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Sirius has led them to the park. That one park that doesn't seem to have a proper theme to it, with swing sets and a slide, park benches and rose bushes and flower beds. He had shown up on Remus' doorstep, Aldi bag in hand and one earphone plugged in, and just said let's go.
Down cracked pavement they walked, over patches of grass and past townhouses, until Sirius stopped in that park. He’d hopped up on the large swing—friendship swings, Remus calls them—put the Aldi bag on the ground, and grabbed the contents from said bag. Two bottles of Ribena, which Remus only drinks with Sirius because he hasn’t got the heart to tell him that he doesn’t like it, and a packet of Jaffa cakes.
And now they sit here. Sirius has already eaten two Jaffa cakes and drank half his Ribena in silence, swaying slightly where he sits to give the swing some… well, swing. Remus hears him swallow, and grey eyes meet hazel.
“What’s your anxiety like?” he asks. Out of the blue. He’s said nothing but the let’s go , which was half an hour ago, and now he asks what Remus’ anxiety feels like.
The curl above Remus’ left temple is the perfect size for wrapping around his index finger, as demonstrated at every possible opportunity to be anxious, including this one: staring into his best friend’s face, unable to speak.
What’s your anxiety like?
The words prick into Remus’ skull, poking and itching like—
“It’s like, when you’ve eaten something crumbly in bed, and then you lie down and all the little hard crumbs keep poking you. No matter how many times you brush them away, or roll over, there’s always another one.”
Sirius frowns at him, mouth half-open before he seemingly catches himself and clamps it shut. He keeps frowning though, nails picking at his cuticles and tongue resting against his canine tooth.
"What the fuck," he says. It's supposed to sound like a question, but it doesn't. It probably doesn't even cross his mind that the statement— what the fuck, what the fuck —echoes through Remus' head, changes tone to sound judging, disbelieving, amused.
Remus shrugs one shoulder, attempting at nonchalance but likely exuding shame. He can feel the heat from Sirius’ knee permeating his own jeans as the swing presses them together, and twirls his own Ribena bottle between his hands, fingers tracing the cap ridge. When he looks up again, Sirius is not mocking him, but instead staring in such intense contemplation that Remus feels as though he’s sitting in a spotlight.
“Sorry,” Sirius says then. He looks just as ashamed as Remus thinks he looks. “I just… I’ve never eaten in my bed. And I have no clue what that feels like.”
Remus gapes at him. “Not even when you’re sick?”
Sirius scratches his chin with a little grimace on his face, then shakes his head. “No. If I was sick, I ate by my desk.”
“Oh.” Remus drops his gaze again, then, in an attempt to brush aside the oppressive silence that has settled over them, he takes a swig of Ribena. “So. Has Monty finished building the garden shed?”
Sirius snorts. “Give it another two months. He always says that he’s going to get to it, but then he ends up sharpening all of Effie’s knives instead, or something.”
“Will Effie even let him work out there when it turns cold? She’s always fussing…” Remus self-consciously fingers the hole in his jumper sleeve, the one he knows Effie always stares at when he visits, even if she’s too polite to say anything.
“Probably not,” Sirius says with a little shrug. He twirls his hoodie string around his pointer finger, and Remus watches as the tip of his finger turns red, then almost purple, before Sirius lets the string loosen. “I think that’s why he keeps putting it off, you know? He’s much better at developing shampoos, or whatever it is that he does.”
Remus can’t help but smile, remembering the way Monty lights up every time Remus allows him to use his hair as a test for whatever new product he’s working on. “I wonder if Effie will ever let him branch into dyes.”
Sirius lets out a dramatic fake gasp, hand to his chest. “Effie would never, Moony. She almost lost her mind when he tried to stick gel in James’ hair.”
“Suppose Marlene will have to suffer with the stuff she has now, then.”
Remus’ pocket vibrates, and he almost falls into Sirius’ lap trying to get his phone out. “Mum wants to know when I’ll be back.”
“First of all,” Sirius says, “I keep telling Marlene to use Manic Panic for when she dyes her hair, because that’s at least vegan, but she insists on using those boxed dyes and absolutely wrecking her hair.”
Sirius pauses to gulp down the rest of his Ribena in one go, then throws the empty bottle back into the Aldi bag on the ground. “Second, tell your mum never. I’ve kidnapped you now.”
Remus raises one eyebrow, then tucks his phone under his thigh. “Alright, Sirius, what’s going on?”
Sirius looks down and starts picking at his cuticles, and then quickly looks up again. “You do know I paid 79 whole pence for that box of Jaffa cakes, right? And you’ve not touched a single one.”
Remus waits. He knows Sirius well enough to not take the bait. But after a moment, he removes one cake from the box.
“ Thank you, ” Sirius says, and takes one himself. He doesn’t eat it straight away, though, like he did with the two previous ones. Instead he breaks it apart into tiny pieces and throws them through the holes in the swing.
Remus nudges Sirius with his knee.
“It’s for the birds,” Sirius murmurs once the Jaffa cake lays crumbled on the ground. “I read somewhere that seagulls really, really like Jaffa cakes.”
“Ah, yes. Everyone knows that the native birds used to nest in Jaffa Cake Trees before The Man came and built factories.”
“Obviously,” Sirius says. “It’s the first thing you learn in this wretched world.”
This time, Remus pokes Sirius’ hand, right where his finger is digging into his cuticle. Sirius winces. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
Remus throws his uneaten Jaffa cake, hitting Sirius on the nose. It leaves a streak of chocolate that it takes all of Remus’ self control not to wipe off. Sirius does that himself, quickly enough. Eyebrows furrowed, he drags his hoodie sleeve across his nose, then turns to glare at Remus.
“What was that good for?”
“It’s for the birds.”
“Fuck you,” Sirius mutters. “What if i just wanted to eat biscuits with my best mate in Godric’s worst park?”
“You only go to this park when something’s on your mind. Usually we go to the one right by the Potters’.”
Sirius puts his hood on and drags in the strings so nothing but his hair and nose sticks out. “I just wanted to know what your anxiety feels like. It’s nothing. Now eat a goddamn Jaffa cake and tell your mum you’ll be home in twenty.”
“Sirius...I’m pretty sure you already know what anxiety feels like.” He pokes Sirius’ finger again, where his cuticle is red.
“Well, to me it feels like I’m underneath a wet blanket and I can’t breathe but I also can,” he mutters. “And here you are telling me that it feels like crumbs in your bed. So, obviously, it’s no big deal on my part, and Effie and Monty are overreacting.”
Sirius exhales heavily and sticks his hands into his hood to tug at his hair. “Now eat a goddamn biscuit, Remus. Uncle Al told me I was only allowed to use the money for important shit, and Jaffa cakes are, decidedly, not important.”
Remus watches the way Sirius’ dark hair makes his hands disappear, then glances back down at the Jaffa cakes. “Anxiety feels different to everyone, Sirius. It’s still anxiety.” He twists the cap back on his Ribena and nestles the bottle in the crook of Sirius’ knee. “What are Effie and Monty overreacting to?”
“ I don’t have it, though,” Sirius says, sounding angry and decisive at the same time. “But they think I do because of how I get... sometimes.”
“Well technically everyone has anxiety. It’s what kept humans from wandering off and getting eaten by giant cats.” When Sirius doesn’t react, Remus sighs and nudges the Jaffa cakes closer to his friend. “It’s okay, you know. There are things you can do that help.”
“I don’t need help,” Sirius murmurs. “Whatever. I’m fine. Let’s go, I’ll walk you home.”
Remus grabs Sirius’ sleeve. “Nope.”
“Yes? Your mum literally texted five minutes ago and asked when you were coming home. Tell her in twenty, and we’ll get going.”
“You know she just likes to know. She doesn’t mean come home right now.” Remus shoves his phone back into his pocket. “I didn’t give her a specific time anyway.”
Sirius groans. “Fine. Tell me a fun fact, or something. I’m not talking about… this anymore.”
“There’s a limited edition pineapple flavoured Jaffa cake coming out this year.”’
“Sounds absolutely revolting. We need to try it.”
“I bet if we talk about it within earshot of Monty he’ll come home with three packs.”
Sirius hums. “I’ll have to mention that to James, then.”
Remus is suddenly, painfully aware that if he flexed his hand, his fingers would brush Sirius’. The heat radiating from Sirius pulls all of Remus’ attention. Sirius doesn’t even seem to notice it, though, with his lip caught between his teeth and gaze somewhere above Remus’ shoulder.
With a gust of courage, Remus shifts his hand on top of Sirius’ and squeezes gently, eyes searching Sirius’ face for any kind of reaction. Sirius jumps when Remus’ hand lands on his, and he immediately turns to look at Remus.
He looks confused, in a way, but not in that I can’t understand a single word in my maths textbook way . Remus can’t really figure out in what way he does look confused, though.
“It gets easier, you know.” Remus’ whole body is tensed to launch off the friendship swing, but Sirius hasn’t pulled away, so Remus doesn’t either. Sirius scoffs.
“I doubt anything will get easier after 17 years of constant misery,” he says, and then forces a little chuckle as if he’s trying to clear the air.
“Things got easier after you moved in with James,” Remus points out, but his mind is focused on whether the twitch in Sirius’ fingers mean he’s thinking about pulling away.
Sirius shrugs, and gives Remus a tiny smile. “I guess.”
Remus catches himself rubbing his thumb over Sirius’ knuckles, and removes his hand, running it through his hair in an attempt to hide his awkwardness. “You don’t look so....haunted, anymore. And you laugh easier.”
Sirius' cheeks flush pink, and he seemingly tries to hide it with a stern glare. "You fucking melt, Remus."
Sirius straightens out his legs, bumping Remus everywhere with his gangly limbs and gigantic boots. Remus isn't sure what he's up to, and he doesn't have much time to think about it, because the next move Sirius does rocks the swing hard and the two of them topple over, Sirius heading straight into Remus' chest.
Remus grabs the rope, just barely managing to stop them from tumbling into the dirt. He instinctively wraps one arm around Sirius’ chest. Sirius has one hand fisted around Remus' jumper, face smushed into his chest.
They're both quiet for a few moments. Remus' heart has leapt up to his throat and seems to be lodged there; Sirius doesn't make a move to get off Remus, and he doesn't dare let go of the rope just yet to push him off. The fact that he sort of likes this goes unsaid. Unthought, even, if it were such a thing.
And then Sirius starts laughing. Shoulders rocking, his laughs vibrates in Remus' chest like the bass of a speaker and hot puffs of air seeps through the fabric. Remus stops breathing.
When he finally does manage to take a breath, Sirius’ hair tickles his nose and fills it with the scent of Sirius’ body spray and smoke from the cigarette Sirius probably smoked on his way to Remus’ house. Remus is terrified to move, lest he break the spell and Sirius realizes how close they are, how much of their bodies are pressed together.
Sirius doesn't laugh like this often, Remus thinks, completely still under Sirius' shaking shoulders. He almost wonders if Sirius is crying, until he breathes and says, "Well. That did not go as planned."
Slowly, Remus’ fingers loosen their grip on the swing rope, his chest feeling warm and not at all like it’s filled with anxiety. Sirius’ face is still pressed into his chest, and Remus can feel Sirius’ jawline pressing into his ribcage. Sirius braces himself against Remus’ thighs and pushes himself back up, then turns around in a swift motion and sits himself between Remus’ thighs, back against his chest.
“You alive?”
Remus’ breath abandons him again. After several heartbeats, he manages to mumble, “Uh, yeah.” The scent of Sirius is intoxicating and nearly overwhelming, and Remus’ back feels almost frigid in comparison to his chest, which is burning with body heat.
“Good,” Sirius murmurs. “Tell me another fun fact.”
Remus’ mind comes up blank. He wills himself to focus, to block out the sensations of being surrounded by Sirius. “Statistically, if aliens scanned our solar system, life on Earth makes up such a small percentage of the mass inside our solar system that any reasonably intelligent species would write us off as a glitch in their data, and therefore determine that there are no life forms here.”
“That sounds absolutely ridiculous,” Sirius murmurs. “Why on Earth would one ignore such a grand possibility?”
“The same way people write off things that are statistically improbable as impossible.” After a pause, Remus blurts out, “Though technically anything is possible. Just very, very unlikely. But that doesn’t make them any less real when they do occur.” He closes his eyes, hoping that Sirius can’t feel his hands shaking.
Sirius hums. “I like the thought that anything is possible, actually. Like, fuck you, Dad, I’ll become an artist and have a whole museum in my name. And you’ll probably become some swotty philosophy professor at Oxford.”
Thankful that Sirius is facing away from him, Remus’ cheeks heat and he rubs his middle fingernail against the pad of his thumb. “Er—thanks.” He can see Sirius picking at his cuticles again, and tangles their fingers together in an attempt to stop both their fidgeting.
“Anything is possible, right?”
“Anything.”
~~~
Sirius taps his fingers against the kitchen counter, staring into the toaster. He knows that it doesn’t go any faster when he just stares like that, which Effie othen reminds him of in the mornings when Sirius doesn’t talk to anyone for a solid hour until he’s woken up properly. He usually just glares at her in response, and then apologises as soon as he can talk properly.
When he stares like that, gaze going unfocused in the heat waves from the toaster, Sirius can’t help but to think of Remus, and the way the words always seem to roll off his tongue so easily in that vaguely Swedish accent. He always knows what to say, always knows the correct words for everything.
It had taken Sirius weeks to figure out what that feeling he felt was after he woke up from nightmare after nightmare. He remembers crying the first few times, because it felt like someone had clenched a fist around his ribcage and he couldn’t breathe. But he always felt so ashamed the morning after, when Effie gave him an extra long good morning- hug. So he stopped. He’s always known how to do that; how to push his feelings down, down and pretend as if nothing is happening, when in reality he can’t breathe and the whole room seems to be spinning.
He doesn’t talk about it, though. He hasn’t got the words, like Remus has. Sirius talks about his favourite paintings and complains about how he doesn’t want to tidy his room and rambles about nothing, because nothing is better than accidentally talking about everything.
And still, Effie saw straight through him. Her words— he’s clearly got anxiety, Monty. Have you seen how he gets after those nightmares? I almost think he needs a therapist —echo in Sirius’ head, over and over, and Sirius gets just as angry each time.
There’s nothing wrong with him, and there’s nothing to talk about with a damn stranger. Sirius is fine.
Sirius jumps when the toaster does.
“Shit, fuck,” he murmurs, heart hammering in his chest. He thinks of the way Remus’ heart hammered like that last night; Sirius could feel it through their clothes.
He accidentally stabs the butter knife into that vegan spread Monty insists on buying, just thinking of last night.
It’s like, when you’ve eaten something crumbly in bed, and then you lie down and all the little hard crumbs keep poking you, no matter how many times you brush them away, or roll over, there’s always another one.
And what the fuck does that feel like?
That’s got to be the million pound question , Sirius thinks as he trudges up the stairs, two pieces of toast in hand. But he’s about to find out, all alone in the giant Potter house. Sirius wouldn’t even have dared taking the toast out of the kitchen, had anyone been home. It’s ingrained in his head from when he was a child. Food stayed in the dining room, and if it didn’t, he was sent straight to his father’s study.
He doesn’t think about that now, though. Now, Sirius thinks of the way Remus’ hands held his when they were on the swing, and how warm his chest was against Sirius’ back; thinks of the way Remus always just knows what to say. Sirius’ heart flutters in his chest, and he ignores it.
Sirius feels ashamed when he sits on his bed, cross-legged by his pillows, and then quickly changes his mind and spreads his legs instead. So that the crumbs actually end up on the bed, he thinks, and not in my lap.
It feels stupid, but Sirius takes a deep breath before he takes the first bite from his toast. He’s quite hungry, he realises, and scarfs both pieces down quickly. The crumbs that stick to his fingers, he brushes off against his duvet, instead of his jeans like he normally would. And then he continues to feel stupid when he takes his shirt off and lies down on his bed, right in the heap of crumbs.
He just lays there for a few moments, crumbs sticking and poking into his back like tiny razor blades, or something. It’s… It’s indescribable. Sirius rolls around a little, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s trying to get a better feel of it or if he’s trying to get away from it, but he rolls anyway.
Prodding and picking and itching, stabbing into his back. It’s so weird, and, weirdly enough, exactly what anxiety feels like.
“What the fuck?” It’s James. From Sirius’ doorway. Sirius jumps, so startled that he somehow manages to roll off his bed.
“Shit!” he exclaims, fumbling for his shirt by the pillows. It feels like James just walked in on him wanking, or something, which would’ve been much easier to explain than the fact that he’s rolling around in breadcrumbs to understand how Remus feels when he gets anxious.
Sirius doubts Remus has covered himself with a wet blanket, though, and is trying to breathe through that. Sirius doubts Remus wants to come as close to Sirius as he wants to do with Remus. He doubts he actually wanted Sirius in his lap last night, and that he wanted to sit on that shitty swing and watch Sirius pick his cuticles red and raw. Maybe Remus doesn’t really care at all, but just comes along because he can’t say no to Sirius.
That iron fist clenches around Sirius’ ribs again, and he can’t breathe properly.
“What the fuck are you doing?” James asks with a slight laugh. Sirius crosses his arms over his chest and sucks in a deep breath.
“Anxiety,” he says, simply.
“What does that mean?”
“Look in a fucking encyclopaedia, James,” Sirius snaps back. James just raises his eyebrows.
“I know what anxiety means, you twat.”
“You sure about that, you fuckin’ knob? ‘Cause I still have a vivid memory of you not knowing what an atlas was.”
“Alright,” James says. “Shut up.”
The iron fist eases; doesn’t clench as hard, and Sirius huffs a laugh. “Will you leave me alone to my anxiety business, please?”
Sirius has never truly understood what the expression looking like a question mark means, but when he looks at James, it clicks. The shape is not correct, obviously. James probably looks like an exclamation mark more than anything, if Sirius studies his physique, but the look on his face. The look on his face is so puzzled, looking like the goddamn coat that The Riddler wears.
James sighs, and turns around to continue walking to his room. “Mum and Dad’ll be back in ten!” he shouts. “Mum told me to tell you that she’s making curry.”
~~~
The fan in Remus’ room squeaks just off rhythm from his heartbeat, and the syncopation of it pricks up and down his arms. He subconsciously brushes away non-existent crumbs from the bedsheets. With masochistic precision, he replays his outing with Sirius, analyzing every movement of the other boy in a futile attempt to glean more insight into what Sirius might be thinking.
Why did I try to hold his hand?
Why did he press himself against me?
Why didn’t he pull away?
What does it mean?
Remus angrily switches off the fan, deciding that it’s better to be hot than annoyed by extra sounds, but as soon as the squeaking stops, the silence settles on him like a wet blanket. It feels like I’m underneath a wet blanket , Sirius had said. Objectively, Remus knows that anxiety feels different to different people, but he’d never talked about it before. It was almost freeing, once he’d gotten past the absolute dread of it.
He wonders if Sirius wants to talk again. He contemplates the benefits and risks of mentioning Sirius’ anxiety to his mum—she certainly has the resources to give Effie the name of a good therapist, but there’s no way Sirius wouldn’t know it came from Remus. Plus, he can still feel the heat of Sirius’ fingers under his own, and Remus knows in that moment that he will never do anything to compromise the glimmer of hope that it might happen again.
Will it happen again?
Suddenly, Remus isn’t sure. He once again begins revisiting every gesture Sirius made— every time he pulled away, every time he didn’t. Is Remus remembering the times Sirius didn’t more often? Is his own bias showing so blatantly?
Knock.
“Remus, älskling ?”
Running a hand over his face, Remus sits up, flicking his light back on as he does so. “Yeah?”
“Sirius is at the door.”
He can hear the smile in his mother’s voice. From the time Sirius and James showed up unannounced the day after Remus’ eleventh birthday, with a lopsided chocolate cake and several badly-wrapped gifts, Hope had let Remus’ friends get away with nearly everything. Even showing up at—
“Mum, it’s ten thirty.” But Remus was already pulling on his jeans and running his hands through his curls.
“It would be good for you to get some fresh air.”
“Is night air better than day air?”
“Go outside, Remus.”
~~~
Sirius is shivering under his hoodie, teeth chattering, even though it’s not that cold yet. Late September; warm as though it’s still summer during daytime, cold as hell once the sun sets.
Hope always smiles warmly at Sirius when he knocks on the door, talks in that Swedish accent, sometimes rolling her R’s in that way Sirius’ parents speak, the posh bastards. Sirius himself could never do it, but Remus can, pronouncing Sirius’ name in a way that sounds sort of like Seereeus, or something, when he’s tired and isn’t focused on his English. Sirius always laughs and counters with pronouncing Remus’ name in a bad French accent.
“He’ll be right down,” Hope had said when she cracked the front door open, smiling that warm, growing-wrinkly smile.
So Sirius just remains standing there on the doorstep, shivering and waiting and picking at his cuticles when he convinces himself that Remus won’t come down.
“Hi.” Remus is half out of breath, pulling on a jacket as he appears in the doorway. Sirius snaps his head up and smiles.
“Hey,” he says, almost breathlessly. There’s always this flutter in Sirius’ chest when he sees Remus, like his heart is trying to beat its way out of his throat, and he just wants to get closer to Remus, closer, closer.
“Er—Mum is going to fuss that the door is open in a minute, so...are we going out or coming in?”
“Out,” Sirius replies. “To the park.”
Remus pulls the door shut behind him, and steps into the front garden. “Lead the way.”
Sirius nods and stuffs his hands into his hoodie pocket. He has a cigarette packet there, slightly beaten up from being squished in there. He itches for one, fingers fidgeting with the plastic encasing the bottom, but he’s always ashamed of smoking in front of people; it feels like a dirty secret he shouldn’t show or talk about, even though Effie has put out an ashtray on the balcony and smiles knowingly when he steps inside. It’s bad and he knows it is and he doesn’t want to show anyone that he’s destroying his lungs and flaunt it as though it’s cool.
So instead he just walks arms length beside Remus, leading the way back to that shitty park with the saucer swing— friendship swing.
Remus fishes a lighter out of his jacket pocket and holds it out silently to Sirius. Sirius raises his eyebrows and takes the lighter with one hand, the other already trying to get the packet open.
“You want one?” Sirius asks, sticking a cigarette between his lips.
“No thanks,” Remus half smiles, climbing onto the friendship swing and leaning back on the ropes as a kind of makeshift chair. Sirius watches him for a moment, cigarette between his fingers.
He thinks of the way Remus’ chest felt against his back, and the way Remus’ heart was beating so, so fast two nights ago. He thinks of the way his own heart raced, how much he just wanted to get closer and closer to Remus even with their knees pressed together.
Sirius swallows and takes a long drag from his cigarette, then gives a sort of half-shrug without thinking about it. Fuck it.
Sirius climbs up on the swing, cigarette between his teeth, stares straight into Remus’ hazel eyes, and then turns around to sit in Remus’ lap. He’s barely breathing and he hasn’t got the damn capacity to think twice about what Remus will say or think or do. He just sits, takes another drag from his cigarette and tries to swallow his heart down.
~~~
Remus can’t move. He feels Sirius shifting and settling into his lap, and he can’t think or breathe and then suddenly all he can do is breathe in Sirius’ body spray and cigarettes. Without thinking, he wraps one arm around Sirius’ waist and presses his forehead into the other boy’s shoulder.
“More wet blanket anxiety?” He mumbles against Sirius’ back, inky hair tickling his nose.
“Nah,” Sirius murmurs back. “Just… just thinking, I guess.”
“Wanna talk about it, or keep thinking?”
Remus feels Sirius’ shrug against his chin with the way his head lifts, just a little bit.
“I dunno… I’m just thinking about… you, and your way with words.” Sirius’ words are interrupted by a drag from his cigarette, and then he continues: “You always seem to know what to say and how to say it, and here I am, with a gigantic vocabulary, but only using like forty percent of the words I know because I never know how to use them. That doesn’t make any sense.”
Remus’ forehead creases, pressing hard into Sirius’ shoulder. “But… all I do is think about words. Too much, probably. You are always doing and I can never do I only ever think .”
Sirius hums, low in his throat. “I just… I could never explain my anxiety like you do, or spout correctly worded facts like you do. I speak two languages, and I can’t express myself in either of them, but you… you just can .”
Remus huffs a laugh, and then immediately feels his heartbeat double as Sirius’ scent fills his nose again. “Because all I do is think. But… in your case, I think it’s because no one has ever asked you how you felt. Like...your parents never asked you to verbalize what you’re feeling, so it’s not a skill you ever had the chance to develop.”
“See!” Sirius exclaims. “There you are with all the words again!”
This time, Remus is overcome with giggles. He snorts into the back of Sirius’ hoodie, collapsing against him and panting. “I can’t help it!”
Sirius laughs, too, and Remus wishes he could see it; the way the skin by Sirius’ eyes crinkles and the smile lines around his mouth stand out more than anything else.
“You should share,” Sirius says, “because I have so much to say but no way to say it.”
Remus pulls Sirius closer, his arm shifting with each of Sirius’ breaths. “Well apparently I did okay when you asked me about anxiety so… do you have another question?”
Sirius is quiet for a moment, puffing on his cigarette until it has apparently burned to the butt, then he flicks it away. “What do you think love feels like?”
Remus’ heart clenches and he is convinced that Sirius can feel it pounding against his back. He closes his eyes and listens to Sirius breathing, to the leaves shifting in the autumn breeze. “For me, it feels like a blanket that is just fresh out of the dryer. Or lying in the sunshine on a warm afternoon. The contrast of the sharp scent of cigarettes with sweet body spray and—” He clamps his mouth shut, suddenly realizing what he is saying. His cheeks burn, and he instinctively presses closer to hide their color.
Sirius sits silent, rigid, and Remus can’t feel him breathe. It feels unbearable, too long, too awkward, and then Sirius takes a breath.
“For me,” Sirius murmurs, slowly, as though he’s weighing every word on his tongue before he says anything, “it feels like I can’t breathe properly, and I think of rolling R’s, and the way you smell like books and chocolate, and… hazel eyes. I think of fun, stupid facts and Ribena, and this park.”
“Sirius, I—” Remus is suddenly overcome with the need to do something, and he shifts, causing the swing to rock and they both nearly tumble off. Sirius shrieks and Remus topples on top of him and they are suddenly nose to nose and Remus presses his lips to Sirius’ and he stops thinking .
Sirius is completely still, and maybe Remus should be thinking and feeling anxiety stabbing him like hard crumbs and maybe he should pull away, but then Sirius’ hand reaches Remus’ hair. He’s not tugging or pulling, just holding him there.
And Sirius kisses back.