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At lunch, James comes skidding to a halt along the bench at the Gryffindor table like a baseball player stealing home.
“Lads!” he exclaims, beaming at his friends, who have all stopped abruptly in the process of consuming their midday meals, forks hovering in mid air, cups raised to lips, knives poised over plates. “Who fancies a drink?”
“It’s the middle of the day, Prongs,” Remus says.
“You been holding out on me?” Sirius says at the same time.
James laughs as he fills his plate and shakes his head at Peter as if to say, Can you believe these two? Peter smiles meekly in response, just as confused by James’s behavior as his friends across the table.
“Tonight,” James says, attacking the meat on his plate with a fervor as if it’s still actively trying to escape. “I got word Rosmerta’s got something going on at the Three Broomsticks, live band, drinks on offer, that sort of deal. We’re going.” He points a mangled piece of beef hanging off the end of his fork at each of them, as if to underscore his point.
“‘Fraid I can’t make it, mate,” Sirius says, folding his arms in front of him on the table. He pushes on before James can even start with his protestations. “McGonagall’s still got me in detention tonight.”
“For the shit we pulled before the holidays? Still?”
Sirius shrugs. “Seems chasing after frogs that were ringing like alarm clocks wasn’t her idea of a good time.” His face breaks into a grin as Remus snorts into his water glass.
“You’re coming anyway,” James says, and Sirius feels the grin on his face stretch even wider at the familiar sight of James With A Plan, when he’ll let nothing get in his way. “Just come late, we weren’t exactly planning on having an early night of it.”
“Alright, Prongs, have it your way,” Sirius says, and James returns to his lunch with a satisfied smile.
“He will,” Remus says softly. Sirius glances over and catches his eye, and Remus smiles at him for a moment. It’s an expression so small and subtle that Sirius wonders if anybody who doesn’t know Remus would even be able to tell that he’s smiling, but there’s a softness in his eyes, and Sirius knows.
“Well,” he says, getting to his feet and dropping a hand onto Remus’s shoulder in a sort of farewell. “Till tonight then, lads.”
***
By the time Sirius steps out into Hogsmeade from the darkened Honeydukes store front, the streets are deserted and still. Only snowflakes drift lazily to the ground, suspended for a moment in the golden glow of the street lamps. Sirius tightens his scarf around his neck, thrusts his hands into his pocket, and trudges down the main street toward the only beacon of warmth: the Three Broomsticks.
When he pushes his way into the tavern, he brings a blast of cold air with him that quickly dissipates as it meets the wall of light and laughter that greets it. The pub is still full, despite the band having clearly finished their set -- they lounge around on the makeshift stage, some of them still holding their instruments but all of them holding a drink -- and many of the tables are seating at least double their usual occupancy. Regardless, it takes Sirius only a moment to find his friends at one of their favorite tables, a circular booth wedged into one of the corners by a large window. He hasn’t even taken off his coat when James ambushes him.
“Padfoot!” he shouts, though Sirius is standing directly in front of him. He lurches out of the booth and throws an arm around Sirius’s shoulders, pressing the other hand against his chest. “You made it, mate,” he slurs, slapping Sirius’s chest with perhaps a bit more force than he’d intended. “I told you,” he continues, turning back to Remus and Peter, still seated at the table. “I told you he’d be here.”
“You did!” Peter chimes in, and Sirius can see the bright, hazy look in his eyes, the way his head seems like it’s almost about to roll off his neck every time he turns it to look in a different direction.
Looking at Remus, Sirius finds him in a similar state. His fingers are halfway curled around the handle of a pint, and his other arm is slung lazily over the back of the booth. As though they’re waving at half mast, his eyelids droop low over his eyes as he looks up to meet Sirius’s gaze, and his tongue snakes out to wet his lips before he pulls the bottom one in between his teeth. If Sirius were walking, he’d have missed a step. Rarely has he seen Remus so loose, so open, but rarely has he also seen Remus so drunk.
“Oi,” he says, pushing James back into the booth before ripping off his coat and sidling onto the seat beside him. “How many have you tossers had?”
As though in response, Peter hiccups, and Remus and James dissolve into hysterical laughter.
“I can’t believe you lot,” Sirius mutters. “Leaving me to catch up, I’ll be behind the rest of the night. Some mates you are.” He smiles, though, before yelling out in protest as James climbs over him, seemingly with complete disregard for where any of Sirius’s limbs might be.
“Getting the next round!” he calls over his shoulder as he stumbles off into the crowd in the general direction of the bar.
Sirius slides along the bench until he’s beside Remus, just below that arm outstretched across the back of the booth. “Think it’s okay to let him go alone like that?” he asks, knocking his knee against Remus’s.
Remus lets out a breath of laughter before taking another sip of his beer. “I think I vaguely remember something about a ‘buddy system,’ but we’ve been getting along just fine.”
Even though he knows this is where he adds his own flippant retort, Sirius can’t find the words, and he’s only glad that Remus seems too drunk to register the blockade in their habitual rapport. Sirius can hear bits and pieces of Remus’s old accent leaking back into his speech, a dropped consonant here and there. Listening to him makes Sirius feel like he’s slowly sinking into a tub of warm honey, enveloped in the comfort of Remus’s evident relaxation.
James returns, lurching terribly from side to side, spilling their drinks so profusely Sirius wonders if he should just slurp them up from the tray. Luckily, he arrives safely at the table and passes out four shots of firewhiskey as well as four more pints.
“A toast!” James shouts, lifting his shot into the air and consequently sending more than half of it dribbling down his arm. “To the Marauders!”
All of them echo some semblance of his toast before downing their shots, and Sirius gives a slight shake of his head as he swallows his. “I’m going to need about ten more of these, I expect,” he says, shuffling to move toward the opening of the booth. “C’mon, Prongs, up you get.”
After practically lifting James out of the booth and setting him back down again, Sirius makes his way over to the bar, perching on one of the stools at the corner. He glances over his shoulder and can just see their table. Peter has his head down on his hands, Remus is staring up at the ceiling as though it’s a particularly difficult arithmancy problem, and James is gesticulating wildly to an unresponsive audience. Sirius smiles.
“What can I get for you, dear?” Rosmerta asks, pulling Sirius’s attention back to the bar.
“A shot of firewhiskey,” he says. When she lifts a skeptical eyebrow, he flashes his grandest smile, and she retrieves the bottle from the shelf. “You’re a doll, Rosmerta.”
“Make that two shots,” a voice says from Sirius’s right elbow, and he turns to see a man sliding onto the stool beside him.
“I hope you’re picking up the tab on those, then,” Sirius says, turning in his seat to angle more toward the man.
“Saves me from having to ask if I can buy you a drink,” he says, nodding at Rosmerta in thanks as she returns with the shots.
“The type to drink with strangers, are we?” Sirius gently grips the glass between his thumb and forefinger, carefully sliding it across the rough wooden bar toward himself. He keeps his eyes on the liquid sloshing at the surface until the stranger speaks again.
“I am if you are.”
Sirius flicks his eyes up to look at his newest companion. He is undeniably attractive, Sirius thinks, with dark hair that falls just to his shoulders and dark eyes to match, a strong jaw that hasn’t been shaved and smooth skin the color of cinnamon. Simply put, Sirius likes what he sees, and the look in the stranger’s eye tells Sirius he probably feels the same way. Without breaking their gaze, Sirius lifts his glass. “Bottoms up.”
The two toss their heads back, swallow, and slam their glasses down onto the bar within just a beat of each other.
“I’m Beck,” the man says, leaning on the bar on his elbow, his body turned sideways.
“Sirius.”
“Yeah, I’m serious, my name’s Beck,” he says again, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion, and Sirius lets out a shout of laughter. It’s been so long since even he’s made that age-old joke with his name, he’s almost forgotten the confusion it can cause.
“No, no, of course,” Sirius says, still grinning from ear to ear. “My name’s Sirius, like the star.”
“Oh,” Beck says, and some of the confusion in his expression seems to ebb away, although a couple of creases remain between his brows. “Well, it’s nice to meet you… Sirius.”
“And you,” Sirius says, glancing over to see if he can get Rosmerta’s attention again. He came to the bar to see if he could catch up with his friends. It’s nice to have some company while he does so, but he doesn’t intend on losing sight of his original mission. “What brings you in tonight?” he asks, since Beck’s attention still seems to be focused on him. “Do you know the band?”
“I’m in the band,” Beck says with a sort of self-satisfied smile. He’s running the pad of his index finger around the rim of his shot glass, eyes locked on Sirius. “Lead guitar.”
Sirius knows he’s supposed to think this is impressive, and he pulls just the right smile to make Beck believe this bit of information has hit its mark. Rosmerta returns then, and Sirius leans across the bar. “Another firewhiskey, darling, and then a brandy, neat.” The barmaid tries to look stern but blushes despite herself.
“I’m sorry to say I missed your set,” Sirius says, and his tone begins to dip toward that bored arrogance that was practically bred into him. The bored arrogance that Sirius has learned doesn’t always push people away like he thinks it might, but actually pulls them closer in.
“Damn, it was a great night,” Beck says, and he smiles as though he’s already reminiscing about the past few hours like they’re the glory days. “You should come back next week, we’ll be playing again.”
“Possibly.” Sirius tosses his hair over his shoulder, tilting his head slightly. He twists in his chair, and his knee accidentally knocks into Beck’s thigh. Turning quickly in the opposite direction, he breaks contact. “I don’t get down here often.”
“You should come,” Beck says again, resting his hand on top of Sirius’s where it lies on the bar. “I’d love to look out into the audience and see your face.”
Sirius clenches his jaw and is just looking for the perfect retort to bite back when he feels a weight slam into his back and he lurches forward, only managing to stay seated because of his arm on the bar. When he looks up, he sees Remus hanging off him, gesturing toward Beck with his pint, his other arm crooked around Sirius’s neck. His hand drops limply in front of Sirius’s chest, and he can feel Remus’s fingers brushing against his shirt as he sways on his feet. He wraps an arm around Remus’s waist to keep him standing.
“And who are you?” he demands, glaring down at Beck from his towering height, taking another sip of his beer as he waits for an answer.
“I’m Beck.” He turns his attention back to Sirius, and his expression has hardened, although there’s still a twinkle in his eye as though he hasn’t bowed out of this one just yet. “I didn’t realize you were here with anyone.”
Sirius feels Remus’s arm tighten around his neck, and he can’t help but smile, acutely aware of the sharp hip also digging into his side. “I’m here with some friends,” he says, gesturing back toward the table in the corner with a toss of his head, though he can’t actually see them now with Remus pressed up against him.
“And this is one of them?” Beck’s eyes flick back toward Remus, and he seems to drag his gaze down the large, lanky body, some sort of disbelief clouding his features.
“This is--”
“I’m Sirius’s… Sirius’s…” Remus trips over the possessive several times, adding extra syllables and s’s where they don’t belong, furrowing his brow with the extra effort. He’s brought the pint close to his chest now, holding it to his body like some sort of teddy bear.
Sirius holds his waist just that much tighter and tilts his chin up to look at Remus, whose face is still contorted with the attempt to make his tongue work correctly. “He’s mine,” he says, and it’s not necessarily clear if he’s directing the statement to Remus or Beck. The relief that floods Remus’s face sends a tingling sort of pride all the way out to the tips of Sirius’s fingers, and for a moment he merely watches the lines on his forehead slowly flatten.
“Well, it was nice to meet you… Sirius’s,” Beck says, sliding off the stool with a last, almost accusatory look at Sirius. “I’ll leave you to it.”
The second Beck has disappeared back into the depths of the tavern, Sirius guides Remus down into his empty seat. “Hey there, big guy,” he says softly, resting his hands on Remus’s knees. “You doing okay there?”
Remus’s brow has furrowed again, and he stares at the beer in his hand, watching the bubbles bounce up to the foam at the surface. “I saw him talking to you,” he says, looking up at Sirius then. “He had his hand…” He rests his hand on the one on his knee, as if to illustrate.
“So you came stomping over here to scare him off, did you?” Sirius sees Remus’s shoulders loosen as he latches on to Sirius’s smile, and his fingers curl more tightly around Sirius’s hand.
“I didn’t-- I didn’t really know what I was doing,” Remus murmurs. He sways forward on the seat slightly, and Sirius reaches up with his free hand to catch his shoulder.
Moving his hand up Remus’s neck to come to rest against his jaw, Sirius can’t believe that his smile gets even bigger. His cheeks could shatter any second from the strain and he wouldn’t be surprised. “My knight in shining armor,” he whispers.
Remus’s face begins to crinkle again in concern, as though he can’t quite figure out if he’s being made fun of, but he melts again with a soft swipe of Sirius’s thumb across his cheek. Dropping his head slightly forward, he lets his forehead rest against Sirius’s.
“I didn’t like that he touched your hand,” he whispers.
Sirius chuckles, a soft sound that vibrates through his body, almost indistinguishable from the music still bouncing around them. Twisting his hand around on Remus’s leg, he laces their fingers together and squeezes. “You’ve got it now, and I’ll let you hold it all the way back to Gryffindor tower.”
Remus hums his assent, or appreciation, drooping even farther forward until his forehead is pressed into Sirius’s shoulder, and Sirius wraps an arm around his back.
“Because I’m yours,” Remus mumbles into his neck.
“And I’m yours, Moony.”