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For once, Remus wakes up before Sirius. The sun is up, the windows are open, and the curtains are drawn. There’s just a hint of a June breeze rippling the pale blue fabric.
Generally, Remus is not a morning person. He prefers to sleep in whenever possible and feels bad for the students who have to suffer through his morning classes. So it’s rare that he has an opportunity to observe Sirius as they sleep, an activity Sirius is notoriously bad at.
Their long hair—so different from Remus's short, coarse curls—is strewn over the pillow, the subtle silver streaks looking almost blonde in the early light. Remus drapes his arm around Sirius’s waist, not wanting to wake them up but needing to feel the rise and fall of their breathing. The darker brown of his skin complements the golden brown of theirs.
Growing up, Remus never thought he would live to see his forties. People like Remus didn’t have long life expectancies to begin with, and on top of that he graduated right into a war that took almost everything from him.
But here he is. And here, against all odds, is Sirius, too. It’s hard for Remus to believe that he is allowed to have all of this, any of this: a life with the person he loves, a body he no longer hates, a stable job that he actually likes, and a permanent home. Sometimes it feels like he doesn’t deserve it. But with practice, it’s getting easier to push through that feeling. It has all been worth it—every hour, every day of his life that Remus spent wanting to kill himself—all worth it to be alive for this.
Sirius mumbles something in their sleep.
It’s not that everything is fine now. Sirius is still wary whenever they step out of the cottage, expecting to be watched, get caught. Remus still grows anxious as the full moon approaches each month, even though he has wolfsbane consistently available. Sirius still has nightmares that leave them in a cold sweat most nights. Sometimes, when they wake up, they think they are in Grimmauld Place again. Remus hasn’t entirely been able to shake that deep-rooted sense of unease, waiting for a catastrophe that feels inevitable. Sirius’s hands have a permanent tremble. Remus can rarely fall asleep without tossing and turning for an hour, joints aching.
James and Lily are gone, will always be gone. Sometimes Remus and Sirius are swallowed up by grief for the people they have lost, the years they have lost, all that has been expended for the peace that exists for now.
But things happen that could not have happened before. They have a home together. Tonks and her girlfriend come over for drinks every now and then. Sirius and Remus meet up with Minerva in Hogsmeade for tea once a month. Sirius has taken up gardening; last spring Remus helped them plant a lilac bush, and this month it is blooming. Remus is teaching himself to play guitar; he learns songs by ear, listening to the same records and cassettes over and over. They eat three square meals a day (most of the time) and they’ve both put on weight since the war ended. Each of them goes to therapy weekly. They travel to London regularly, active members of a coalition that advocates for prison abolition and equal rights for all beings, among other things. They spend Christmases with Remus’s mother.
Sirius and Remus are safe. Harry is safe. Harry visits for dinner every Saturday. Harry is going to turn twenty next month, and he’s working toward a teaching certificate because he wants to be a professor, like Remus. Seeing the way that Harry looks up to him is overwhelming in the best way.
Remus is so thankful that he gets to be a part of this family.
What they have is good, and it’s not—god forbid—it’s not about to disappear. Remus has spent the past few years letting that set in.
Sirius shifts beneath Remus’s arm and opens their eyes: dark brown and tired and tender.
Remus kisses their temple. “Morning, love,” he whispers.
Sirius doesn’t say anything; they just shuffle nearer to Remus on the bed and bury their nose into the crook of his neck.
Remus gets his other arm around Sirius and holds them close.
When they were younger, Remus thought that Sirius couldn’t possibly want a life with him. A few months or years, sure, but Remus was certain it would end. But here they are, sharing a bed, a tube of toothpaste, a cat, a last name.
The first time Remus held Sirius like this, he was so happy he thought he might accidentally set fire to the walls, or make flowers grow out of the floorboards. Then he realized that Sirius was crying. At that point, Remus could count the number of times he’d seen Sirius cry on one hand. Sirius didn’t tell him why until almost two decades later.
“I couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched me so gently,” Sirius finally confessed, like it was something to be ashamed of. That’s when it became clear to Remus: he wanted to spend the rest of his life loving Sirius the way they always should have been loved.
Remus cards his fingers through Sirius’s hair. “You alright?”
“Bad dream,” Sirius says in a low voice, their lips brushing the skin of Remus’s neck.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Sirius shrugs, so Remus doesn’t push it.
After a few minutes, Remus thinks Sirius has fallen asleep, but then, “I just-” they start, then sigh.
Remus rubs circles into Sirius’s back.
“Sometimes,” Sirius tells Remus, “it feels like there will always be a war in my head.”
Remus feels something heavy shift inside of him but refuses to let it settle. He takes Sirius’s face in his hands and kisses their forehead.
“It’s never going to go away, is it?”
“I don’t know,” Remus admits, looking into Sirius’s bleary eyes. “But I’m never going away. That I’m sure of.”
Sirius closes their eyes for a few moments, then turns their head and kisses Remus’s palm. “Love you, Moony,” they say, and Remus believes it.
“I love you,” Remus says, brushing his thumb along Sirius’s lips.
From here in their bed, Remus can’t smell the lilacs, but it’s enough to know that they are there.