Archive of Our Own

October 30th

The metal of the headband Caradoc insisted he wear digs into the soft skin behind Remus’ ears. It has two felt ears and some cotton balls hot glued to the top of it and it’s giving him a headache, low and buzzing behind his temples. 

The empty space next to him is still warm from where Caradoc had been persuaded off the sofa by James, dressed as a haphazard Indian Jones, in a tan button down half tucked into his pants and a fedora sitting crookedly on his head, to play a round of apple bobbing. 

James, five drinks in, had slurred his way through declaring Caradoc absolutely had to have a go at the bobbing, as, from what he’s heard —he had stopped here to give Remus a drunken, lopsided wink— Caradoc is quite good with his mouth. 

Remus had groaned at this, sinking further into the sofa, but Caradoc had only chuckled, squeezing Remus' knee once before standing up and following James to the other side of the room.

Remus watches them go, Caradoc reaching out to steady James as he bumps into various pieces of furniture, blind as a bat as he refuses to wear his glasses in costume. 

He loses sight of them soon after they duck beneath the slumpen ‘Happy Birthday’ banner festooned haphazardly from James and Lily’s ceiling. They’ve always celebrated Sirius’ birthday and Halloween on the same day leaving November third for a much smaller celebration.

“Our boys are currently neck deep in a bowl of communal spit,” Lily whispers into his ear, her breath tart from the wine on her tongue. Remus turns, finding Lily leaned against the back of the sofa, her red hair falling into her face, a pointed witch hat on top of her head, and her nose scrunched up in disgust. Remus snorts. 

“If he thinks I’m kissing him after that…” Lily trails off, gravely shaking her head. 

“Just give him some of Peter’s punch, the amount of alcohol that’s in there— I’m sure it will kill off all the bacteria, probably even dissolve the lining of his mouth for good measure.”

“Mmm,” Lily hums, “as if he needs anymore alcohol he just finished serenading Sirius from the fire escape.” 

“No,” Remus mockingly gasps.

“Yes,” Lily says, poking him in the shoulder, “and you missed it because you’ve been sitting on this damn sofa for the past two hours.”

“I’m tired.”

“It’s only 11.”

“As I said.”

Lily's green eyes squint at him in disapproval. They’re the colour of sea glass, harsh green and soft edges. 

“So…” she says. 

“So…” Remus echoes, uneasy. 

“You and Caradoc?”

Remus' eyes flick up to meet Lily’s. Waiting.

“You’re okay?”

Remus shrugs. His finger peels at the label on his lager. “‘Course.”

Lily frowns at him. Remus pretends not to notice. “I’m gonna get another drink, yeah?”

“Hmm,” Lily hums through pursed lips. 

And then Remus is up and off the sofa. He wobbles a bit, stumbling forward as his vision goes fuzzy from having stood up too fast and he reaches out a hand to brace himself against the wall as he makes his way to the kitchen. 

It’s quieter in here, the sound of the party muffled and distant, voices underwater, and Remus breathes in a crenulated sigh. Someone has left the window open, and the parky night air has found its way in, pushing past the ugly lace curtains. They ripple a bit as if caught in a current, the ebb and flow of a tide, and Remus stands there and watches them, letting the cold air settle into his bones before rummaging through the alcohol selection. He finds a few empty bottles before resigning himself to making a rum and coke. He pours it into a mug —the only empty cup he could find— and nearly spills it as cold fingers brush his lower back, tugging at his wool sweater. 

“What kind of costume is this, Remus?”

Remus looks over his shoulder to find Sirius leaning his hip against the kitchen island. He’s wearing a loose, alabaster silk shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to reveal ivory skin and bony wrists and around his neck are the tied ends of a black cape lined with red satin. There’s fake blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and his eyes, bright and glossed over with alcohol, are lined with kohl. 

“I’m a sheep,” Remus says, turning to face Sirius. 

Sirius’ eyebrows shoot up and then he lifts his drink to his lips. “You’ve outdone yourself, Remus,” he says around the rim of his cup. And then his eyes make their way up Remus’ height, his gaze stopping and holding at the top of Remus’ head. Remus watches as Sirius bites the inside of his cheek, eyes sparkling mischievously. 

“Shut up,” Remus says. “Caradoc made them.”

And then Sirius is stepping forward, closer to Remus. And Remus startles, backing up, his hip bones colliding with the bevelled edge of the tiled counter. Sirius doesn’t seem to notice Remus’ surprise as he continues to lean forward, his warm breath tickling Remus’ neck. And, for a moment, it reminds Remus of Sirius crowding him up against the cupboards in this same kitchen just last year, of Sirius reaching up and cupping the back of his neck, of Sirius kissing him until they were both out of breath, voices hoarse. But then Sirius pulls back and he’s got the stupid headband in his hand. 

Sirius leans against the island opposite Remus, and places the headband on his own head. And then he looks up, a smug little smile stretching out his lips, his eyes glossed over and unfocused, his pupils round and caliginous. There’s something dangerous in there, something that could swallow you whole. 

“Haven’t seen you in forever,” Sirius says. 

Remus shakes his head. “I saw you last week at the pub.”

“Yeah and you brought Caradoc. S’not the same thing. I miss you.”

Remus bites his cheek, wincing as his teeth find already raw flesh. 

Sirius fills the silence again: “Enjoying the party?”

“‘Course,” Remus nods. 

Sirius snorts. “Right,” he says, voice teasing, “that’s why you’ve been sitting on the sofa the whole time.”

“You sound like Lily,” Remus huffs, pushing off the counter to dig in his back pocket. “Hey, I got you something.”

Sirius looks up at him in interest. “Yeah?”

Remus hums, handing over a gift folded up in tissue paper, and Sirius sets down his drink to accept it. 

Remus watches nervously, scratching idly behind his ear, as Sirius’ lithe fingers carefully unravel the present from the paper, revealing a wrist watch. Sirius turns it around in his palm, his thumb rubbing against the glass of the clock face, and Remus starts babbling. “It’s from the charity shop across from our— across from your flat. It didn’t work when I got it, but I fixed it up. It's a bit worn though and I know you can afford to buy your own watch, one probably a lot nicer than this one and I was going to give it to you on the third but I thought if you didn’t like it I could sell it at the pawn shop tomorrow and give you the quid for it instead or—” 

“It’s lovely,” Sirius interrupts him.

“Oh,” Remus says, dropping his hand from his ear. And then: “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you tosser,” Sirius says, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “I haven’t been to the charity shop since you moved out.” He looks back up at Remus. “Help me put it on?”

Remus nods, agreeing, and turns to set his drink down before stepping forward. Sirius hands him the watch and offers his arm and Remus ducks down, his thumb brushing against the crepuscular veins of Sirius’ wrist as he does up the clasp. “There you go,” he says, carefully turning over Sirius' forearm so the clock face is up. His voice comes out just above a whisper, brittle, something lost in the whistle of the draft through the open window.

Sirius looks up tilting his head to meet Remus’ gaze. “Thank you, Remus.”

“Happy birthday,” Remus says, voice thin and strained, filipendulous.

Sirius’ lips curve into a smile, his eyes wide and round as he looks up at Remus through his eyelashes. There’s flakes of eyeliner freckling the top of his cheek and Remus has a horrible urge to reach up and thumb them away and he quickly steps back, dropping Sirius’ wrist. 

“I should find Caradoc,” he says.

Sirius watches him carefully. “Okay,” he says. 

And then Remus is gone, hastily striding down the hall, fingers pulling at the threads of his sweater, his mug of rum and coke forgotten on the counter. 

He nearly runs right into Caradoc. 

There’s an apple held between Caradoc’s teeth and he takes it out to smile at Remus, jocose and bright, and then he takes in Remus’ state, and his expression twists into concern. “You okay? You look shaken.”

Remus shakes his head. “M’fine. Just, do you want to head out?”

Caradoc’s eyebrows crease. “We’ve only been here for a couple hours.” And then: “What happened to your ears?”

“What? Oh, it was giving me a headache,” Remus waves him off. And then Caradoc’s gaze shifts past his shoulder and Remus turns to see Sirius walking down the kitchen hall. He doesn’t have the headband on his head anymore but he still has it, held between his fingers, and Remus turns back around to face Caradoc. He leans forward, hand resting on Caradoc’s hip bone. “I’m tired, let’s go, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Caradoc says, and then turns to meet Remus’ gaze. “Yeah, let’s go.”

November 3rd

Remus is twenty-five minutes late by the time he pushes his way into the Three Broomsticks. He stomps off his shoes on the tufted doormat, shakes off his rain-soaked umbrella, and then makes his way over to their usual corner table. 

“Sorry,” he says, pulling out the chair next to James. “Missed the bus.”

Remus looks across the table, at Sirius. ‘Happy Birthday,’ he mouths and gets a smile in return. 

After hanging his coat over his chair, Remus takes his seat and James leans over, indicating the two bingo sheets laid out in front of him. “Rosmerta let me set up cards for you and Caradoc.” 

“Oh,” Remus says, “it’s just me actually.”

“Oh? Caradoc not feeling well then?” James asks, not missing a beat, one ear on the announcer, as he leans over to cover ‘12’ on his bingo card. He reaches over to place a chip on the ‘12’ of Remus’ card as well. 

“Er, no, we sort of, well, we sort of broke up.”

James falters at this, turning to finally look at Remus. “Oh,” he says. 

Lily leans over to squeeze Remus’ arm.

“Shit,” Peter says. “Sorry, Remus.”

“That’s too bad. He was a nice bloke. Unless of course he wasn’t,” James says, giving him a meaningful look, and Remus shakes his head.

“No, nothing like that. Nothing dramatic. We don’t need to talk about it, really.”

James nods once and then turns back to his bingo card, nudging a full mug of ale closer to Remus who accepts it gratefully. 

He takes a sip, turning to look around the pub, full to the brim with old ladies with coiled perms and lace-trimmed sweaters, and, when he turns back to the table, all of his friends are hunched over their bingo cards, all except Sirius, who is watching him with curious eyes. And then James leans over, one finger tapping a space on Sirius’ card. “They just called ‘32,’ mate, you missed it.” And Sirius blinks and then looks down and covers the space with a chip. 

There’s a few more rounds of bingo before the announcer calls it quits and half the pub clears out. The five of them stay for a bit longer though, swapping stories from their early university years, and it feels just like old times; Lily finding her way onto James’ lap; Peter, drunk and riant, insisting they all try a shot of the oddest named tequila on the menu (something called Dragon Breath) which tastes awful and burns like hell; Remus coyly attempting to recount the-off-limits-never-to-be-discussed-again streaking incident of their first year and Sirius kicking him under the table and squinting his eyes at him in warning and Remus sending him a smirk, eyes sparkling with mirth. And Remus feels warmer and brighter than he has in months and it has nothing to do with the Dragon Breath tequila. 

“I can’t believe I’m twenty-two,” Sirius sighs. They’re standing outside, beneath the glow of a street lamp. They parted ways with James, Lily, and Peter at the pub, the two groups headed in opposite directions, and now it’s just the two of them standing in front of the flat they used to share. The amber molten light above them reflects prettily against the wet pavement and Sirius is rocking on his heels, never one to stay still, the light kaleidoscoping across his face, light then shadow, light then shadow. It’s dizzying and Remus looks away, down at the ground, taps the tip of his umbrella against the toe of his boot. 

“Practically ancient,” he agrees and Sirius reaches out to elbow him in the ribs.

“Went out for bingo on your birthday,” Remus continues, a smile rolling out of his mouth, “by next year you’ll be plucking out grey hairs.”

“You take that back,” Sirius says, sneaking his cold fingers beneath Remus’ sweater and pressing them between the notches of Remus’ ribs. Remus yelps, pushing him away.

“And I didn’t know it was bingo night. James tricked me, said there’d be drinking games. Was fun to watch him grow red in the face as all the old ladies showed him up though.” Sirius grins up at him, coquettish and warm, and Remus returns it with a dopey smile of his own. 

“Coming up?” Sirius asks. 

“It’s getting late. I shouldn’t.”

“It’s not that late,” Sirius says, making a show of stretching out his arm to read his new watch under the light of the lamp. “It’s only 10:54.”

Remus scoffs and Sirius continues: “Just one cup of tea, Remus.” And a few minutes later he’s sat on the sofa while Sirius busies himself with the kettle in the kitchen. 

“Do you still take your tea with an ungodly amount of sugar?” Sirius calls from the other room.

“It’s been four months, Sirius. And no, just the two teaspoons.”

He thinks he hears Sirius snicker from the other room, but he ignores it. Instead, he traces an old stain on the sofa with his fingernail. It’s from the beginning of the year, when Sirius had laughed so hard at James’ piss poor attempt at karaoke, that beer had come out of his nose. They had never been able to get the stain out. 

Everything is more or less how he left it. There’s a watermark stain on the coffee table, there’s still a hook for the keys by the front door, Sirius’ cigarettes are still sitting on the window sill, there’s a scratch on the wood floor that’s half covered over by a rug and in the corner of the living room there’s a table for Sirius’ record player and spinning on it now is the Aftermath album which Remus knows skips three fourths of the way through Lady Jane . 

It’s weird, he thinks, to be a stranger in his old flat. 

“Can I ask you something?” Sirius asks, handing him a mug of tea and then moving to sit on the empty armchair. 

Remus beckons Sirius on and then ducks down to take a sip. 

“Why did you and Caradoc break up?”

“Oh,” Remus says, spluttering on half-choked tea, “er—” Sirius shakes his head. “It’s fine, Remus. You don’t have to tell me now. Just— I mean, did it happen today?”

“No,” Remus says around a swallow, “a couple of days ago.”

Sirius frowns. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know,” Remus shrugs, eyes on his tea. “I guess I was waiting to feel sad about it. But he broke up with me and I just— I felt nothing. I wasn’t sure how to act.”

“If he broke up with you he’s an idiot,” Sirius insists, leaning forward in his seat to make his point, grey eyes vehement and sincere, and Remus feels a bit guilty. 

It’s then, gratefully, that the record reaches the skip, a harsh hissing sound breaking the silence as it skitters to the end of the song and Remus takes the excuse to look away and towards the interruption. Eventually, the beginnings of Under My Thumb starts up and Remus looks back down at his mug, tapping the side of it with his forefinger and shrugs. “He had his reasons. Good ones, I think.”

Sirius leans back in his chair, crossing his legs at his ankle. His socked feet reach Remus’. “Doubtful,” he says.  And then: “I never liked the bloke.”

Remus huffs a laugh at that. “You’ve never liked any of the guys I’ve dated; Caradoc, Gideon in first year, Benjy that one summer.”

Sirius’ fingers come up to fiddle with his earring, a gold hoop he had forced into his lobe their first year at university— apple, needle, and a bottle of isopropyl. “Well, you have terrible taste,” he says. 

“Mmm” Remus hums, “cheers for that. If it’s any consolation, none of them have ever liked you either.”

“Yes, because they’re intimidated by my good looks and charisma.”

“Something like that,” Remus says and then finishes off the rest of his tea. 

November 11th

When Remus wakes it’s raining. The sky grey and minatory outside his window, the rain rhythmic on the glass. And when Remus gets up to make his toast, the kitchen window leaks from where the seal has broken. With a yawn, Remus places a mug to catch the rainwater. 

It’s a slow morning as always; yawns and bleary eyes and shuffling gaits. And then, ten minutes before it’s time to leave, it’s a mad rush; stuffing the last of the toast into the side of his cheek, hastily throwing a sweater over his head, shoving his feet in his boots. Routine. Except Remus can’t find his umbrella and so he grabs his brown woollen coat and ducks under it, back curved and chin to his chest, as he walks to class. 

It does little to keep him dry and by the time he makes it to the university the wool of his coat is soaked through and the tips of his curls are weighed down and plastered to his forehead. An hour of English Lit dries them both half way through, but the rain is still bellicose outside, hard on the brick walkway, and so Remus pulls his coat back above his head, the dampness on his neck making him shiver. 

He shoulders open the door and turns immediately to the left to keep under the cover of the building's awning for a bit longer and nearly runs into someone leaning up against the side of the building. He steps back in surprise and warm fingers reach out to steady him.

“Hello,” Sirius says, mouth pulled to the side in a vivacious half grin. He’s leaning up against the wall, eyes bright, and one hand extended out to grab at the fabric at Remus’ waist to keep him from toppling over.

Remus opens his mouth to respond, but Sirius is already speaking again. “You forgot this,” he says, letting go of Remus' sweater to open up an umbrella. 

Remus blinks up at the familiar red nylon. “Where did you get that?” 

Sirius lifts one shoulder dismissively. “You must have left it at mine on my birthday. Didn’t notice it until this morning when I went looking for mine. You stuck it in the metal tin by the hall closet, right next to mine, force of habit I suppose.” 

Remus blinks and Sirius kicks himself off the wall and starts walking forward, into the rain, past the building's awning, the rain turning from pelts on brick to soft pitter-patters on the umbrella, hitting the nylon and then rolling off the side. 

“Coming?” Sirius asks, turning around to face him. 

“It’s my umbrella,” Remus retorts. 

Sirius shrugs, nonchalant, and takes a couple steps backwards, further in the rain, eyes glistening. 

Huffing, Remus hurries forward to duck under the nylon cover. 

Sirius grins up at him, lubricious and wide. “Fancy some tea?” he asks and then starts walking without waiting for an answer. 

There’s a small cafe tucked away in a corner just on the outskirts of the university. It’s mostly hidden behind a mimosa tree that flowers prettily, big bouts of golden foliage come spring. But now, as winter approaches, its branches hang like skeleton limbs, reaching out and blocking the entrance door. The two of them have to duck under it to enter. 

A bell rings above the door as they walk in, but no one in the crowded cafe pays them any mind as they stamp their wet boots on the heathered doormat.

Sirius and Remus used to come here during revision weeks, neither of them minding the noise, preferring it over the sterile quiet of the library. 

A couple weeks into dating Remus had taken Caradoc here. They had wound their way through the labyrinth of tables, past patrons in lively conversations, sipping on their tea, to a little table in the corner, a crochet quilt strewn over it. With saucer eyes Caradoc had taken in the cafe, his gaze epitonic. And after the waitress had set down their mugs of tea, crowding up their small table, Caradoc had frowned down at his mug. ‘Quite quaint, isn’t it?’ he had said and Remus had watched the pejorative wrinkles between Caradoc’s brow form as he leaned down to sip his drink. ‘It’s charming,’ Remus had replied stiffly, feeling a need to defend it. Caradoc’s lip had twitched at that. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘that’s what I meant.’

Now, Sirius and Remus find an empty table by the fireplace. The back of Remus’ chair faces the flames so he lays his wool coat over the back of it so it may dry by the heat. 

As soon as they’re sat, the waitress comes to take their order and, when she returns with their drinks, Remus leans forward to scoop some sugar into his tea. Sirius watches him, chin in his hand as he fights off an amused grin. 

“Quit it,” Remus hisses. 

“You know,” Sirius says, “I came here twice this term and both times the waitress asked after you. Said, ‘What happened to your friend? The gangly fellow with the devilishly good looks? The one who always dumps the whole sugar pot into his tea?’”

“Shut up,” Remus mutters, kicking him under the table, heat rising to his cheeks, to his ears. Sirius chuckles and reaches for the milk. 

“Have you been here at all this term?” Sirius asks, pouring some milk into his tea.

“Once,” Remus says, biting the inside of his cheek. “With Caradoc.”

Sirius’ eyes flicker up at that, unreadable as they meet Remus’ and then he looks away, off to the side.

“He didn’t care much for it though,” Remus adds. For some reason, it seems important. 

It works. Sirius turns back to him, tide and moon. “His loss,” Sirius says, gaze unwavering. 

Remus’ heart is a snare drum in his chest. 

He brings his mug up to his lips. “Yeah,” he susurrates, amphoric against the ceramic rim of his cup, and then he swallows down his tea and looks away. 

Sirius nudges his foot with the toe of his boot. “Tell me about your class today,” he says. 

Remus shakes his head. “It’ll bore you.”

“Tell me anyway.”

And so Remus does. And Sirius listens, leaning forward, eyes lit with interest.

November 15th

The first thing Sirius says to him after Remus opens his door, bleary eyed and still dressed in his pyjamas is, “Do you have any flour?”

“Huh?” Remus asks, voice thick with sleep, as he rubs at his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Sirius is standing on his doorstep, outlined in gold from the sun just beginning to rise behind him, fully dressed, mixing bowl in hand.

“Flour, Remus,” Sirius says, like it’s obvious. Flour, Remus. 

“I— maybe? Why?” But he doesn’t get an answer as Sirius slips past him and lets himself in. Remus rubs at his face, sighs, and then reaches out to close the door Sirius had left ajar. 

He finds Sirius in his kitchen, opening up the cupboard doors at random. There’s morning sun spilling out of one of the windows, dazed dust motes hovering, trapped in the beam of light.

“What are you doing?” Remus asks, leaning against the refrigerator. 

“Thought I’d make some empire biscuits.”

“Empire biscuits?” Remus asks, voice coming out all splintered. 

Sirius looks over his shoulder at him. “That was her favourite, wasn’t it?”

Remus bites down on his cheek, his fingers reach up to pull at the ring dangling from a chain around his neck —his mother’s wedding ring— and, horrifyingly, he feels tears welling in his eyes. 

“Remus?” Sirius says carefully sounding out the vowels. He steps forward, his hands out, his face uncertain. 

Remus shakes his head. “The flour should be in the far left cupboard,” he manages, voice strained. 

Sirius doesn’t move though. He just stands there considering Remus, thoughtful grey eyes scanning over him. The air around them feels thick and heavy and Remus’ grip on the ring is so taut there’s likely an imprint of the chain already dug into the back of his neck.  

Outside someone hauls their trash into the bins and Sirius seems to remember himself, nodding once and turning to retrieve the flour. He measures some out and then dumps it into the mixing bowl he brought with him. And then he’s back to opening up drawers, making his way across the small kitchen, pausing at one to root through it, pushing aside kitchen supplies at random. 

“I’ve been looking for this,” Sirius says, turning to face Remus, wooden spatula in hand. “This is mine, Remus.”

“That’s not yours,” Remus says, finally dropping his ring and walking forward to stand next to Sirius. “I stole that from James last year.”

“Well the tosser stole it from me first,” Sirius replies, frowning down at the utensil as he turns it around in his hand. 

“Mine now,” Remus grins. 

Sirius hums and then looks over at Remus, eyes dropping down to Remus’ tattered flannel bottoms. “You can lie down if you want, Remus. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t wake me.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows, and looks up at Remus’ bedraggled curls, anfractuous and probably sticking up in all directions. Remus rakes his hand through it a bit self-consciously and then reaches out to take the spatula. “I want to help,” he says. “I’ll mix.” 

“Alright,” Sirius says, handing the bowl over, before walking over to turn on the oven. 

When he returns, he stands next to Remus and sprinkles some flour onto the counter, preparing to roll the dough. They’re so close their elbows reach out, clumsily knocking into each other. 

“Thanks,” Remus murmurs, voice low, sotto voce.

“Of course,” Sirius whispers back. “Didn’t want you to be alone today.”

Later, they eat the biscuits on Remus’ ratty orange sofa he found on the side of the road. It’s softened from wear and when they sit on it they crumble together, elbows to elbow, thigh to thigh.

Sirius makes a big show of checking his watch before leaning over to change the channel of the TV. The screen flickers with purple and pink snowflakes and then an animated Jimmy Durante is marching forward. “I suppose it all started with the snow,” he says and Remus recognizes it immediately, a nip to the heart. 

“I remember,” Sirius says, eyes still on the screen, “when I went to yours during Christmas break our first year and she had us watch this every time it was on the schedule.” And then Sirius turns to smile up at Remus, small and warmed, honeyed, and then he turns back to watch the program. And Remus watches him, the technicolor lighting up his face, and Remus realises it has never gone away.

It’s been months since he moved out and started dating Caradoc, even longer since Sirius told him he ‘couldn’t do this anymore,’ whatever this was, whatever they were. It’s been a little over a year since Sirius had kissed him for the first time on Halloween, crowding him up against the counter, whispering ‘Hey, you’ in his ear, breath warm with alcohol. A little over a year since Remus had tried half-heartedly to push him away, whispering, ‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’ To which Sirius had said, ‘Give me one reason why not,’ and Remus had stood there unable to say, ‘Because I'm in love with you, because I’m scared of what that love may do to me,’ and unable to come up with anything else, choking on a couple years worth of unsaid words, and so he’d just let it happen, more than just let it happen— fingers pulling at Sirius’ hair, at the buttons of his shirt, gripping onto his hip bones rough enough to leave marks. And then he let it happen again and again and again. It’s been three years since the boy across the hall had knocked on his dorm door to introduce himself, posh accent, ironed-down shirt, lithe, clever fingers pushing long black hair from his face before extending his hand out in offering. Three years since Remus had stared down at that hand, a bit bewildered, before reaching out to grasp it and Sirius had smiled up at him, butterscotch sweet, and his hand had been soft and warm and Remus hadn’t wanted him to let go. The feeling has never gone away. 

Five minutes in, when the Frosty the Snowman title sequence and opening credits appear on the screen, Sirius makes to stand up. “Well that was quick,” he says, voice bright and teasing. And Remus reaches up to tug at his sleeve and pull him back down. “Shut up, you.” 

And later, when the magician on screen says, “I must get that hat back. Think nasty, think nasty, think nasty,” Sirius leans over and repeats it into his ear, “Think nasty, Remus. Think nasty.” And Remus pushes him away, huffing. “Insufferable.” 

And then, wordlessly, Sirius hands Remus another empire biscuit —his mother’s favourite— as they watch his mother’s favourite holiday movie because Sirius remembered. And he remembered the date of the anniversary and he didn’t want Remus to be alone today. And Remus looks over just as Sirius licks off a bit of raspberry jam from his finger, pink tongue poking out. And something warms at the base of Remus’ belly, at the edges of his heart from where Sirius’ fingers had reached forward three years ago, soft and warm and butterscotch sweet, and squeezed. 

November 25th

With long strides, Remus hurries to his seat. “Hey you,” Sirius whispers into his ear as he sits down. Remus smiles over at him and then leans over to take the program James is holding out for him. 

“Mary is on page 6, Marlene and Dorcas on 9,” Peter says from the other end of the row, speaking over the other three’s heads and Remus nods his thanks.

As he flips through the pages to find his friend’s names, Lily leans over James and Sirius to reach Remus. “If you brought any snacks, hide them. The ushers are watching like vultures. They confiscated my peanuts.” 

“Amateur,” Sirius mutters, gently turning over Remus’ hand and pressing something into his palm. Remus slowly uncurls his fingers to reveal a handful of Minstrels. And, when he looks back up, Sirius winks at him, patting the pocket of his letter jacket, the plastic of the candy bag crinkling. Remus shakes his head and then looks around for any nearby ushers before popping them into his mouth.

Soon after, the lights dim, red curtains are pulled apart, and the play begins. 

The first act opens in a well decorated parlour; a chaise lounge, a small tea table, potted plants, and a bookcase stuffed to the brim, the walls painted a saffron yellow, and off to the side, is a winding staircase that the actors use to enter the stage; All put together under the meticulous hand of Dorcas Meadows, the set designer. 

Mary, playing one of the leads, doesn’t enter until almost an hour in, but when she does she has the whole crowd chuckling. She’s always been particularly good at her comedic timing, knowing just how to pace a line as she walks across the stage, lifting the skirts of her dress —a pretty red thing with lantern sleeves and lace trim and bows sewn onto it that Remus knows Marlene has spent many a nights labouring over. 

And, as the curtain closes at the end of the show and the lights turn back on, the audience claps long and hard, James’ whistling ringing above the crowd. 

Afterwards, the cast and crew and all their friends pile into the pub across from the university to celebrate. One of the actors, a tall lanky fellow with bright orange hair, declares the first round on him and everyone cheers. But then the barman whispers something in his ear and he gulps and takes it back. Everyone is having a nice time though, sipping their drinks and sharing baskets of chips, and showering the cast and crew with praises. 

There’s a few fallen flower heads from the bouquets bestowed on to the actors and Sirius reaches down to pick up a discarded dahlia. He tries to tuck it into the mop of Remus’ hair but Remus squirms away, batting it away with his hand. And Sirius just ends up throwing it at him, the flower hitting the side of Remus’ head lamely before falling back to the floor. Remus huffs and turns back around to find Lily curiously looking between the both of them. 

Marlene and Dorcas find their way to their table, squeezing into the booth bench, and James insists on buying them their next round “and Mary’s too, wherever she is .” And then he leaves to get the drinks and comes back with Mary in tow. 

Mary laughs as James hurries to fetch her a chair so they can all crowd around the small table. And then the eight of them —James, Lily, Remus, Sirius, Peter, Marlene, Dorcas, and Mary— sit around drinking and catching up and laughing. 

A couple more drinks in, Sirius excuses himself to get some fresh air and Remus waits all of a couple minutes before getting up to follow. 

He finds him outside, leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette lit between his fingers, his face turned up to the sky, at the pale crescent moon arching into the dark of the night. His chest lifts as he sucks on the end of the cigarette and, as he blows out the smoke, Remus finds himself watching the curve of Sirius’ lips and suddenly Remus is back in first year seeking out Sirius behind the dorm halls, feigning forgetting his lighter so that Sirius might lean forward and light his fag with his own. 

“So much for fresh air.” 

Sirius lolls his head over, slowly, casually. His grin falls from his mouth like dominos. “You’re one to talk,” he says, handing over the smoke to Remus who takes it and leans against the wall. 

Sirius turns towards him, close enough that his breath flits through Remus’ curls. His eyes are wet with alcohol. 

“I know just what to get you for Christmas,” he trills. 

Remus gives him the side eye and passes over the cigarette. Sirius gets like this when he’s drunk; bright and bubbly, speaking like a joke is always on the tip of his tongue. Though, he’s never been a funny drunk. 

“A lighter and box of your own cigarettes,” Sirius says, “so you’ll stop mooching off of me.”

“You’ve never complained.”

“No,” Sirius agrees, handing the cigarette back. “Maybe a watch of your own then. You’re always running late— today, bingo. Fashionably late only works if you’re actually fashionable, Remus. Maybe that’s what I’ll get you. A nice leather jacket.”

“What? So I can look like the likes of you?”

Sirius shoves him with his shoulder and Remus laughs through the exhaled smoke. “What should I get you then?” Remus asks. 

“Hmm?”

“For Christmas. What do you want?”

“You,” Sirius says, all toothy grin. 

And Remus knows it’s a joke, a drunken, puerile joke, but he just stands there not sure what to say, the smoke burning his lungs. Something passes across Sirius’ face and he blinks and looks away, frowning. And Remus laughs, far too late, the sound coming out sharp and forced and Sirius flinches and so Remus cuts it short and brings the cigarette back to his lips.

And then Sirius looks back up at him, face blank and eyes shiny. 

Remus feels itchy under his gaze and he sucks on the cigarette again just for something to do. Sirius’ tongue plays in his cheek, the corners of his mouth turning up amused, and Remus' chest heaves in relief. 

“Greedy bastard,” Sirius says, reaching up to take the cigarette from him. 

December 6th

Sirius and Remus spend almost every day of revision week tucked into the cafe. The little table by the fireplace has become much their own and the waitress doesn’t bother asking their order anymore. 

It’s a wonder though that Remus gets much work done with the amount of times he catches himself getting distracted by Sirius tapping the tip of his pen against his lips, by Sirius’ fingers as they wrap around his mug, by the one little freckle above his lip. The first couple times Sirius catches him staring he starts dabbing at his face, asking if there’s something there. And Remus blinks and blames it on zoning out and, after that, when Sirius catches him he doesn’t say anything, just holds his gaze for a second or two and then turns back to his readings and Remus sits there fumbling with the threads of his sweater, chiding himself for his own indulgences. 

But now it’s the end of the week and Sirius has convinced Remus to drive him to the Christmas tree farm, seeing that Sirius doesn’t have a car and Remus has his mom’s Ford Corsair. ‘You only want me for my car,’ Remus had joked, sat at their table in the cafe. ‘Sure,’ Sirius had said, ‘let's blame it on the car.’ 

Now they’re on the road, the radio growing more and more staticky the further they get away from the city. Remus is drumming his thumb against the steering wheel keeping in time with the song on the radio —though it’s barely discernible by now— and Sirius is frowning down at a map. 

“Turn here,” Sirius says, pointing to a dirt road off of the motorway.

“You sure?” Remus asks, eyeing the dirt road with trepidation.

“I think so,” Sirius says, turning the map to look at it from a different angle.

“You think so?” Remus says incredulously. 

“Turn here, Remus,” Sirius says, sounding a bit more sure of himself and Remus turns his blinker on.

Once on the dirt, Remus drives slowly, wary of the rocks jutting up into the belly of his mother’s car. Soon the radio turns to white static and Sirius leans over to switch it off. It takes a few minutes but eventually a sign for Spruce Up Farms comes into view and Sirius rolls down his window and sticks his head out of it, breathing in the sweet woodsy smell of the evergreens like a dog with his nose out the window. Remus thinks of making a joke out of it, but when Sirius turns back to smile up at him, aureolus and lucent, Remus finds the words stolen from his tongue.

There’s a few other cars already in the parking lot and a couple more come in as Remus leans against his mother’s car waiting for Sirius to check in with the owner. 

When Sirius comes back, he’s holding a saw. 

“They said we can cut it down ourselves and then bring it back here to pay,” he reports.

Remus’ gaze has not left the saw. “Right,” he says, “I’ve been driving all afternoon so what’s another hour to the A&E?”

Sirius smiles up at him, all ferly like. “That’s the spirit!”

There’s acres and acres of trees and they spend a couple hours walking down the rows of them. Sirius spends time circling the trees rattling on about the sturdiness of their branches and the health of their needles and the colour of their bark and other shit he doesn’t know anything about and Remus says helpful things like, ‘I don’t know, this one looks a bit funny,’ and, ‘No one will notice the bare spot if you stick it in the corner.’ 

Eventually, they reach the end of the lot where the ten-footers are and it begins a debate on the odds one of them will fit into Sirius’ flat. “If it doesn’t fit then I’ll just shave a couple inches off of it at home. James’ dad probably has a saw,” Sirius declares and then it becomes an argument of whether or not a ten-footer will fit on the top of the car (and whether or not Sirius should be trusted with a saw in a flat with wood flooring). It’s with reluctance that Sirius eventually turns back to the smaller trees.

Their boots are muddied and the tips of their fingers are numb by the time Sirius declares he has found the perfect tree. “This is the one, don’t you think?” Sirius says, hands on his hips. “Yeah,” Remus says, his feet are tired and his nose is red, but he’s smiling, “yeah I think it is.”

It’s almost dark by the time they make it back home. Getting the tree off of the top of the car proves more difficult than they had anticipated, even more so as the sun bleeds into the ground, but they get it down eventually and carry it into the flat, Sirius at the front and Remus at the rear. 

Once it’s inside, Sirius puts on a record and goes to fetch the decorations Mrs. Potter had sent in the mail —a big brown box with the words ‘for Sirius’ written on the side— and Remus busies himself in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. 

They decorate the tree with bubble lights and tinsel and garland and little glass ornaments and when they're done they stand back to admire it. 

After, they sit on the sofa, finishing off their tea and talking about this and that and Remus doesn’t realise how tired he must have been until he wakes an hour or so later.

When he comes to, he’s alone, sprawled out on the sofa, a quilt thrown over him. Scrubbing his eyes, Remus gets up to follow a trail of light to Sirius’ room, knocking softly on his open door. 

Sirius is curled up on the window bench, legs tucked up underneath him as he smokes a cigarette. At the sound of Remus’ knuckles, he blows the smoke out the cracked window and turns to face him. “Hi,” he says, holding out the cigarette in offering. Remus crosses the room to accept it, sitting next to him on the bench.

It’s both strange and familiar to be sitting here.

Back before Remus had moved out, after Sirius had kissed him in James’ kitchen, Remus and Sirius had spent many nights stumbling into this room, pushing each other into the wall, into the sheets, mouths hot against skin, fingers curled up into the sheets. They’d fuck and then they’d sit on the window bench and smoke.

It’s not long before Sirius speaks up. “Thanks for today,” he murmurs.

Remus looks over at him, swallowing down memories, feels it like the ghost of a pill down his throat. “Course,” he says. 

Sirius’ hand is laid out flat on the bench between them and Remus places his hand next to Sirius’, nudging their pinkies together. “What are friends for?”

Sirius looks down at their hands, blinks. “I think you’re my best friend, Remus,” he says, voice barely over a whisper.

“Don’t let James hear you say that,” Remus jokes.

Sirius shakes his head. “James is my brother. It’s an entirely different thing altogether. You’re my best friend.”

Remus swallows. “You’re my best friend too,” he whispers back like it’s a confession, an oath, like they’re children on a playground making a pinky swear.

They fall back into silence, taking turns drawing and breathing the smoke out into the night air, little eddies floating up and disappearing into the inky blue sky. And when the cigarette nears the filter, Remus feels —not quite relief— but something close to it. 

“I should get going,” he says, handing back the cigarette. 

This is how it had always ended before; a final passing of a cigarette, Remus retreating, Sirius watching him go, the butt of a cigarette flicked out the window. Remus had never spent the night and Sirius had only ever tried to stop him once, reaching out to grab at his wrist. ‘You don’t always have to leave, you know,’ he had said, ‘you can stay.’ The humid, summer air had pressed down on the hollow of Remus’ throat, heavy and unrelenting. ‘I can’t,’ Remus had choked out. And Sirius had let go of his wrist and Remus had escaped to his room across the hall. 

It’s muscle memory by now, a knee jerk reaction, instinct; Drop someone in the ocean and they’ll start kicking towards the shore. 

A week later Sirius had told him he couldn’t do this anymore.

Remus’ hand is on the door knob before Sirius speaks up, his voice hoarse. “You can stay if you want. There’s a futon in your old room.”

Remus shakes his head. “I have an exam tomorrow morning. I shouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, voice hollow. “Alright then. Goodnight, Remus.”

“Goodnight,” he echoes. And then Remus leaves.

He shuts and locks the front door behind him. 

The spare key is still tucked under the doormat. It’s a stupid place to hide a key. 

December 10th

“I can’t feel my hand,” Lily groans and Remus hums in agreement. They’re sprawled out on the floor, at the foot of her and James’ bed having just sat for their last exam, an essay for one of their literature courses. Remus has a beer, Lily an entire bottle of wine.

The sun has begun to set, shafts of dusty light slowing inching its way down the wall. Lily has on a Fleetwood Mac record that Remus can not find himself to complain about, mostly because he’s tired and he knows Lily will just tell him to ‘get up and change the record himself then’ and he has already decided he is never going to leave this floor, has already decided that he will spend the rest of his days for all eternity on this floor, stitched right into the ugly brown carpet. 

“Horrible, horrible professor. But at least he was good looking, no?”

Remus snorts, reaching forward, pretending to grab for the bottle of Cabernet. “I’m cutting you off,” he says.

Lily shrugs, holding the bottle out of reach. “I liked his horn-rimmed glasses.”

“He’s sixty.”

Lily tilts her head as if contemplating this and then she starts giggling, refulgent and lively. Remus shakes his head, smiling around his beer bottle as Lily leans into his side, her hair brushing against his neck.  

“You and Sirius are hanging out a lot again,” Lily says, words muffled into his chest.

Remus blinks down at his beer. “Yeah.”

“I forgot to mention, I ran into Caradoc the other day.”

“Oh?” The evening sun is low enough now to be in his eyes, turning the edges of his vision hazy and cymophanous. He turns his head away to avoid it.

Lily hums and Remus can feel it vibrate through his chest, down his ribs and straight to his sternum. “He said he hoped you were doing alright.”

“And what did you say?” Remus tilts his head up so he can drink his beer with Lily still tucked into his chest. 

Lily shrugs. “That you were,” and then she turns to meet his eye. “Are you though?”

“Maybe a couple of drinks ago,” Remus responds, mouth stretched into a thin smile. 

Lily reaches up to flick at his arm. “I’m just saying— last time you and Sirius—”

“It’s not like last time, Lily.”

Lily sighs, leaning closer into his chest, her nose digging in between his ribs. “All I’m saying,” she says, “is be careful.”

Remus hums, running his fingers through Lily’s hair. 

December 15th

Peter has a girlfriend. Her name is Daisy and she has blonde curls and pale blue eyes, and, as it turns out, she is quite good at pool. At one point she had stood behind Peter helping him line up his shot like they do in films and Peter’s face had turned a striking crimson red. Sirius had smiled in delight, eyebrows raised as he met Remus’ eye. Remus had only shook his head in response.

They’re cute together. She laughs at all Peter’s zany remarks and, when Peter starts turning antsy, fingers tapping on his pool cue, she reaches out to hold his hand. They’ve been dating for a few weeks now, but this is the first time Peter has brought her around to meet the group.

The two of them are playing a game of pool against James and Lily, but really it’s Lily versus Daisy, the two boys rather horrible at the game. Remus is watching them from the leather sofa in the back of the pub. Sirius has been talking to some guy at the bar, leaning in close so his hair falls into his face, hand on some stranger’s forearm, two fingers holding his straw to his mouth. When Sirius had wrapped his ankle around the leg of the other man’s stool Remus had stopped watching. But Sirius is making his way towards him now, pushing through the crowd until he’s stood right in front of him, blocking his view of the pool game. 

“Alright,” Sirius says, “scoot over, I don’t bite.”

“I know for a fact that you do.” 

“Cheeky bastard,” Sirius says, a smile rolling its way out of his mouth like melted butter. And Remus rolls his eyes, but still, he moves over to sit on the far side of the sofa. 

Sirius sits with his back against the arm, stretching his feet into Remus’ lap. Remus shoots him a look and gets only a grin in return. Sighing, he lets his hand rest on Sirius’ shin, hand on top of the rough material of his jeans. 

“Daisy seems nice,” Remus says. 

“Yeah,” Sirius agrees. He’s staring off at the two couples, gaze turned a bit muzzy, unfocused. 

Remus taps on his shin, feels bone, and Sirius turns and leans in closer, close enough that Remus can smell the alcohol on his tongue, something woody and sweet. Something like whiskey. Something Sirius would never have ordered for himself. When he speaks, he’s speaking low enough that only Remus can hear him in the crowd of the pub. “James told me —earlier, when we were getting the first round— that he went ring shopping a couple of days ago.” 

“Really?”

Sirius hums. “He’s thinking of getting down on the knee in January, after Lil meets his family in India over the holidays.”

“Wow.”

Sirius nods, his face turned to stone, no expression as he stares back out at the crowd. 

Remus bites his lip. “That’s— I mean, that’s a good thing isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Sirius shakes his head. “Yeah, no of course it is. It’s just, I don’t know, don’t we seem too young to be getting married?”

“If any of us is going to get married it would be those two. I mean James has been madly in love with her for almost four years.”

“And Lily at least half that,” Sirius quips, a smile finally tugging the corner of his mouth, but it’s hesitant and it’s gone as quick as it comes. “I don’t mean to make this about me—”

“No, of course not,” Remus interjects, amused.

Sirius ignores him. “But just, what if I don’t— I mean, James has Lily and now Pete and Daisy and I just, what if I don’t— what if I never have anyone?”

Remus swallows down spit. Bites down on his cheek. Says nothing.

Sirius speaks up again. “I mean, soon you’ll find someone again. And look what happened last time, you started dating Caradoc and moved out and forgot about me.”

“That’s—” Remus shakes his head. “That’s not the order things happened in. I was already planning on moving out. I told you as much. Our lease was up and I couldn’t afford to keep living there.”

“And I told you money wasn’t an issue.”

“It is for me.”

Sirius grunts, he turns back to survey the crowd, tongue in his cheek like he wants to argue some more, but he doesn’t. They’ve had this same conversation before, all they do is go in circles. And besides, Remus is already moved out, it’s a little late now. 

“I didn’t forget about you,” Remus says, staring out at the crowd himself, voice still quiet like they’re still swapping secrets. “I just— needed some time to sort myself out. A lot had changed.”

“Nothing had to change, not really.”

Remus chances a glance over, catches a slight frown across Sirius’ face. He staring off at the ground, at people’s shoes or at a crack in the wood floor or at a fallen napkin or maybe at nothing at all.

And then James is bumbling his way to them. “Daisy and Pete are taking a break. You two are up,” he says, pool cues in hand. 

“Fine,” Sirius says grinning and standing, “but I want Lily on my team.” And then he turns around and offers Remus his hand. Remus takes it and Sirius hauls him up and he stays holding his hand for perhaps a bit longer than is necessary before letting go. 

December 18th

When Remus goes to knock on James and Lily’s front door, it falls open. “Hello?” he calls, peeking his head around it.

“In here, love!” Lily shouts back. 

He finds her in the kitchen, moving like a storm; pulling things out of the oven, stirring something over the stove, gathering ingredients from the cupboards. “Oh good,” she says, spinning around to face him and then moving forward to take the brown paper bag from his arms, “you were able to stop at the market. I would have sent James but he’s out picking up the pies from the bakers and there was something wrong with the order and it’s taking longer than planned.”

“It’s no problem,” he says, chancing a glance over at Sirius who is sat at the kitchen counter spreading icing on biscuits. Somehow he’s managed to get icing on his eyebrow. 

Lily pats Remus’ chest, some money in her hand and he turns back around, reaching up to grasp it and pocket the change. 

“Need any help?” he asks. 

“I got it covered in here,” Lily says, already back to tending to whatever’s boiling on the stove. “There’s some garland in the other room though, if you wouldn’t mind hanging it up.”

“Sure,” he says and, with Lily’s back turned, he reaches out to steal a biscuit, popping it into his mouth before turning to walk away. He makes it all of two steps before Sirius wraps his boot around Remus’ ankle in a sparkless attempt to trip him, of which, Remus just steps over, turning to look over his shoulder and finding Sirius sticking his tongue out at him.

James and Lily are throwing a holiday party tonight. By this time tomorrow, they’ll be on a plane somewhere above Romania, on their way to spend Christmas with James’ family. So between planning and packing for the trip, preparing for the party has taken the back burner until now, a couple hours before the start.

It’s another half hour before James gets back and then he’s in the kitchen helping Lily, the two of them moving around each other like a well-rehearsed dance routine. Remus watches them from his stool on the counter as he layers some crackers onto a tray. He wonders what it would be like to be that in sync with someone. And then Sirius is walking down the hall, hair wet from the shower, little droplets rolling over his collarbone and down past the deep V of his black silk shirt. He’s tracking one as it falls beneath the fabric of his shirt when Sirius speaks up: “Shower’s all yours,” he says to Remus. “Right,” Remus says, clears his throat, glances over at Lily and James who have seemed to slow ever so slightly, watching the exchange from the corner of their eye, “cheers,” and then he pushes himself off the counter. 

Peter and Daisy show up a little before the party is set to start. Daisy with a bottle of wine that James declares they must open right that moment and so the six of them crowd around the kitchen island drinking wine while James and Sirius try to embarrass Peter by telling Daisy old university stories. Daisy only finds them rather endearing though, laughing with her hand on Peter’s chest, her head tucked into his shoulder as he sends warning glares at his friends.

Soon the guests begin to arrive, a seemingly endless stream until James and Lily’s small home is full. Remus makes his rounds, catching up with friends he hasn’t spoken to in a while, but eventually the night turns late and he grows tired and retires to the sofa. Sirius joins him a couple of minutes later, sitting with his legs folded beneath him, leaning into Remus to talk into his ear so as to be heard over the hum of the party.

Sirius talks with his hands. Remus has always liked watching his hands move, always found it safer than staring at his mouth. And so he watches them now, but one of the buttons at the end of Sirius’ sleeve has come undone, leaving it loose and open around his wrist and Remus reaches forward to grab the sliver of skin there, thumb around bone, and pulls it towards him, into his lap, and Sirius stops talking, mid-syllable. “There,” Remus says, fastening up the button and looking back up at Sirius. Sirius watches him, titling his head before smiling, slow and chuffed. 

Eventually James comes around, pulling Sirius off the sofa with the promise of a drinking game and Sirius turns around to pull Remus up with him. 

An hour later finds Remus in the kitchen talking to Daisy. He finds he really does like her. She’s kind and she leans into you when you speak like she’s truly interested in what you have to say. It reminds him a bit of Sirius. 

She has Remus laughing into his cup as she tells him about her and Peter’s first date and how he tripped five separate times during the course of it. She’s in the middle of telling him the story of when she had cooked for Peter for the first time, burning the tilapia, and how he had insisted on eating it anyways, even though it had been charred to a crisp, declaring it was ‘still delicious’ with bits of charcoal stuck between his teeth, when Lily whisks her away.

Alone again, Remus reaches into his coat pocket, checking for his lighter and smokes before heading out to the back porch. But, when he opens the door, there’s someone already there, spread across the steps, smoking; a glowing ember in the dark night. 

“Hey you,” Sirius says, turning and extending his arm out, offering Remus a drag. 

Remus lets his own lighter and pack fall back into his pocket, a dead weight grounding him as he moves forward to accept the cigarette and sink down on the steps.

“It’s,” Sirius, lifts up his arm, letting his sleeve fall so he can look at his watch, “12:38. Wouldn’t have been surprised if you were passed out on the sofa by now.”

Remus rolls his eyes, blows out smoke from the corner of his mouth, passes over the cigarette. “Daisy seems nice.”

Sirius nods. “You said that before.”

Remus shrugs. “I’m pretty sure she thought you and I were dating or something of the like.”

“Why do you say that?” Sirius leans back on his elbows, arching and stretching out his back. His shirt rides up a bit, fair skin and a black happy trail. Remus looks away. 

“She was telling me about how she was going to take Peter to this ski resort to meet her family over the hols and then she asked if you and I had any special plans and I must have looked confused because she started apologising, said Peter had told her it was complicated between us and so she wasn’t sure.”

Sirius hums. “You set her straight then? Let her in on all the details of our sordid past?”

Remus snorts. “No. Rather stammered my way through a denial.”

“Think she bought it?” Sirius asks, nudging Remus’ ankle with the toe of his boot.

Remus kicks at him, “You’re insufferable,” he says.

Sirius hums. “You’ve said that before too.” 

Sirius pinches out the embers with his fingers, flicks the stub away. “It’s cold out here,” he says, frowning like he only just realised.

Remus laughs at that. And Sirius turns towards him, brows pulled together. There’s two lines forming up from his eyebrows, from the bridge of his nose, and Remus wants to stick his thumb between them and smooth it out. 

“This,” he says instead, index finger hooking around the top of the V, “hardly constitutes a shirt.”

Sirius frowns down at his chest. “No?”

“No,” Remus repeats, letting his hand fall. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?” Sirius says, low and mock innocent. 

And Remus scoffs, sits up, and starts taking off his own coat. “Here,” he says, holding it out between them. 

“This, I’m afraid, will only further the dating allegations.”

“Shut up and take it.”

Sirius snorts at that, but reaches out for the coat all the same. He pulls it on, tilting his head back, hands coming up to pull his hair out from under the collar, but he stops mid-movement, grinning.

“What?” Remus asks.

Sirius points upwards. “Mistletoe.”

Remus tilts his head up to look and scoffs. “That’s not mistletoe. That’s some branch James probably found on the pavement and just nailed to—”

But he doesn’t finish his retort, instead he finds himself choking on his words, the wind knocked out of him as Sirius rolls on top of him. And then he’s kissing him, lips chapped and breath tasting like smoke and lager. Sirius hands —one on his shoulder, one on his hip— push him further into the brick stairs, a piercing pain that softens at the edges because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. And then Sirius pulls back, surveys his face, grey eyes darting back and forth. Remus’ spit is on his lips. And then Remus reaches up fingers digging into the flesh of Sirius’ waist as he flips them over, kissing him again. Their legs are tangled together, one of his thighs between Sirius’ legs, and he pushes forward, their hip bones clashing together, his weight pushing Sirius into the stairs this time. And Sirius whines and Remus’ fingers find hair, grasping and pulling, and Sirius bites his lip, teeth into flesh.

And then the back door opens, the party noise slipping out, the light of the kitchen reaching forward like a desperate hand. They both stop, turning up towards the interruption as some boy, a mop of brown curls whom neither of them recognize, curses, apologies, and shuts the door behind him, the sounds of the party cut off again, a severed head. 

Sirius begins to laugh, his grip on Remus’ sweater turns loose, and Remus sits back on his haunches, wipes at his pants, stands up. And Sirius stops laughing, looks up at Remus through his eyelashes. “Remus?” he says.

“Sorry.” And then Remus is gone.

December 20th

Lily calls him to let him know she and James landed safely in India. She asks him where he went after the party, why he left without saying goodbye. Like a coward, he apologises, says he’s sorry, that he’s glad that the plane ride went smoothly. Lily skips over the niceties, asks if he’s alright. He doesn’t answer, not really, goes about it roundabout: ‘Why wouldn’t I be alright?’ He hears Lily huff, and then her hand is over the transmitter, whispering to someone, probably James, and then she’s back. She tells him about India, about James’ family. 

Eventually one of them hangs up. 

The milk in the fridge has turned sour. He needs to go to the market.

December 22nd

It’s four days after that Sirius turns up at his door, Remus’ coat slung over his arm. 

It’s half past five in the afternoon. Which means the sun has already set. Which means soon it’ll be dark out, the light caught in Sirius’ earring all a ruse. 

“You forgot this,” Sirius says, holding out the coat. 

Remus reaches forward to accept it. “Ta.”

“There’s uh—” Sirius’ fingers drum against his pants, a morse code Remus doesn’t understand, “there’s something in the pocket for you.”

Remus blinks. “Oh,” he says, rooting between his lighter and pack of smokes until he finds a crumbled piece of paper, pulls it out. He frowns down at it. “What’s this?”

“It’s— It’s from Daisy. She couldn’t find you at the end of the night so she asked me to give it to you. She thought you two might get on.”

“It’s torn in half,” Remus says, looking back up at Sirius, thumb over the piece of tape holding it together. 

Sirius shrugs. “She said you might know them, said they also study lit.”

Remus looks back down, reads the name scribbled above the phone number. “I might, yeah.”

Sirius nods, looks away. “Did James and Lily call you?”

Remus bites his cheek. “Yeah. Lily said everyone has been very welcoming.”

“Yeah, that’s about what James said.” And then: “Peter and Daisy are leaving to visit her family tomorrow.”

Remus stuffs the paper back in his coat pocket. It’s weird, this stilted thing they’re doing. 

“Right, yeah,” he says. 

“Are you going to call him then?” 

“Peter?”

Sirius bites his lip. “Daisy’s friend.”

“Oh, er— maybe. I don’t know.”

Sirius nods. His eyes are glazed over, he’s looking somewhere behind Remus’ shoulder. “Don’t,” he whispers.

“What?”

Sirius swallows, Remus tracks the movement of his throat, too scared to look elsewhere. “Don’t call him,” Sirius says and it sounds like he’s in pain. 

“Why?” and, when Sirius doesn’t respond: “I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to be like this. It’s— it’s miserable. I can’t keep waiting for you, at your beck and call like a dog at the foot of your bed because you’re afraid of everyone pairing up and you being left behind— left alone. I can’t keep doing that. It’s– I can’t. ” The last word breaks on Remus’ tongue, scratching down his throat.

Sirius shakes his head. “That’s not— Fucking hell. That’s what you’ve been thinking holed up in your flat all weekend long? I called you all day yesterday and the day before. Why didn’t you pick up? Clearly your phone’s working seeing you picked up for Lily.” 

Remus stands there, his hands, knots at his side. He shakes his head. 

“Remus,” Sirius says, stepping forward. Remus steps back, running into the door, the handle like a knife in his back. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. 

Sirius laughs at that, incredulous. “If not talk, then what do you suggest we do about it then?”

“Just forget about it. We don’t— it doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”

“Right. Well I’ve tried that before and it didn’t fucking work. Did it fucking work for you?”

Sirius is so close to him now that their breaths, white clouds of vapour and spit on the night air, mix together between them. Sirius: one step off the doormat. Remus: clutching the door behind him. It’s all fucking farcical. Sickening.  

“You were the one that said you couldn’t do this anymore,” Remus says, mouth dry.

“And then you just fucking left. And you left last night. You’re always fucking leaving. Anytime something scares you you’re gone, running away with your tail between your legs.”

“Fuck you,” Remus huffs, pushing him away. “What did you expect me to do?”

“You’re— you’re such a cunt, Remus. I kissed you because I wanted to. That’s all. Not because I’m lonely or whatever other shit excuse you’ve got made up in your head.”

“It’s fine,” Remus says, swallowing down the words dry. “It’s forgotten.”

“Fuck you,” Sirius spits, reaching forward to push Remus back. The front door bangs against the wall, Remus stumbles with it, Sirius following, and then their mouths crash together.

It’s angry. Seething. Remus’ coat, forgotten, discarded on the floor, tangled at Sirius’ feet. Sirius’ fingers pushing into his skin hard enough to bruise. Sirius starts mouthing at the underside of his jaw, nipping, and Remus tilts his head back, bangs it on the door. He hisses or whimpers or fuck if he knows. He’s already half hard, knows Sirius knows it too, knows the exact moment Sirius realises, nudging his thigh between Remus’ legs, smiling against his jaw. 

Remus’ fingers come up, guiding Sirius back to his lips. And then his fingers are in Sirius’ hair, grabbing handfuls. Sirius’ hands are elsewhere, one holding him against the door, the other moving, across his hip and down his navel, before pressing against his cock through the fabric of his jeans. “Remus,” Sirius says soft, like a breath. And it’s enough to drag Remus out of it.

“Wait,” Remus says, “stop.” 

And Sirius does, stumbling backwards, tripping over Remus’ coat forgotten on the floor. Sirius’ breathing is ragged, his chest movements exaggerated. There’s spit on his chin. Remus looks elsewhere, out his open front door. The light is already half drained, the residential buildings drawing long shadows in the street. 

“I’ll go,” Sirius says. “If you want me to leave, I’ll go. Do you want me to leave?” 

Remus is still tracing the shadows outside, eyeing the last bit of light as it skates across the bare tree branches. “No,” he says eventually. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”

“Okay then.”

Remus’ lip twitches. “Okay,” he says and then he turns back to find Sirius watching him and he closes the front door. 

There’s shoes kicked off to the side, belts half undone before jeans are shoved past thighs, shirts thrown across the room. “The sofa or your room?” Sirius says. Remus doesn’t even spare a glance at the splotchy, unshapely orange lump in the middle of his flat before grabbing Sirius’ wrist and pulling him down the hall.   

Remus’ bed is unmade from this morning, pillow dented and comforter half off the bed, but he doesn’t have it in him to feel self-conscious about it at the moment, not as he pushes Sirius down onto it. Not as he settles himself on top of him, knees on either side of Sirius’ waist. 

It’s dark now, the sun set. The moon, the only light in the room, creating a gumusservi-like trail across Remus’ bed sheets. Sirius’ nails scratch at his back. Remus licks at the sweat pooling at Sirius’ collarbone. 

They curse into each other’s mouths. 

They don’t say much else except Remus groans when Sirius wraps his hand around his cock, when Sirius ducks down to take him in his mouth. And they don’t say much else except Sirius pants, warm breath into the space where Remus’ shoulder meets his neck, voice strained as their hips meet and he shakily repeats Remus’ name over and over, voice frayed.

December 23rd

He wakes with an arm that is not his thrown across his waist, a mouth pressed to his neck, and legs tangled in sheets. Sirius is still asleep, he can tell by the way his breathing comes out slow, indolent, rolling waves of warmth against his barred throat. Like the burn of a cigarette. The ghost of a kiss. He can hear the tick of his wall clock like palpitations in his chest and doesn't remember ever noticing it before.

Sirius is lying on his stomach and Remus watches the rise and fall of his chest, catalogues the freckles on his back, the jut of his shoulder bone, the curve of his spine, his ribs, the place his hands had touched, the skin his mouth had traced. And he shuts his eyes, hard, and turns his head to look out the window instead. 

It’s foggy out; grey and sombre, a patchy film spread across the glass. It makes everything blurry, the way it looks when you’re about to cry; tears welling up before you blink them away.

“Sirius?” he says. His breath falls short. “Sirius?” he tries again. Nothing. 

There’s a bead of moisture tracking its way down the window, fast then slow, fast then slow. Remus watches it until it makes it to the bottom and then he gets up. The bed creaks and dips but Sirius doesn’t wake. Remus roots around his drawers for a change of clothes but still, Sirius doesn’t wake. 

He chances one look at him before he leaves the room; his tousled hair across the pillow, the way he sleeps with one leg bent at the knee, lips parted, head half off the pillow, blanket kicked to his ankles. 

In the bathroom, Remus stares at his own reflection, at the purple bruise staining the pale skin above his hipbone like a watercolour. He stands there, unmoving, until the steam from the shower crawls its away across the mirror.   

He doesn’t come out until his fingers are pruned, until he’s lathered his body with soap twice, skin rubbed raw. When he opens the door, he finds Sirius’ shirt discarded in the hallway, thrown there carelessly the night before —shrapnel— and he bends down to pick it up.

When he returns to his room, Sirius is awake, sitting at the edge of his bed, all pale skin and bedraggled hair. Remus wants to stick his fist in his mouth and bite down until he tastes rust, wants to stick his hand down his throat and pull up his heart, candied and saccharine, and hand it over. I think this belongs to you. Instead, he stays trapped in the doorframe, arms hanging lamely at his sides, paralyzed. 

“Morning,” Sirius says. His lips twitch like they’re not sure if they should be smiling or frowning. 

“Morning,” Remus says, throws him his shirt. Sirius catches it against his chest, pulls it on. 

Remus digs his nail into a groove in the wood of the doorcase. “Do you want some tea?” he says. “Or, I might have some eggs?”

“Sure,” Sirius says, fingers coming up to scratch at the stubble of his cheek. “That would be nice.” 

Remus nods, looks elsewhere.

“Listen, Remus,” Sirius says on a breath. “You should know, all those months ago, when I said I couldn’t—”

“It’s fine. I’m not— I’m not angry anymore,” Remus says, looking back up to meet his eye across the room. “Are you?”

“No,” Sirius frowns. “I’m not angry.”

Remus shrugs, shoulders stiff. “Then there’s no point arguing about it anymore.”

“I’m not saying I want to argue with you, but Remus— I mean, surely we should talk about this?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Last night—” he shakes his head, “it won’t happen again.” 

Sirius watches him, eyes scanning back and forth and Remus swallows and forces more words out: “It’s like you said, at the Halloween party, I missed you too. I missed us and I don’t— I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want to lose you again.”

“Remus, you know, I mean surely you know you’re my best friend, right? You know that has never changed, right?”

“Yeah,” Remus says, swallowing. “Yeah, I know.”

December 25th

Christmas morning, Sirius shows up at Remus’ doorstep with two hot chocolates in hand. “Happy Christmas, Remus,” he says. 

“Mm,” Remus mumbles, using the heel of his hand to wipe sleep from his eye. “Happy Christmas.” 

They make scones in Remus’ kitchen. Or rather— Remus makes scones while Sirius sits on the counter and reads off the instructions from the box: ‘One egg, four and half tablespoons of milk, one bag of scone mix.’ 

Once all the ingredients are in the bowl and Remus begins mixing, he looks over at Sirius. “Are you just going to sit there then?”

Sirius shrugs, leaning over to stick his finger into the bowl. Remus swats his hand away and Sirius laughs as he licks the batter off the pad of his finger and then he gets up to turn on the oven.

They sit on Remus’ orange sofa and eat the scones while watching old Christmas movie reruns. Later, Remus digs up some of his mum’s old puzzles from under his bed and lays out the pieces on the floor and they both lay down on their bellies to work on it; Remus separating out all the edges and Sirius creating piles of ones with similar colours. They doze off a half hour in, waking up with puzzle piece imprints on their cheeks and a setting sun.

Outside they walk around the neighbourhood looking at the lights in the storefronts and in the windows of people’s homes. There’s a street cart selling roasted chestnuts and Sirius stops to buy them both a bag. They walk until Sirius starts complaining of the cold, sticking his iced fingers into Remus’ coat pockets.

Back at Remus’ flat they pick up where they left off with the puzzle, giving up pretty quickly, spread out on the floor now, amongst the puzzle pieces, a Miles Davis’ record spinning on Remus’ turntable. “I’m glad you stayed here for Christmas,” Sirius says, rolling over to face him, his hair falling into his eyes.

“S’not like I had anywhere else to be.”

Sirius shrugs. “I’m glad we could spend Christmas together. It was fun, wasn’t it? I missed this, just you and me, you know?”

“Yeah,” Remus says, hands folded across his stomach. “Me too.” 

Sirius grins, slow and rolling, and then he sits up, rooting around for his jacket. “Shit, I almost forgot,” he says, pulling out a wrapped parcel and holding it out to Remus. “Happy Christmas, Remus,” he says. 

Remus sits up on his elbows before accepting it. He sticks his finger into the paper, pulling it up from the side seam, and setting the paper aside. It’s a copy of Frankenstein, one of the Easton Press editions, leather bound with gold accents. It creaks as he opens the page, like it’s new of print. Inside there’s an inscription in Sirius’ loopy handwriting: ‘To R, Love S.’

Sirius leans in closer. “You must have checked that book out from the university library twenty times. I thought you might like your own copy so you can write in the margins and mark your favourite bits.”

When he answers, shaking his head, Remus’ thumb is still hovering over the long loop of the L in Sirius’ scrawl. “This is expensive, Sirius.”

Sirius shakes his head. “It was on sale at the charity shop and, anyways, I already maimed it, don’t know of any other S looking to give an R Frankenstein.”

“Mmh probably lowered the value in half.”

Sirius huffs. “Sorry, guess you won’t be able to pawn off my gift.” 

Remus smiles, closing the book to look back up at Sirius. “Thank you.”

Sirius smiles back. “You’re welcome.”

“I got you something too,” Remus says, sitting up now to pull his wallet out from his back pocket. “Sorry it’s not wrapped,” he says, handing over two slips of paper. 

“What’s this?” Sirius asks, reaching out to take them. 

“Tickets— for a show at the bar across from the university. That one band you said sounded good when they played at the pub last June is opening.”

“On New Years?” Sirius says, reading off the tickets. 

“Yeah, I thought we could go together or— you could take whoever you wanted.”

“None of that,” Sirius says, waving his hand in dismissal. “Obviously I want to go with you. This is brilliant, Remus. Thank you.”

Remus ducks his head down, nodding, a smile still curved into the side of his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Sirius.”

December 31st

Remus lets himself into the flat, tucking the spare key back under the doormat and pulling the door closed behind him. He finds Sirius leaning against the kitchen counter, he’s holding the phone to his ear, head tilted to the side while he listens to the other person on the line. He doesn’t notice Remus right away, but when he does he shoots him a smile. “Oh,” he says into the handset, “Hey, James, Remus just got here. I’ll call you back.”

“Sorry,” Remus says as Sirius hangs the phone up, “let myself in.”

“No bother. Give me a minute and we can head out, yeah?”

“Alright,” Remus says as Sirius heads down the hall. 

Remus waits on the sofa, fiddling with the threads of his jumper, and drawing patterns on the fabric of the sofa with his fingernail. He listens to Sirius moving around the flat for ten minutes before he gets up to find him, leaning across the bathroom counter to look in the mirror as he lines his waterline with charcoal. 

He’s changed his clothes. He’s wearing tight black pants that hug his skin and a black fishnet top that glitters when he moves like it’s woven with tinsel. Leaning against the doorframe, Remus lets himself watch him for a few seconds; the way his hair falls into his face, the way he holds his mouth open while doing his makeup, the way his pants hug his arse. 

“We’re going to be late,” he says eventually, voice tight. 

Sirius spares him a glance before returning to his application. “You can’t rush this sort of thing, Remus.”

It’s a couple more seconds until Sirius leans back, standing up straight, and sticks his index finger into his mouth. Remus watches as Sirius watches himself in the mirror before he leans forward and smudges the edges of the black around his eyes. 

“Look good?” Sirius asks, turning to face Remus, who just nods. 

“Alright, let’s get going then,” Sirius says, stepping around him and walking down the hall. 

The bar across from the university is small enough when it’s empty —tucked between two buildings, the walls slightly slanted like it had forcibly wedged itself in between them— but now, packed to the brim and completely sold out, it feels ten times smaller. Remus stumbles, struggling not to trip on his own two feet or the sixty other pairs that lie between him and the bar counter, as Sirius tugs him along by the sleeve of his jumper. He never does make it to the counter. He just stands behind Sirius while he orders, stands there until Sirius turns back around and shoves a cup into his hand, and grabs his sleeve to pull him back towards the stage.

Sirius sways and jumps, his hair swinging in front of his face, sticking to the sweat on his forehead. And Remus stands next to him feeling stiff and stilted, loobily shifting from side to side. The bass is loud, it thrums behind his ears and shakes the floor beneath his feet, and he’s sweating, the wool of his sweater turning itchy against his skin. With the lights turned dim, he can’t see more than three feet in front of him, can’t see much more past Sirius standing in front him, grinning and leaning into him, insisting he dance with him, his warm fingers ignescent along Remus’ forearm where his sleeves have been pushed up. 

After the first couple bands play, a few groups head out —the bar just their first stop of the night— and the room gets a bit more breathable. As the next band gears up to do their sound check, Sirius leaves to get them another round, ordering Remus to stay put. When he comes back, he has three cups balanced in his arms. He hands one to Remus, and then another.

“What’s this?” Remus asks, staring down into the second cup. Sirius shrugs his shoulders, stolidity rolling off him. “Some guy at the bar gave it to me. It’s a bit strong, you can have it.”

Remus holds it back out between them. Sirius doesn’t even spare it a glance. “I don’t want some drink a stranger bought for you.”

“Why not?” Sirius says like he’s genuinely confused. “I’m not going to drink it. And besides, now if he’s watching he’ll know I’m not interested.” And then he turns back around as the band starts up, the lights dimming again.

Remus stares down at the cup for a few seconds before bringing it to his lips and downing it. 

It’s a few more drinks and one more band change before it’s midnight, everyone in the bar counting it down in unison, party popper confetti littering the air. And Sirius is leaning into him, voice warm against his neck as he whispers, “Happy New Year, Remus.” And, when Sirius pulls away to shuffle confetti out of his hair, he can still feel Sirius’ lips against his neck. 

It’s still an hour or so until they leave, spilling out onto the pavement, Sirius bouncing on his heels, canty. He bumps into Remus, voice fast as he talks about one of the bands, and Remus almost stumbles, but Sirius reaches forward, grabbing him by the forearm to pull him upright. “Shit,” he says, eyes scanning Remus’ face, a grin unspooling, “are you drunk?”

“No…”

Sirius snorts. “I can’t believe you got pissed. I don’t remember the last time you got pissed.” He almost sounds gleeful, Remus feels dizzy.  

“M’ not pissed,” he says, stepping backwards, unsteady on his feet, nearly tripping. Sirius’ grip on his arm tightens as he pulls Remus back into him. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Right,” he says, “in complete control of your faculties I see. Come on, let's get you home.”

***

The Christmas tree is still up, the bubble lights making red, effervescent reflections against the floor. Remus watches them from where he’s laid out on Sirius’ sofa, a glass of water held loosely in his hand.

“Here, if you’re going to be sick, try to aim for this, yeah?” Sirius leans over to hand Remus a bowl, his hair falling into his face, and Remus reaches forward to tuck a strand of Sirius’ hair behind his ear. Sirius looks over at him and Remus stares back. Sirius places the bowl on the floor and Remus stays watching him.

The lights cast a crimson film across the room —across him and Sirius— and when he closes his eyes it’s still there, behind his eyelids. “Do you— you asked before— do you still want to know why Caradoc and I broke up?”

Sirius shakes his head. “Tell me in the morning. You’re still pissed.”

Remus shakes his head. “This is why.”

Sirius looks at him confused. “What? You were sick on his sofa?”

Remus scrunches up his nose. “No.” He hiccups and then: “When I bought the tickets in October he said— he said wanted to come and I said that was silly… he didn’t even know the band. I said though— I told him if it was really that big of a deal he could come along if he wanted.” Remus frowns. “That made him more upset— said he wanted me to want him to come, but that’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?… I bought the tickets for you.”

When Sirius doesn’t respond, Remus rolls over, burying his face into the back of the sofa. “He thought I was in love with you,” he says, voice muffled, voice miffed. 

“Why would he think that?” Sirius asks. His voice sounds dry like he’s saying it on a swallow. 

Remus shrugs. “Probably because it’s true.” And then: “I think he thought we were gonna fuck in the bathroom and I’d leave him or something. Halloween too— in the kitchen.” Remus starts tittering, rolling his head to look back up at Sirius. “Which obviously wasn't going to happen.” 

Sirius just blinks down at him. 

“And I told him that— told him you were the one who ended it, you know. So it didn’t matter— and I liked him, Caradoc, he was nice. But I don’t know, Lily said it wasn’t fair— for anyone and apparently Lily fucking knows everything since she was right in the end. Isn’t that annoying?— that Lily knows everything?”

Sirius stares down at him, a crease forming between his brows. “Yeah. Annoying,” he says, voice echoey, like he’s somewhere else. 

January 1st

Remus wakes to the sound of the front door closing. He blinks a few times, forgetting where he is, but then there’s a pair of pants standing in front of him and then Sirius is kneeling down to get eye level. “Morning,” he whispers, holding up a glass of water and a bottle of advil. “Went to the store to get painkillers, figured you’d want some when you woke up.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Remus says, voice groggy with sleep as he moves to sit up.

After he swallows down a couple pills, Sirius pats his knee and stands up. “I’ll make us something to eat, yeah?”

Remus watches him leave, turning the corner to the kitchen, waits a couple minutes before getting up to follow. By the time he makes it to the kitchen, Sirius is just turning on the stove. He looks over his shoulder at him. “How are you feeling?”

Remus moves to sit down at the small table in the corner of the kitchen. “Fine. Bit of a headache.” 

Sirius nods, staring at him for a few moments before turning back to the pan, hovering his hand over it to check the heat. His shoulders are held high like he’s on alert, reticent.

“Is something wrong?”

“Do you— do you remember last night?”

Remus frowns. “I remember the countdown and leaving and then— I’m not sure.”

Sirius hums. He adds a slab of butter to the hot pan. Followed by a cracked egg. 

“I wasn’t sick on your floor, was I?”

“No,” Sirius responds amused, turning around to face him. “You were sick in the bushes on the walk over though.”

Remus grimaces and Sirius drops his eye contact, looking towards the floor. 

“You uh—” He looks back up. “You told me why you and Caradoc broke up.”

Remus shakes his head. “What did I—”

“You said— you said you were in love with me.”

Remus looks away, at the lower kitchen cabinets. His heartbeat is outside of his chest. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

“Sorry?”

“I shouldn’t—”

“Sorry you don’t love me? Or sorry you told me?”

Remus shakes his head. Sirius breathes out, short and baulked. “Remus…” he says. 

“This— this doesn’t have to change anything.”

Sirius laughs, humourless and empty. “So what? You were just never going to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to burden you.”

“Burden me— you do realise how trivial that sounds, don’t you?”

And, when Remus doesn’t respond, he moves forward to kneel in front of his chair. “Remus,” he says, voice softer, “that night, when I said I couldn’t—”

“I know,” Remus says, voice like gravel. He turns his head to look at him before dropping eye contact and looking at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“You know, for a man who never speaks, you're really good at cutting everyone else off.”

“You’re being cruel.”

“I—” Sirius shakes his head, he reaches over to place his hand on Remus’ thigh. “Remus, I am very much in love with you. And it’s fucking horrible. It’s like there’s a stake in my side and I can’t fucking breath when you’re in the room. And I feel like I’m walking around glass all the time because I can’t ever figure out what you’re thinking or feeling and you never want to talk about it. And I so desperately want to keep you. You’re— you’re the best thing. But what we were doing before —the sex— it was too hard, it was too hard having just a little bit of it and not the whole thing. I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t enough for me. I wanted more. I wanted you. I want you.”

When Remus doesn’t respond, Sirius squeezes his thigh. “Remus?”

Remus turns to face him. And Sirius swallows before repeating: “I love you.” 

Remus shakes his head and Sirius gets up to straddle him on the kitchen chair, the wood creaking as he sits. “I’m sorry I didn’t just come out and say it and make you hear it before. I love you,” he whispers between them again. 

He looks at Remus looking back at him, at his splotchy cheeks and the wetness forming around his eyes. “It’s okay,” he says, reaching up to catch a tear as it forms. 

“I’m not crying,” Remus says. 

“Okay,” Sirius agrees, swiping his thumb across Remus’ cheek to catch another. 

Remus snakes his hands around Sirius, squeezing his arse. Sirius chuckles. “Shut up,” Remus says. 

“Okay,” Sirius agrees, leaning down to kiss him. When they pull back Sirius whispers, “I love you,” and Remus repeats it back: “I love you.” And Sirius grins, bright and lustrous, and Remus has an urge to lean forward and kiss it and so he does. And they stay there kissing, hands roaming beneath shirts and in hair, Sirius rolling his hips, until they’re interrupted by the high shriek of the smoke alarm. 

They both turn to look over at the stove, at the smoke rising from the pan and their burnt food. 

“Shit,” Sirius says, moving to stand up. “You stay there. No running off.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Okay.”

Sirius smiles. “I love you.”

Remus bites down on his cheek like he’s trying not to smile. “I love you.”

And with that Sirius turns around to tend to the smoke. And Remus sits there and watches him, head in his hand, trying not to laugh as he watches Sirius frantically fan the smoke away with a tea towel. They still have a lot to talk about and he isn’t going anywhere.