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Summary
“Summer’s mouth got me hot and heavy,” Sirius sings, voice raspy with disuse, and Remus plunks out a G chord. “Summer lightning in my mind / slips his hands around my throat / and screams along all night.”
“Nonsensical,” Peter says, flicking a look at Sirius in the rearview. He swerves again. James’s head hits the window. Remus is staring at Sirius over the curve of stained passenger seat upholstery, intense enough that Sirius feels he might be able to drag his hand through the space between them and come away with a handful of Galatean clay. Peter clears his throat loudly, then says “I fucking hate it. What d’you think of it, Remus? Remus. Remus. Remus.”
“Huh?” Remus says, finally startling, whipping away from Sirius, who feels himself start to flush. “I—yeah, good one, Sirius.”
Sirius bites his lip through his grin just to make Remus huff, turn away, and adjust his trousers.
“Summer’s mouth, huh,” Peter says loudly. “Thinly veiled euphemism, huh.”