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I don’t know how we ended up like this, but I've been dreaming of it for three years. Remus's lips are very soft.
We’re on our annual trip to James' lake house, third and last before we start our senior year. Remus doesn’t like to go in the water, so being the great friend I am, I offered we took a walk around the lake, and somehow thanks to being slightly sun-drunk, and actual-drunk, we ended up on top of each other.
***
We--James, Peter, Remus, and I--have lived together since freshman year. Crossridge University was adamant freshmen received the full collegiate experience, and no matter how big a tantrum James or I threw, we were forced to live in the freshmen dorms, and since James' parents became my guardians during junior year, they even forced us into separate rooms in the same pod, only connected by a Jack and Jill bathroom.
When I stepped into the drab, sad-yellow walls of the dorm, I barely regarded the lanky boy sitting on the bed opposite to mine. All he seemed to have with him was a ratty old backpack on his lap, mended with black duct tape, and a half-empty duffle bag at the foot of the bed. I offered a polite nod, dropped my box, and suitcases by my bed, then disappeared through the bathroom to James' room. His roommate turned out to be a twitchy boy named Peter who watched us eagerly set up James' TV and gaming setups. Euphemia made James' bed and hung his clothes as we teared through a Battle Royale.
***
"They're all bisexual," were his first words to me. I was arranging posters on my wall--Freddie, Bowie, Brando--, and he apparently spotted a pattern.
"So?"
He shrugged, and for the first time, that mischievous smile spread across his lips. "What's your major?"
"Mechanical Engineering"
"Hmmm, guess I could be wrong."
"Are you trying to figure out my sexuality by my major and music tastes?"
"Just making conversation."
"Right, well I am bisexual. Let me know if that’s a problem,” I growled.
Remus hopped off his bed, unbothered, and stretched. Just then, I spotted the rainbow socks on his feet.
***
My hand wanders down his side to his hips. His fingers curl around my wrist, tugging my hand into his own, intertwining our fingers. My free hand, eager for skin, reaches under his t-shirt, my lips move to his throat, but, as soon as my fingers grace the hairs on his navel, he is gone.
"Sirius..." It’s a mild growl, the same chide I get whenever my things take up more than half of the room, or I accidentally drink his Oat milk.
I hold my hands up defensively. "Sorry, sorry!"
He leans cooly on his elbows, as though we haven’t been making out. How? My trunks feel tight and I reach between us to coyly tug at them.
When I turn to him, he’s staring off toward the lake.
I lean over him, and our lips meet again.
***
Over the first few weeks, Remus was quiet. He would join us for pizza nights or help Peter with his homework, but it was rare for him to speak more than a sentence. But, there was an ease to him, in how he sat back on his elbows as he watched us play video games, how he blinked slowly as though half bored, half too interesting to be there. He was magnetic. His wit was so fast, one time James barged into our room at six in the morning, before soccer practice, because just then he realized what Remus had whispered the night before.
It wasn't until our trip to the lake house that first summer that I started to really wonder about Remus.
He’d taken a full-time position assisting one of his professors and only joined us because the school closed for two weeks before the start of the fall and our lease started with the semester, so he had nowhere to stay. It was the first time we encountered the whole not-taking-his-shirt-off thing. It felt weird to ask him then. I’d only known him for a few months.
Remus, bone dry, and I, hair still dripping at the ends, sat around a fire as the sunset behind us. Remus leaned back on his elbows--he looked delicious like that--and craned his neck to James and Peter who were still swimming.
"How did you end up living with James?" he asked.
"Sorry?"
"Not many of the wealthy elite leave one of the richest families in the country for no reason."
I chuckled and pushed my hair out of my face. "I don't know if getting kicked counts as leaving."
"Oh! Sorry, I didn't--"
"Please, don’t worry about it! I'm better off like this. I should have run away when my little brother asked if James was a terrorist." It’s absurd I ever called them family. "They went through my phone and found photos of a guy I was talking to, all the chats, snaps, everything." I hugged my knees to my chest, watching the fire crackle. "They barely let me pack before they threw me out." I shrugged, stretching my legs back out. "It's fine. Turns out my uncle was also a big queer and I was his sole named heir so I'm pretty much set."
His lips pursed into a crooked smile.
"What?"
"It's a bit absurd... you and James are so fucking rich."
"I promise we'll be the first to lay at the guillotine when the revolution comes."
He rolled his eyes, his smile widening.
"Tell me about the hardships of blue-collar America, then, Remus saint of the working class. What is your story?"
He still smiled, but his eyes went blank. I could see his mind went elsewhere. "I'm on a similar boat--sans the dead, millionaire uncle."
It was as much as he would give, never any details. Just small nuggets of his past, enough to quench our curiosity. We didn’t know if he had siblings, what his parents were called, or much outside the fact that he grew up in rural Illinois, and even that we had to pry out of him.
***
I’m completely lost in his lips, his warm body under mine. Remus has always been beautiful, but he’s really come into his own over the last year. He looked boyish freshman year--in some ways, he remains so--but his face has changed. His cheeks have sharpened, as has his jaw. His body changed too. His shoulders squared off and widened, though Remus has no inclination of going to the gym.
Again, my hands begin to move of their own accord. They slither down to the tie of his trunks. I tug at the string and feel the knot unravel.
He shoves away from me and heat rises to my ears.
“Maybe we should go back,” he says, not looking at me.
I let go of the string and nod dumbly.
We walk along the muddy path, the sun painting the sky reds and purples across the lake. Remus won’t look at me through the mile-long walk. I expect him to flick me off, give me one of those stupid crooked smiles of him, but no. I’m stuck staring at the back of his neck.
I am such a fucking idiot. I knew Remus had it rough with guys before. In freshman year, when I turned away for a second one time we went clubbing, he had two dudes corralling him against the bar. I was barely able to tug him away, but to this day he won't tell me what happened.
When we reach the dock, I run to the water and flip into the lake, splashing Peter and James who had been peacefully lounging on their rafts.
Tense situations aren't my thing.
***
Dinner goes by quietly. We eat wings and watch some old soccer game James insists is the best game ever played. Remus excuses himself once he’s done, and heads off to our room.
As soon as he’s disappeared up the stairs, I turn to James. “What do you think he’s not telling us?”
“About what?” His eyes are glued to the game so I turn off the TV. “Hey!”
“You already know how the game ends!”
“Do you think he’s hiding something?” Peter wrings his hands nervously.
I shrug. I haven’t really put much thought into that part, but I know when someone has a secret. “Like the lake thing. Why won’t he go swimming.”
“He’s scared of water,” James says.
“Did he tell you that?”
He frowns. “No. I just assumed.”
“If he’s afraid of water, why won’t he take his shirt off? We were making out--”
“You got him to make out with you? Hey! Finally, congratulations,” James said.
“What?” Peter gapes between us.
“Sirius is in love with Remus, isn’t it obvious?”
“Am not!”
“Hey, don’t you think your crush is just a little out of control? You’re noticing every little thing because you’re always drooling after him.” James reaches for the remote. “Why don’t you just ask him?”
***
I try not to look like I’m storming off, I am storming off.
I fall onto my bed. I can hear Remus in the shower in the next room.
He comes back minutes later, already in his pajamas, furiously rubbing a towel into his hair.
“Remus…” I start dumbly.
He looks up, as though we didn’t spend the afternoon kissing. Does he want to act like it didn’t happen?
“Yeah?” he says.
I rub the back of my neck, words suddenly useless at the tip of my tongue. “I’m sorry--about earlier.”
His eyes drift to the floor. “Thanks.”
“If you want to just forget today happened, that’s fine. I don’t want to upset you.”
“Do you want to forget it happened?”
“Honestly?”
He nods.
“Honestly, you’re one of my favorite people on the planet, Remus, and I don’t want to make things weird between us. Honestly, I care about you so much, even though I feel like I barely know you sometimes. Honestly, I’ve wanted to kiss you for like three years, but you were so evasive and so private…”
He leans against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. “I feel much the same, Sirius…” I could see the next word hanging in the air, on his lips. “But…”
My heart sinks to my stomach. I'm not the feelings type. I denounced emotions when I left my family, but Remus got me. He’s warm and beautiful and so, so funny.
But…
“Whatever hang up you have,” I speak over him, “I swear I don’t give a shit.”
He rubs his eyes and rakes his hands nervously through his hair.
I continue: “You know everything there is to know about me, and yet I feel like all I have is this half built puzzle and I’m missing--”
“Will you shut up? I’m trying to tell you something.” Well, at least he sounds like himself again. He drops on the bed across from mine, his arms still tightly folded over his chest, eyes glued to the floor.
“I’m trans…”
Suddenly, the pieces fall into place. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh…”
“I don’t care.” He gives me a blank stare. “I mean, obviously I respect your gender and all that. I mean, it doesn’t change anything for me? For one, I'm bi, so plumbing isn’t an issue.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of that stupid smile of his. “That doesn’t matter.”
“What?”
“I’m a guy. Gay men are attracted to me all the same.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, either way. You’re a great fucking guy, Remus.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier…”
“No! No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry we made you feel like you couldn’t tell us. If I ever made a comment or something, Remus I’m so sorry. Also, I’m sorry I kinda forced it out of you.”
I can see his shoulders relax like a weight has been lifted.
He’s breathtaking.
“I thought I could keep my other life to myself,” he mumbles. “You’re my friends, you know? You don’t need to know those details, or I thought you wouldn’t need to, but then with the lake house, and the shirts vs. skins soccer games, and all the little day to day things where it could come up…”
I move over to his bed and squeeze his shoulder. “Are you going to tell the others?”
“Peter knows.” My jaw hits the floor; he chuckles. “He found me mid-T-injection sophomore year. I figured he’d tell you he thought I was doing drugs and you’d find out the truth. I’m glad he knew. He was a big help after I got top surgery.”
I rest my forehead on his shoulder and shake my head. I couldn't help but laugh.
“What?” He shrugs me off his shoulder.
“You managed to get surgery right under our noses and not tell us. We could’ve helped!”
“I know… It’s why I don’t take my shirt off. The first summer I was still in a binder, and then the scars didn’t heal right--because I was overexerting myself--, and I knew you’d recognize exactly what they were from.”
I want to laugh, to tell him he's an idiot for not telling us, but then I look up. His face is inches from mine. I feel the same heat from earlier. His lips, his breath--intoxicating. I lean in and our lips meet again. This time he isn’t shy. He lets my hands sneak under his t-shirt and up his sides.
“Can I see your chest?” I whisper against his lips.
He nods and I tug his t-shirt over his head. His body is open to me, if he's nervous, I can’t tell.
He gives me another, reassuring nod.
I look down. Across his chest, a finger-width, pink scar ran from under each armpit, stopping short of the center. I trace my thumb over one of them.
“I can’t feel my left nipple…” he quips.
I laugh and lean in for another kiss. “You’re perfect.”