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Remus plans to wake Sirius up by laying flat on top of him and kissing up his neck, but when he opens his eyes the man has already risen. Sirius Black sits with his back against the wall in the small window seat of their bedroom, head tilted up to catch the faint breeze wafting in through the cracked pane. His skin glows luminescent in the cool twilight, eyes shut. He is still naked, as is Remus, his scarred flesh is broken out in goose pimples. He shivers, once, then climbs out from their tangled nest of sheets to squeeze himself in on the other side of the corduroy cushion. Remus nudges his foot with one of his own long toes. It's icy to the touch. Sirius' eyes remain shut, though he smiles. Remus wants to kiss the upturned corner of his mouth, so he does. Sirius smells like his posh vanilla cleansing potion and peppermint shampoo.
"You’re up too early." He murmurs, arms wrapped around his knees. They'd never even gone to sleep the night before.
"Mm, just bad at sleeping." Sirius shifts into the space between Remus' legs, moving those arms around his shoulders.
Remus drops his lips against his hair, dark and warm. His fingers card through the mussed curls, Sirius mewing a little in appreciation, before they part the hair onto either shoulder. Remus' lips are back against his neck so that when he speaks again, muffled, his voice rumbles low against Sirius' skin. "In need of a trim, Pads. Should let Lily do it."
Sirius hums and arches his neck, pushing his hair to one side to allow Remus better access as he bares his throat. Remus curls around him, open mouthed kisses falling on each and every beauty mark and around the dark ink stretching across one side of the skin. He nips just above one tattoo, leaving a less permanent mark, when Sirius turns in his arms to meet his gaze with sparkling grey eyes.
He leans in and Remus ducks his head, touching their lips barely, softly, until Sirius surges up and deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue past Remus' teeth. They stay that way for quite too long, until the sun has nearly set and crowned them in milky gold, Remus drawing back with a reluctant protest that they'll stay there forever if they don't leave now. Remus pulls on a cream colored jumper over a vest and some trousers while Sirius shrugs on jeans and a t shirt, noticeably without pants. Remus swallows before they go, locking the door with a spell and a flick of the wrist.
He takes him into Muggle London, through the parts where it's acceptable to stand so close to another man in that way, to smile at his joke, laugh with his whole body arched and his head thrown back in a trumpet of golden haze that way, to curl five fingers against another man's palm like that, brush the other five along his burning Adam's apple, tucked securely beneath his scarf from the cold like that, to stoop down just enough that your forehead presses against his and you share the same air, not to hear him whisper better amongst the din and bustle of the crowd but because you're you and he's him and you are one another's and it's like that. They wander through alleyways significantly less cramped than before, get asked for a stray fag by a few less grungy blokes on each corner, with less glittering and swaggering gaggles of mates to giggle and snort and jeer and wink at Sirius and leer at Remus as though they're all in on some secretive, personal joke that's quite funny, which he supposes they actually are. Yes. Their numbers are dwindling, and despite their courage, despite their passion, despite what they might deserve, despite what the Muggle physicians try and do, the streets are noticeably emptier that day as he and Remus stroll down them hand in hand. (Gossip's been spreading like wildfire amongst the local quack seers Sirius follows on their corner that even Freddie Mercury's got it. Or will get it. Or did get it, only then he didn't... Or maybe would get it if he already hasn't? They aren't sure. Sirius is devastated, and terribly close to breaking the statue of secrecy to immediately apparate his beloved rock god to St. Mungo's. Remus only staves him off by suggesting that exact behavior could somehow lead to the events foreseen, and Sirius Black is nothing if not not a catalyst for the future. So he claims. Remus is of the mind that it's all owed to bad trips on the part of the so-called psychics and an excess of loose leaf tea spiked firewhiskey. Pixie dust and crushed dragon scales both rise in popularity along with Muggle fashion drugs. As do the rates of fast faerie flu and drago pox, unsurprisingly).
They stop in a pub that's also a club, get two cheap beers in gigantic, icy mugs that slosh more on the dance floor than into their mouths. Sirius, who by all means should be some kind of lightweight, is used to firewhiskey and barely gets a buzz, and Remus, with his racing metabolism, doesnt get knackered at all. The disc jockey plays mostly disco, Muggle artists neither of them knows, and despite their shared distaste for the stuff, it's fun to be in a place where they can dance with no distance between them, no hesitation to spin each other around and around until they collapse into their booth, tangled up on the same side.
Sirius tucks his head under Remus' chin, one hand smoothing up his thigh.
"Alright?" Remus whispers, palms holding Sirius' sides under his shirt.
"More than chuffed." He replies, hugging the werewolf tightly to his chest. Remus grins. They'll go round Lily and James' for supper, probably cheap takeaway from the Indian place Peter likes near his flat. Sirius had adamantly refused gifts, but they'd all gotten him something anyways, the pile waiting beside the Potter's fireplace for when they flooed in. There isn't another full for three weeks. He and Remus are in love. It's perfect.
"Happy birthday, Pads." Remus says, tracing a finger down one smooth cheek before cupping his jaw. Sirius turns his face to press a kiss to his callused palm. He can feel it when the smile stretches across his lips. It goes unspoken, he's saying, I love you.
"Thank you, Moony. It's brilliant." Sirius kisses him again, languidly but with hunger, tugging him closer with a fist in his hem. You're brilliant, say his lips, his sighs, his tongue. I love you too.