doesn’t mean he stops being one."
"Are you my brother or what?" Sirius snaps. "Whose side are you on?"
Lily folds her arms. "Shortie is right. We still want to see him, and we will keep seeing him, because we love him."
Sirius opens his mouth. Closes it.
Because, well. Fair point.
He mutters, quieter now, "I love him too. And I don’t like knowing that I can walk into one of my safe places and still—still run into him."
James sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Mate, come on. It’s not like you died. You saw him. That’s it. You don’t have to sit down and talk about your feelings."
Sirius throws up his hands. "Yeah, I fucking know that. He’s the one who apparently doesn’t. Keeps cornering me, trying to talk to me like we’re old friends."
”You are old friends,” Regulus interjects, raising an eyebrow.
"Were!" Sirius points a finger in the air, practically vibrating with frustration. Everyone stares at him. "Before we got together! Before we—before we almost got hitched—”
“In your head?” Regulus quips.
“Yeah, well, thank God you didn’t, because there’d be a lot of paperwork to deal with right now,” Lily mutters under her breath.
Sirius glares. "Don’t you joke about that. You know I’m deeply wounded."
Lily rolls her eyes. "I just still think your breakup was stupid."
"Stupid?" Sirius repeats dramatically. "You think having different views on the future is stupid?"
"I think making up that you have different views on the future is stupid," Lily fires back. "You didn’t even ask him anything, Sirius. You just ran straight for the breakup."
“Remus never talked about marriage or kids,” Sirius counters. “He doesn’t want it, and he definitely wouldn’t want it with a man who bolts the second things start feeling too permanent. It would be a mess, and he doesn’t need—”
“You’ve got to stop deciding what people need,” Regulus interrupts.
"That’s right," Lily adds. "Maybe deal with your attachment issues before trying to build a long-term relationship with a man."
James snorts. "Yeah, like you know anything about relationships with men."
Lily doesn’t even look at him. "Shut your mouth, Potter. I gave you my egg cell so you and Reg could raise our son."
Regulus lifts his glass. "And I gave my sperm so you and Pandy could raise our daughter."
Lily points at him. "Alright, that’s checkmate." Then she turns back to Sirius. "You know Remus is really upset, right? He doesn’t even understand why you broke up."
Sirius stiffens. His stomach drops.
"You told him?"
Lily shakes her head. "You asked me not to."
"I didn’t ask, I forbade you," Sirius presses. "And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s done. It’s over. I’m never dating again, anyway. I’ll die alone. No kids, no spouse."
“Great plan.” James snorts. “Best way to have a family. Just never date or have sex again."
"Shut up," Sirius mutters.
Regulus rolls his eyes. "You fucked up, idiot. Better to have no kids but Remus than no kids and no Remus."
"You shut up too, suckling."
"For God’s sake, you’re two years older."
James raises a hand. "Seriously, Pads. You think you did yourself a favor? You’re miserable. He’s miserable."
Lily nods. "He is."
Sirius chuckles. “Oh, yeah?” He glances at her bangs, the exact same length as his own. “Did that revelation come with the news that he’s off to Jamaica?”
James gasps.
Regulus whips his head around. “He’s what?”
Sirius doesn’t look away from Lily. “That’s right, Reggie. Remus is flying to our boathouse in our fucking Jamaica to celebrate his fucking birthday, and our darling Lily knew.”
"It’s not that simple," Lily backtracks, holding up her hands.
"How the hell did you let this happen?" James snaps.
"Oh, I’m sorry, is this three men against one woman?" Lily huffs. "This what we’re doing now?"
Sirius crosses his arms and walks away, stepping further into the room, where the walls are covered in Lightning McQueen posters, and coloring books, footballs, and jars of weird green slime are scattered across the floor. He drags a hand down his face.
"I don’t get it," he rants. "How can he just leave? It’s his birthday. We always spend it together. We all pile into the apartment, hide, and he comes home, already knowing we’re there, and makes a big surprised face anyway. Because that’s the tradition. He liked it, and he liked my chocolate cake."
"My chocolate cake, you lying bastard," Lily jabs.
“Everything was fine,” Sirius continues. “Everything was fine. And I ruined it.”
He stops suddenly, turning to look at them, wide-eyed, with the revelation splitting his skull open.
“Oh my god, I ruined it,” he declares. “I broke up with him.”
Regulus gasps mockingly. "No way."
Lily elbows him.
“Sirius, listen,” she says. “You still have a chance to fix this. A real chance. Meet up with him, actually talk like adults, go over your breakup, try to discuss what you want for the future. If your plans really don’t align—which, by the way, I highly doubt—then you can let go for good.”
James nods. "She’s right, Pads. You pulled that breakup reason out of thin air. Remus is great with Harry and Luna. He always loved having them over. Why the hell wouldn’t he want a family with you?”
“You’re his favorite person in the world,” Lily affirms. “That wouldn’t be a problem.”
To that, Sirius sighs deeply, gesturing toward his chest.
"Do you know what I am?" he asks.
James blinks. "What?"
“A dumbass?” Regulus suggests.
"I grew up watching people who were supposed to love each other tear each other apart," Sirius states evenly.
“I did too, so what?” Regulus retorts.
Sirius doesn’t like the prospect of his brother bombarding him with arguments, like his marriage to James, their kids, or whatever, so he just ignores him.
“I know how ugly it gets when people want different things and hold on anyway. I know how much damage that does,” he continues. “I refuse to let that happen to me and Remus.”
James stares at him for a second, then gestures wildly. “Then why the hell didn’t you just—ask him?”
Sirius stares at the floor. The silence that follows is thick enough to suffocate.
After a beat, he lifts his chin, stiffening his spine.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, I’m telling you all, for the last time," he states. His throat tightens, but he forces the next words out. "And from what I’ve heard, Remus already has a new… interest."
James frowns. "What are you on about?"
Sirius turns away, running his fingers over a random-ass giraffe figurine on Harry’s nightstand. "He said he’s been spending time with someone."
"Oh," Regulus exhales pointedly.
Lily clicks her tongue, irritated. "Not oh. It’s Dora," she explains, and it seems that this entire conversation is exhausting her. "She’s a humanities grad student at their university, wants to work as a youth counselor. They grab coffee from time to time. That’s it."
No one says anything.
Lily groans, tilting her head back. "She’s a lesbian."
"Ah," Regulus and James drawl simultaneously.
”Don't you ah,” Sirius explodes. “Don’t you ah! What if she—what if she looks at him one day and realizes she does like him? That she could—I don’t know, give it a shot? What then? Am I supposed to just watch that happen?”
“She’s a lesbian,” Regulus repeats bluntly.
“And you need to stop talking out of your ass,” James adds.
"Yeah," Lily says. "Remus isn’t even that hot."
Sirius slams the giraffe back onto the table and jabs a finger in her direction.
"Don’t you dare say that," he warns.
Regulus smirks. "Oh, sure. That’s where you draw the line."
“Christ, mate,” James whistles under his breath, “you’re still down bad.”
Before Sirius can answer, a soft knock echoes through the doorway. Everyone turns at once.
Remus stands there, holding Harry on his hip. Harry immediately stretches his arms out toward Lily, squirming.
"Moony, finally!" James cheers, grinning.
Sirius shoots him a look.
"Sorry if I’m interrupting," Remus says, stepping inside, shifting easily under Harry’s weight. He looks at Lily. "He was very insistent on seeing you."
"Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum," Harry chants, reaching out both hands for Lily, green eyes half-lidded, exhaustion pulling at his little body.
Lily smiles, stepping forward to take him, letting out a small oof when she lifts him fully onto her hip.
"God, you’re getting heavy," she mutters.
Remus passes him off carefully, and Lily leans in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
"Thanks for coming," she murmurs, as Harry collapses into her hold immediately, head flopping onto her shoulder.
Sirius watches, jaw tight, wishing he could do the same. No, actually, he wishes he could do a lot more than that.
"Thanks for having me," Remus whispers back.
He turns, greeting James and Regulus properly, a firm handshake, a brief hug, the casual kind of closeness that Sirius doesn’t get anymore. Regulus asks him how he’s been, and as Remus starts answering, James crouches slightly, nudging at Harry’s side.
"Cervatillo, ¿ya corriste suficiente? (Baby deer, have you run enough?)" he asks.
"Estoy cansado, papá. Luna no quería jugar con plastilina, (I'm tired, Dad. Luna didn't want to play with playdough,)" Harry murmurs back, voice small, all energy gone.
"¿Quieres dormir, cariño? (Do you want to sleep, darling?)" Regulus asks briefly, brushing a hand over his dark curls.
“No, papá,” Harry responds, shifting in Lily’s arms. Then, already switching back to English and sighing into Lily’s shoulder, he adds, “Just wanna cuddle with Mummy.”
Lily makes a soft soothing noise, pressing a few quick kisses into his curls as he tucks his head under her chin, little arms wrapping tight around her neck.
"My sweet boy," she coos.
James smiles, rubbing a hand over Harry’s back before glancing at Remus.
"So, I hear you’re, uh… going somewhere?"
His voice carries just enough of a knowing edge, and Sirius whips his head toward him, eyes wide.
Not only a traitor, but also a complete idiot.
Remus flicks his gaze to Sirius in an instant. Right. Obviously, Sirius told them, and no, he is not ashamed. Sirius Black is rarely ashamed of anything. He doesn’t even have the grace to look guilty.
"Yeah," Remus drawls, turning back to James. "Thinking of going to Jamaica."
Lily’s eyes narrow. "Thinking?"
Remus gives her a pointed look, mouth pressing into a sarcastic half-smile.
"Going," he says. "Tickets are already booked."
“No, Moony, don’t go,” Harry mumbles sleepily against Lily’s collarbone. “Me and Luna gotta make hot choc'late for our sleepover. We ain't stayed with you and Paddy in so long.”
Sirius’ chest locks up so fast it hurts.
Harry knows. He’s known for months. He gets it—that Remus doesn’t live with Sirius anymore, that they aren’t together, that the house isn’t theirs. But in this half-asleep, dreamy state, his little brain falls right back into the world that used to exist.
Remus doesn’t react. Just nudges Harry’s foot with his fingers, tugging lightly at his ankle, making him giggle quietly against Lily’s skin.
"We’ll make hot chocolate when I get back, blods," he promises. Calling him flower in Welsh, because that’s just what Remus does. Stays sweet all the time. "It’s only a few weeks."
Harry grumbles into Lily’s shoulder. She rubs his back, soothing him, and his grumble melts into a quiet hum, fully content.
If only he knew there won’t be any hot chocolate anymore.
There won’t be any sleepover, no him and Luna sitting cross-legged on Remus’ couch, giggling over cocoa mustaches. There won’t be any mornings where Sirius walks into the kitchen half-asleep, and Remus is already at the stove, making breakfast with a mug of coffee in one hand and the spatula in the other, hair a mess, eyes still soft from sleep.
There won’t be any of it, because Sirius broke it. He took three years and shattered them against the pavement like a dropped glass, nothing left but gleaming, useless pieces.
The mulled wine he drank too fast catches up all at once, washing over his brain in a slow, dizzy wave. His heartbeat is still erratic, breath coming too fast, and he knows it’s time to go.
Time to leave this party, leave this house, get away from Remus. Get back to his couch, where he’s been sleeping for weeks, and to his horrid reality show, to a life where Remus isn’t standing three feet away, breathing the same air, looking at him with those twinkling amber eyes.
Sirius turns to Harry.
"Tu restes chez tes mamans ce soir? (Are you staying with your mums tonight?)" he asks, voice light, his best attempt at normal.
They do this often, switching languages with Harry whenever they can. Sirius and Regulus often speak to him in French, though Regulus has a habit of slipping into Spanish whenever James is around. Pandora and Evan throw in Swahili, and Remus—well, Remus hesitates with Welsh, even though he shouldn’t. Harry still understands a lot.
The words slip out effortlessly, and Sirius knows the moment they land, because Remus shifts—a subtle thing, barely a motion at all, but Sirius feels it like a tripwire going off in his ribs.
He doesn’t have to look to know that Remus is staring. Sirius always feels it before he sees it, instantly remembering all the times he murmured French against Remus’ throat, against his jaw, against his stomach—
"Non, Paddy, (No, Paddy,)" Harry answers, fluent and easy, rubbing at his eyes. "Je veux rester chez papas. (I want to stay with dads.)"
Sirius raises an eyebrow, tickling the bottom of his foot. "Donc je te verrai ce soir? (So I'll see you tonight?)"
Harry laughs sleepily, squirming in Lily’s arms. "Oui. Je vais dormir avec toi sur le canapé. (Yes. I'll sleep with you on the couch.)"
Sirius smiles, squeezing his foot once before letting go. He lifts his gaze.
Remus is fixed on him, eyes dark and focused, as if the words have stitched themselves into his ribs.
Even before they got together, back when Sirius was just a flamboyant colleague of Lily’s, trying to impress a new guy in ther friend group, he'd casually slip into French without thinking about it. Remus would get this exact look—jaw tight, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab Sirius by the collar and shut him up with his mouth.
Sirius isn’t remotely better, if he’s being honest. He knows exactly where Remus is standing now, how far apart they are, how much space is between them. Not much and not enough.
He needs to smoke. Like, right now.
When he averts his eyes, they automatically find Lily. She is already watching him, eyebrows drawn together.
"You’re leaving?"
Sirius shrugs. "Yeah. Time to head home. Got a few things to do."
Regulus tilts his head, a little shit who can’t just exist peacefully without trying to make Sirius go mad.
"At nine on a Friday?"
Sirius glares, jaw tightening. Nasty shrimp.
He doesn’t look at Remus. Pointedly. The air feels too heavy, pressing against his skin, weighing him down.
He turns back to Lily. "I’ll drop Haz off on Sunday?"
That’s it, he’s just making plans. Nothing out of the ordinary. Perfectly normal.
Lily nods, still watching him carefully. "Sounds good. Pandy and I have Luna this weekend, so you can pick her up then too."
"Great," Sirius says, too fast.
He’s already moving.
Spinning on his heel, cutting across the room, slipping through the doorway before anyone else can pull him into another goddamn conversation.
"Don’t take forever," he throws over his shoulder at James and Regulus, already hitting the top of the stairs.
James calls after him, voice too amused, like he sees right through him.
"Missing you already!"
Sirius doesn’t respond. He takes the stairs too fast, practically flying down them, heart hammering against his ribcage, feet barely touching the ground. He grabs his trench coat from the hook, fur brushing against his cheeks, and bolts.
No goodbyes. No stopping to say anything to Marlene, Mary, Pandora, or anyone. Just the cold air slamming into him as he throws the door open, stepping out, out, out, away from the warmth, from the voices, from the pressing weight of Remus standing in the same room with him.
The streets are freezing, because no shit they are. End of February. March is so close Sirius could probably trip and fall into it, just a few days away, but winter is still hanging on like a disease. The snow is gone, the roads are dry but filthy, cold in that deep, sinking way, and Sirius’ teeth start chattering immediately.
He stops for a second, just long enough to dig through the pockets of his trench fur coat, fingers wrapping around his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He pulls one out, long and thin, exactly how he likes them.
Women's cigarettes, his mother used to sneer, because she was an idiot. Fucking embarrassing, assigning gender to rolled tobacco.
His hands shake as he lights it, but that’s just from the cold.
"So, you live with Reg and James now?"
Shit.
Shit, shit, shitshitshit.
Of course. Of course the bastard had to catch up to him with his stupid long legs, walking down this stupid frozen street in his stupid scuffed shoes, on these stupid miserable roads.
Sirius huffs, not turning around. "As if Regulus didn’t tell you."
"He didn’t," Remus says. Calm. Even. Too normal. "We don’t talk about you."
Sirius snorts. "Right." He inhales, smoke curling through his chest, burning the back of his throat. "And how’d you find that out?"
He finally turns. Narrows his eyes, and there Remus is, standing in his ugly coat, unbuttoned, like he’s not even cold, and underneath—that goddamn ridiculous sweater. The one with sheep.
"I heard."
Sirius spreads his arms a little, unimpressed. "From where?"
"Harry said you two would be sleeping on the couch together."
Sirius frowns. "You understood that?"
Remus shrugs, like it’s nothing. "I’ve understood most of what you say in French for a while now."
"You never told me that."
Remus huffs a small, humorless laugh.
"Ça fait de moi un menteur, non? (That makes me a liar, doesn’t it?)" he asks casually.
Sirius’ eyes widen, just a fraction. But he forces himself to recover fast, to mask the very real, very immediate crisis that sparks to life in his already messed-up brain.
Because this is a problem. A very serious problem.
French sounds so wrong coming from Remus’ mouth. Too smooth, too easy, too obscene. Sirius’ mind short-circuits. Not a single thought in his head except filth, filth, filth.
He exhales sharply, flicking ash onto the pavement in an attempt to ground himself.
"Why are you even going to Jamaica?" he asks, harsh and reckless. "Why not just go to your parents if you don’t want to celebrate here?"
“Ma and Dad went skiing in the Alps,” Remus informs. “Great snow this year.”
"Skiing?" Sirius shakes his head, incredulous. "Are they out of their minds? Your dad’s got bad knees. How the hell did you let that happen?"
Remus’ mouth twitches. A not-smile. "Guess I’m not getting Son of the Year this time around."
Sirius stares at him for a while. Then, because his retinas can’t bear the sight of Remus anymore, he snorts, shakes his head, and turns away again. Keeps walking. The cigarette burns between his fingers, smoke curling in the cold.
"Where are you going?" Remus calls after him.
"Home."
"It’s a hell of a walk to James and Reg's from here."
Sirius takes another drag before answering. His fingers are cold, stiff where they clutch the filter, but the heat doesn’t reach him, not really.
“My bike’s parked on the property,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” Remus presses. “You sure you can drive?”
Sirius chuckles, tossing him a lazy, unimpressed glance. He flicks the cigarette with his thumb, and ash drifts down, disappearing into the dark pavement.
"How would you know?"
“Your hands are shaking,” Remus states, matter-of-fact, like it’s just an observation and not the kind of thing you notice about someone unless you know them inside and out. “They always do when you drink.”
“It’s just from the cold.”
“Your lips are puffy, too,” Remus insists, still following Sirius, steps measured, hands shoved in his coat pockets. “You’ve got this drunk pout after having wine.”
Sirius laughs. No, more like giggles, a little too loud, a little too loose, because he’s frustratingly pathetic. Because of course Remus remembers that. Of all the things to notice, to keep tucked away in that smart, over-observant brain of his, it’s that. The way Sirius’ lips swell when he’s had even a sip of alcohol.
Remus is right, the mulled wine definitely hit. Sirius has always been a lightweight, knocked flat from the moment a wine cork so much as pops in his general vicinity. It takes barely a sip of wine to launch him into another dimension, so with the mulled wine, it's practically intergalactic. The sugar hits his bloodstream and catapults him into space.
Lily, though? Absolute monster. That girl could drink a full liter of gin and still wash the dishes, fold the laundry, and go through her entire ten-step skincare routine like a fully functioning adult, instead of passing out in a mess of eyeliner and blush.
Sirius takes another drag, exhales the smoke through his nose. “Don’t pretend you know me that well, Remus,” he mutters. “I’m not stupid. You saw me pour two glasses of wine in the kitchen.”
Remus doesn’t flinch. "You’re saying I don’t know you well?"
Sirius shrugs. Doesn’t bother looking at him.
“I have no idea,” he lies.
There’s a pause. Sirius hears it, feels it, the way Remus lags just a step behind, his boots shuffling on the ground. His steps grow uneven, and Sirius knows what’s coming.
"Can you stop for a second?" Remus asks.
Sirius doesn’t. "I’m going to the parking lot."
"Sirius, really, just—please stop. My hip’s acting up."
Ah. There it is.
Good card. Sirius stops immediately.
The muscle memory is too strong. Years of this—knowing exactly how Remus’ body works, when the pain is worse, how to adjust for it without making it a big deal.
Sirius doesn’t turn around yet. He inhales, fills his lungs with smoke, lets the nicotine sit in his blood for just a second longer than necessary.
Then, he turns around. Remus is watching him already, his honeyed eyes gleaming in the night.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
Sirius flicks the cigarette again, dropping ash between them.
"Why did you follow me?"
"Because you left too fast,” Remus explains. “I just wanted to tell you that you don’t have to leave the party just because I’m there. We can still talk. Be friends.”
“I don’t want to.”
It comes out fast, sharp, more of a blade than a sentence. Just to hurt, because Sirius can’t be reasonable about a single thing in his life, and it’s easier to be cruel. Because Sirius is a bitch, through and through. A hard person. A renegade and a thorned weed, just like his mother always said.
Because Remus looks like himself tonight, and Sirius can’t take it.
Remus doesn’t react. He breathes through it, as if he already knew this was coming.
"No?"
Sirius watches him. Feels his jaw lock, his fingers twitch at his side, itching to break his cigarette in two, just to do something with his hands.
"No," he replies. Steadier this time.
Remus nods once, accepting.
"Alright." He lifts his hands in some mockery of surrender, stepping back, making room. Being polite. "I wasn’t trying to invade your personal space. Have a good night, Sirius."
He moves to turn, and—shit. Something inside Sirius snaps.
Remus has always been like this. Contained, careful, difficult to shake. Sirius used to think it meant nothing rattled him, but now he knows better. Now he knows that Remus feels everything—he just doesn’t show it unless he wants to.
“You don’t have to be good all the time, Remus,” Sirius blurts out. “You know that, right?"
Remus pauses. Turns back, expression flat.
"I’m not trying to be good," he says.
"Oh, sure," Sirius scoffs. "Then I guess you just naturally radiate kindness, don’t you? Just happen to be self-sacrificing and understanding and noble at all fucking times—"
"I never said that, Sirius." Remus shakes his head, exhaling like he’s too exhausted for this, too used to it. "Don’t make shit up just because you want to land a hit."
"I don’t—"
Remus takes a step forward.
Sirius takes one back.
Instinct, because no. No, no, no. One more inch and Sirius knows himself too well. Knows that his body would move on its own, where his hands would go, how his mouth would slot right where it always belonged.
Remus steps closer, just slightly, like he’s testing the air between them, waiting to see if Sirius is going to bolt. He sees everything, obviously. Three years of knowing Sirius like the back of his hand, of reading every shift in his expression, every change in his tone, every craven step backwards.
The worst part? Sirius would bolt. If his legs weren’t locked in place, knees stiff, heartbeat too loud in his ears.
He grips his cigarette like a goddamn lifeline. Takes a drag he doesn’t even want.
"You think I don’t know what you’re doing?" Remus’ voice is quiet, but there’s weight to it now. "We lived together for three years, Sirius. I know the way you think. And it’s fucking impressive how you’ve convinced yourself that I can just… forget all of that in half—"
"Five months, Remus," Sirius corrects, cutting him off before he says half a year one more goddamn time. "Don’t tack on extra time to justify your little flings."
Okay. That one was low.
Remus blinks, eyes narrowing, like he can’t quite believe what he just heard.
"Flings?" he echoes.
“Yeah.” Sirius lifts his chin. “What else would you call it? What’s her name again? Dora, isn’t it?”
“It has nothing to do with her.”
Well. Yeah. Makes sense. Because it's true. Poor Dora has nothing to do with it. She just made the fatal mistake of existing at the same time as a traumatized motherfucker who can’t deal with his own shit for the sake of a healthy relationship.
"Why‘d you say that?" Sirius asks instead of shutting the hell up for his own good. "Feeling guilty?"
"Jesus Christ, Sirius."
"Oh, no, wait, let me guess. It’s different, right?" Sirius drags out the word, voice dripping with acid. "She’s not like that. It’s not like that."
“We both know what’s happening,” Remus says, calm. “You think if you poke the bear enough, I’ll snap first, so you don’t have to deal with what you’re actually feeling.”
"I’m not feeling anything."
Lie. Big, pathetic lie.
"Right," Remus says, but it’s not agreement. It’s tired. “You can pull this manipulative shit on other people. Won’t work on me.”
The look in his eyes is the same one Remus used to give Sirius when he picked fights just to get a reaction, just to feel the edge of something real when his own head felt too messy.
Sirius wants him to stop knowing. Desperately.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Remus knows him. He understands exactly what he’s doing, knows why he’s saying what he’s saying, notices how Sirius is already looking for a dramatic and cruel way out of this conversation before it’s even finished.
"Is that what this is?" Sirius presses, already feeling sick of his own theatrics. He lifts an eyebrow, eyes flickering over Remus’ face, his mouth, his throat. He shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. "Some little nostalgia trip for you? Trying to prove you still get me?"
Remus doesn’t take the bait.
“It’s insane,” he murmurs instead, tilting his head slightly, “that you think I just stopped caring.”
Sirius swallows. His fingers twitch.
“Act cruel so no one notices you’re miserable all you want, Sirius,” Remus adds. “Just don’t expect me to enjoy this performance.”
"I’m not miserable, Remus,” Sirius retorts, but it’s so, so, so weak. He flicks the cigarette away, barely glancing where it lands. His hands feel too empty afterward. “I’m doing great. Go analyze your new little interest."
For the first time, Remus sighs, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek, like he’s debating if Sirius is even worth his time.
Sirius realizes he’s not, and Remus should’ve seen it coming from the start, from when they first met and Sirius had flat-out told him, I don’t date, warning him not to stick around. From when Remus, stubborn bastard that he is, just smiled and promised Sirius they’d see.
Now, Sirius very much doubts he likes the view.
“There is nothing except friendship between us,” Remus reassures. “I already told you that.”
His tone is so steady. So infuriatingly sure. Sirius hates him.
Hates the way he just stands there, knowing everything without having to be told. Hates how he refuses to get angry, to yell, or fight, or give Sirius something tangible to work with. Hates the way his nature always stays soft, because he is soft. Remus is soft, and Sirius hates him.
He also wants to kiss him senseless.
"What if you two stop feeling this way?” he muses, suddenly feeling smaller, because anxiety starts to take hold. “What if she—"
"She likes women, Sirius," Remus interrupts. "I am a man."
Sirius’ mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together so hard it jolts through his jaw. As if that’s supposed to make him feel better.
Honestly, he couldn’t care less about Dora. She could be a nun or Mary the Virgin herself, and Sirius still wouldn’t give a shit. Because it’s not her. She’s a placeholder, a safe name to attach to the gnawing ache in his chest, but she’s not the real problem.
The real problem is that he and Remus were friends first. Sirius knows how this works.
It starts with easy conversations and late-night texts. Comfort, familiarity, and a closeness that sneaks in so quietly that you don’t even notice when it’s not just friendship anymore. And then, one day, you look at them, and your whole world tilts. That’s what happened with them.
One minute, Remus was just Remus. His good friend. One of those people who Sirius let in without burning everything to the ground first. The one who understood him, saw through his bullshit, and stayed anyway. And then one look. One stolen glance across the room where Remus was laughing at something James had said, head tilted back, eyes shining like liquid gold, and Sirius was gone.
Hook, line, and sinker—that’s how it was with them. Sirius is so terrified that it’s happening again.
Because if it’s not Dora—who is a lesbian, yeah, yeah—it could be someone else. Someone who isn’t Sirius. Who could stand in the wreckage he left and build something better.
He’s still holding on to whatever fragments of Remus he can keep. The barely-there pieces that no one else notices—the way Remus still calls him by his name and very rarely goes with Pads, the way he looks at him first when he walks into a room, the way he remembers that Sirius likes no sugar in his tea even though Sirius hates tea now.
Those are his.
What happens if someone else gets the rest?
What if someone else sees that quiet brilliance in Remus, the way he lights up a room without even trying? What if they get to trace the constellations of freckles across his nose, kiss that scar by his mouth, press their hands to the warm, solid weight of him and get the Midas touch?
Sirius’ heart lurches in his chest, the thought making his ribs feel like they’re caving in.
It wasn’t just friendship with them, and it won’t be just friendship with someone else. And when that happens, when someone else gets that look—the one Remus used to give him when Sirius was the center of his universe—Sirius’ heart won’t just break. It’ll shatter into pieces too small to ever put back together.
"You know what, Remus?" he mumbles, his fingers tapping nervously against his leg.
“What?”
“Let me tell you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t give a shit about your love life.”
“Okay.”
“We broke up, and—“
“We didn’t.”
Sirius’ head snaps up. "What?"
"If we’re sticking to facts," Remus speaks with that calm, steady voice that drives Sirius insane, "then we didn’t. You dumped me."
“Remus.”
"You ended it,” Remus insists. “Out of nowhere. And you never told me why.”
"I told you," Sirius begins, but his voice isn’t as confident as he wants it to be. "I told you we weren’t… a good fit."
"And who decided that?"
Sirius’ throat closes up. "I did."
“Right.” Remus nods. “You still feel that way?”
I never felt that way, Sirius wants to say.
“I just…“ he tries instead. “I don’t—I don’t need a relationship right now.”
Remus tilts his head, just slightly. It’s subtle.
“Heard this somewhere before,” he jabs. “Did it really take you three years to figure that out?”
Sirius’ mouth opens. Closes.
This is exactly where he doesn’t want to be. Cornered. Out in the cold, with Remus standing too close, demanding all the things Sirius is not ready to reveal.
He’s so tired. Of pretending, of performing, of putting on this ridiculous act like he isn’t coming apart at the seams. What he really wants? To close the space between them. To kiss Remus, to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, for another chance, for Remus to take him back even though Sirius doesn’t deserve it.
Too late for that, isn’t it? He’s too deep in his own embarrassing mess, and dramatics is all he’s got left. When everything else falls apart, when the ground shifts beneath him, Sirius does what he’s always done—puts on a show and plays for the crowd.
"Look," he begins, and oh, his throat is dry. His voice is all wrong. "Why don’t you just pack your bags, head to your little Jamaican boathouse, and leave me the fuck alone?"
It’s mean. That much is obvious.
But being mean is way safer than being vulnerable.
"That’s all you have to say to me?" Remus asks, quiet, almost gentle.
Sirius’ stomach twists.
Say no.
Tell him you’re sorry.
Tell him you’re a coward and you fucked everything up and you’re so in love with him that it hurts.
Sirius’ mouth doesn’t cooperate.
That’s what happens when you grow up with emotionally detached parents. You learn to expect disaster, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the scraps of happiness to be ripped away, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but ash.
Sirius knows how to want, but he doesn’t know how to have, because having means holding on, and holding on means risking everything when it eventually falls apart, and love becomes a currency, bartered and traded and taken away the second you start being too much.
“Yeah,” Sirius mutters finally, numb. “That’s it.”
“You want me to leave you alone?” Remus asks again, still so painfully careful.
Sirius’ hands shake violently. His fingers curl and uncurl at his sides, but he keeps his face impassive when he speaks.
“I want you to leave me alone.”
Remus watches him, the weight of that gaze pinning Sirius in place. It makes his skin itch.
After a beat, he nods. Sirius hates how accepting it is, like he’s just letting go, making peace with the fact that Sirius is never going to give him more than this.
“Okay,” Remus says quietly. “Drive safely.”
He turns away, just like that, those old school shoes giving him an extra inch, as if he needs it.
Remus is ridiculously tall. Sirius used to love that—the way he could press into him, let Remus fold him up like a letter, tuck him away like a secret no one else was allowed to read.
Right now, he watches that godforsaken beanpole walk away, and he doesn’t even try to move, although his body screams at him to go after Remus instead of standing there with his feet glued to the pavement.
Remus’ words are still ringing in his ears, soft and final in a way that makes Sirius feel hollow.
Okay. Drive safely.
As if Sirius hasn’t already crashed and burned. His mouth tastes like ash and regret, his lungs feel like they’ve collapsed in on themselves, and his mind is already running, because that’s what he does.
He ran from his parents, from that house where love was a loaded gun, cocked and ready, waiting for him to slip. He left and never looked back, and he told himself it was freedom.
He ran from Regulus, when they were younger—too angry, too proud, too scared to stick around and figure out how to be a brother to someone who was just as lost as he was. He left Regulus to deal with the wreckage of their family on his own, and it took years to fix that mess.
Sitius is so good at running and leaving before he can get left.
The thing is, no one’s ever told him what to do when he’s the one left standing.