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Sirius stumbles his way through the crowd, squeezing between his friends dancing and singing to some Bee Gees record Mary had brought over, and stepping over Pete, who’s sprawled out on the floor, a bottle clung to his chest, until finally, finally, he makes it to the sofa and promptly plops himself down on to it, ankles crossed and thrown over the arm. There’s a smoke tucked behind his ear and he retrieves it now, twirling it between his fingers before placing it between his lips.
With a grunt, he lifts his hips and digs in his back pocket, rooting around between loose change and lint for his lighter. There’s a click and finally, finally, the lick of an orange flame. And then James is there plucking it from his lips. “No smoking inside,” he says, pinching out the embers between his fingers.
Sirius groans. “It’s bloody raining outside.”
James ignores him. “Budge over would you,” he says, pushing at Sirius’ boots.
Sirius lifts his legs, turning so his feet are now propped up against the back of the sofa, his head dangling off the side, his hair brushing against the floor, the living room turned upside down.
“What do you think of Mary’s record?” James asks after he settles into the cushion next to him.
Sirius blows at a strand of hair caught stuck between his eyes. “Remus would hate it,” he says.
James hums. “I kinda like it,” he says, voice faraway and diaphanous.
Sirius tilts his head to follow James’ eyeline, where he’s very obviously tracking Lily Evans as she makes her way through the crowd and across the living room, her red hair flowing out behind her like a flame, her half-empty cup held up above her head as she bops her head along to the music.
Sirius snorts. James doesn't seem to notice.
There’s a click as the record stalls, preparing to move on to the next track and, in the sliver of silence between, the kitchen phone begins ringing.
“I got it!” Lily calls over her shoulder, pushing her way into the kitchen just as the drums for the next song kick in.
The saloon-style doors swing shut behind her, clapping loudly in place. This seems to wake Peter, who bolts upright, face viridescent and eyes wide. And then he’s blundering his way down the hall, towards the bathroom.
“Shit,” James mutters, before getting up to trail after him, leaving Sirius lying here, the blood rushing to his head as he stares at the empty corner of the living room. He squints at the clock there, trying to make sense of it upside down and five drinks in and immediately gives up.
“Sirius!” Lily calls, pushing the kitchen door only far enough to stick her head out of it. “Phone’s for you!”
With a harumph, Sirius swings his legs forward, attempting a somersault of sorts and ends up an indelicate heap on the floor, the alcohol and the blood pooling at his head making him logy and disoriented.
By the time he pushes his way into the kitchen, Lily is standing by the island pouring more gin into her cup. She glances up at him briefly, her green eyes wicked and a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.
“Evans,” he says in greeting as he pushes past her to where the handset has been left, receiver end up, on the counter. “Black,” she says, a smile hidden in her voice.
He shoots her an odd look before turning to pick up the phone. “Hello?” he says, voice like gravel.
“Hi.”
Sirius stills. Something in his stomach churns and warms uncomfortably —the alcohol, probably. And then he hastily turns around, still a bit stiff, knocking over a few empty cups that had been perched on the counter.
Across the room, Lily pushes her way through the kitchen doors, leaving him alone, and then he slides down to the floor, resting his head against the kitchen cupboard.
“Hi,” he says now, voice softer, closer to a whisper.
“Sorry. I didn’t know if I should still call since you’re throwing a party but, you know, it’s Friday and we usually—”
“—I’m glad you called.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So how is it then? The party, I mean.”
“Peter made punch.”
“Oh no,” Remus says, voice grave. Sirius bites down his smile.
“He’s paying for it now, though. He’s in the bathroom christening the Potter’s toilet while James pats his hair.”
“Poor Peter.”
“Poor James .”
Remus laughs through his nose and the hairs on the back of Sirius’ neck stand still like Remus is right there, breathing down his spine. “What else have I missed?”
Sirius hums. “James stood on top of the folding table and it collapsed in two with him in the middle.”
Remus snickers and Sirius sits up a bit straighter, preening at the response.
“I think he was trying to get Lily’s attention. Suppose it worked, she did go out of her way to call him an idiot. First time she spoke to him all night.”
“Little victories, I suppose,” Remus says and then there’s some shuffling on the other line and when Remus speaks again his voice is slightly louder, like he’s clutching the receiver closer. “And what about you?”
There’s a piece of lint on Sirius’ jeans and he picks at it. “Oh, you know,” he drawls, “I brutally lost to McKinnon and Evans in beer pong and have been drinking to forget it ever since.” He flicks the piece of lint to the side, looks up to stare at the water droplets dribbling down the side of the frosted kitchen window, sighs, and then, quieter: “I wish you were here.”
“I’m not sure how much help I would have been in beer pong. If I was there I’d probably just be standing alone in a corner.”
“If you were here, I’d stand in the corner with you. When are you coming back, Moony? Because, you know, it’s my birthday in two weeks.”
“Oh is it?” Remus says voice low and teasing.
“Ha ha,” Sirius replies drily. He stretches out his legs before him, his movements slow and relaxed.
“Hey…” Remus says and Sirius hums before realising Remus isn’t talking to him.
There’s someone else on the other line. Sirius leans into the receiver, but it all sounds garbled and warped, voices underwater. Even Remus sounds farther away like he’s dropped the phone or else covered it with his hand and all Sirius can pull from him is what sounds like directions —“the right... on the top.”
And then, a few seconds later, Remus is back. “Sorry,” he says, voice crystal again.
“Who was that?”
“Oh, uh, my neighbour.”
“Oh? What’s he like? Grey hair? Uses a cane? Always yelling at you to get off his lawn?”
Remus laughs, all jagged and sharp edges, like broken glass. And it’s horrible. And it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. “No. He’s our age. Blonde hair, no cane, always forgets where the linen closet is no matter how many times he’s been over.” Remus shouts out the last thing, like it isn’t meant for Sirius.
“Oh,” Sirius says, the word coming out rusty and strange on his tongue.
“Now, don’t be jealous, Sirius.”
“‘Don’t be jealous,’ he says. Meanwhile, he’s gone and replaced me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a friend.” Sirius blinks.
Outside there’s thunder, brusque and crescendoed, but he misses the lightning, only sees the echo of it as it sneaks through the window and reflects off the kitchen tiles. He’s tracing the dip of the grout with his finger, back and forth and back and forth again.
“Sirius?”
“I should let you go. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I called you.”
“Yes, well…”
“I called you because I wanted to talk to you.”
His finger stills. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Remus parrots back, exaggerated.
“Piss off.”
Sirius lets his head fall back against the kitchen cabinet and closes his eyes. The alcohol is creeping its way into his brain, filling his head uncomfortably.
He can still hear the party in the other room, hazy and indistinct but in here it’s quiet; just the sound of Remus’ breath in his ear, static in the receiver, white noise fizzling at the base of Sirius’ spine.
He hears Remus swallow and then: “You still there?”
Sirius lolls his head to the side looking down at the tile floor. There’s a crack in the grout and Sirius digs the heel of his boot into it.
“Do you still have that freckle behind your ear?” he says in answer.
“What?” Remus titters, his voice choking out, startled and brittle. The corner of Sirius’ lip starts to curve up and he catches it, teeth between lip.
“The freckle,” he says, white knuckled grip on the telephone, “the one behind your ear. The one you scratch at when you get nervous.”
“Well I can’t very well see behind my ear, but it’s only been two months, Sirius. I reckon it’s still there.”
Sirius hums. “Nice freckle, that one. Although the one on the side of your throat is also very good.”
There’s some rustling on the other line, Remus’ breath in his ear disappearing and returning like he’s shifted the phone from one ear to the other. “How much of Peter’s punch have you had?” Remus asks, voice caught between amused and guarded like he’s playing along with a joke, like he’s waiting for the punchline.
Sirius’ eyebrows draw together, confused by the question. “Mm five, six cups?” And then he rakes his hand across his face and groans. “I’ll have to spend all day tomorrow next to the toilet while bloody James skips around the house bragging about how he never gets a hangover.”
Remus hums in genteel amusement but it comes out sounding unnatural and broken-up like skipping rocks.
He sounds faraway, which, Sirius reasons, he is.
Sirius stares down at his lap, at the telephone wire curled mindlessly around his finger. “Will you call tomorrow?”
“Is there a phone in the bathroom?” Remus asks, a weak smile etched into his words.
“The cord is bloody long, I could probably sneak you in there with me.”
There’s no response, just the vespine buzz in his ear.
Sirius opens his mouth, closes it, bites down on his lip, tangles the cord further around his finger. “Moony?”
“Yeah,” Remus whispers before finding his voice. “Yeah, I'll call tomorrow and make sure you’re still alive. Wouldn’t want you to choke on your own sick.”
“Ha, ha,” Sirius replies gruffly, but he’s smiling, a secret, indulgent thing.
***
The next morning finds Sirius kneeling on the bathroom floor, gripping on to the Potter’s pink ceramic toilet bowl. James has come in a few times to check in on him, offering medicine and crackers and water and a pat on the back and also to remind him to aim for the toilet not his mother’s shag rug.
It’s been a few hours now, the sun now up and shining through the stained glass window above the sink, creating pretty reflections against the tiled floor. But the sunlight, its heat, and the naseauting colours, are all unwelcomed intrusions, as is the creak of the bathroom door as it’s tentatively pushed open.
“Piss off, James,” Sirius croaks without looking up.
“Well, hello to you too.”
Sirius startles, scrambling away from the toilet, his back hitting the wall. Leaning against the doorway all awkward and long-limbed is— “Remus?”
The corner of Remus’ mouth twitches. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” Sirius repeats dumbly. Sirius rubs at his eyes, excepting that when he blinks them open Remus will be gone, just a mirage created by his hazy mind. But Remus is still there, ducking down to sit on the floor opposite Sirius, his back to the cupboard, and Sirius watches him with a furrowed brow and a throbbing head.
“What are you—”
“I called earlier, but you didn’t pick up.”
“So you drove here?” Sirius asks, confused.
“Well, no. I was calling to tell you I was coming. It was supposed to be a surprise, but then I thought what if you aren’t home? But you didn’t answer and I figured you were pretty out of it last night, when, uh, when we were talking so I figured there was probably a good chance you were here passed out and hugging the toilet.”
Sirius blinks at him. And Remus nudges him with his socked foot, his head tilted. “How do you feel?”
“Like death.”
Remus snorts, all raucous and boyish. “You look it.”
Sirius scoffs, reaching out to kick lightly at Remus’ thigh. “Cheers for that. What happened to your tact?”
“Nonsense,” Remus says. “Death is a good look on you.”
Sirius narrows his eyes at him. And Remus holds his gaze for all of a couple seconds before coughing and looking away.
“Here,” Remus says, leaning forward to place a glass of water in front of him. Sirius doesn’t remember him walking in with it. “James said to give you this, said you’d know where the Advil was.”
“Thanks,” Sirius says, voice small and gruff. And then he’s leaning forward on his knees, reaching across Remus to open the drawer by the other boy’s head.
Remus tenses, sitting up a bit straighter. His breath hitches slightly and then it’s back to normal, but Sirius, who has spent countless hours on the phone with him and has become very familiar with Remus’ breathing, notices it.
“Sorry,” he says, leaning back, holding up the Advil.
“No bother,” Remus whispers, his hot breath ghosting across Sirius’ cheeks. And then his hand comes up, scratching idly behind his ear. At the freckle.
Sirius watches the movement, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do I make you nervous, Moony?” he asks, head tilted forward, voice teasing.
Remus, seemingly recovered, rolls his eyes and lowers his hand. “Hardly,” he says. “You had your head in the toilet when I came in, remember? Not quite the picture of intimidation.”
Sirius hums, shrugging one shoulder. “I hear death’s a good look on me.”
The corner of Remus’ mouth twitches at that, but he doesn’t say anything.
From where Remus is sitting on the bathroom floor the refracted light of the stained glass window is just ghosting over him, the tips of his eyelashes irised by the tinted light. Sirius is so close that, if his brain wasn’t currently short-circuiting, every synapse firing and weakly fizzling out, he could count every one of Remus’ eyelashes. He’s so fucking close. And Remus is just sitting there, stock-still but watching him carefully, his eyes searching Sirius’ face, two creases slowly etching their way between his eyebrows. Sirius feels a bit dizzy, a bit mazed, like the blink of Remus’ eye might guster enough wind to knock him down.
And then there’s a hesitant knock on the open door and Sirius turns to see a boy with flaxen hair and soft blue eyes standing there and suddenly he remembers his headache.
“I don’t know you,” he says, sitting back on his heels and popping a pill into his mouth.
“Er,” Remus says, “this is my friend Liam. My neighbour.”
“You must be Sirius,” the boy smiles.
Sirius just stares up at him, lips slightly pursed, and the boy turns to Remus, raising a single brow. Remus just shakes his head.
They’re having a silent conversation right in front of him and Sirius feels removed, and, honestly, a little miffed.
The boy coughs. Sirius hates him.
“Right,” the boy says, “well your friend James told me to tell you he's making sandwiches. With lots of bacon, he said that part was important. Should be done soon.”
“Thanks,” Remus says. “We’ll be there soon.”
The boy smiles softly at Remus and then he turns on his heel to leave and Sirius waits until his footsteps grow distant before turning back to Remus. “You brought your neighbour?”
“Mum said I could only come if I brought a friend along.”
Sirius blinks. “A friend.”
Remus nods. “Liam,” he says.
“Liam,” Sirius repeats.
The two creases between Remus’ brows make another appearance. “Are you feeling alright?”
“No,” Sirius says drily. “I’ve been cradling the toilet all morning for fun.”
Something ripples across Remus’ face; he looks like he’s about to say something and then doesn’t and then he opens his mouth as though he has changed his mind and then closes it again before he gets the chance.
Finally, he stands up. “Come on,” he says, leaning down to offer Sirius his hand. “Let’s eat.”
***
“Liam seems nice,” James says. He’s leaning over the stove, a pink tea towel thrown over his shoulder as he shimmies a pot full of popcorn over the burner, waiting for the kernels to heat.
When Sirius doesn’t answer, he looks over his shoulder at where Sirius is sitting along the counter, his elbows resting on the tile. “He’s… alright,” Sirius allows.
James snorts and turns back to the stove just as the popcorn begins popping, the kernels crackling frantically.
“What?” Sirius asks.
James shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, taking the pot off the stove as the popping begins to slow. He turns to place the pot down on the counter in front of Sirius. “It’s just ‘alright’ seems like a bit of an understatement. You’ve been throwing daggers at him for the past couple hours.”
Sirius shrugs and reaches forward for the pot handle so he can begin puring the popcorn into the two bowls he had set out. “He’s spent the whole time glued to Remus’ side and whispering things into his ear. And it’s kinda rude, isn’t it? He gets Remus every day, but we haven’t seen him for two months.”
Sirius sets the now empty pot down and looks up to find James frowning at him. “I think,” James says, “that you should give him a chance. He’s Remus’ friend after all.”
Sirius hums noncommittally and James searches his face. “Unless,” he says, voice tentative, “there’s another reason you don’t like him.”
“Like what?” Sirius asks, reaching forward to sprinkle cinnamon into one of the bowls, the way he knows Remus likes it.
James regards him for a few seconds, forehead wrinkling before smoothing out. He shakes his head, reaching for the pot. “Nothing,” he says, turning around. He puts more oil into the pot and then places it back onto the stove. “I’m going to make one more batch for Peter and I.”
Sirius nods and stands up to leave.
“Be nice,” James says without turning around. Sirius rolls his eyes at James’ turned back.
In the living room Peter is slumped in one of the Potter’s armchairs, having come over once James called him to tell him Remus was visiting. And on the couch is Remus and Liam. They’re all watching some boring ITV sitcom with a horrible laugh track and none of them notice as Sirius enters the room and makes his way towards them.
Sirius sidesteps the perfectly empty armchair and heads over to the couch. It’s really only big enough to fit two comfortably, but Sirius squeezes his way through, fitting snugly between Remus and the arm cushion. He and Remus are touching ankle to hip.
Remus turns to him then, sending him a small smile, all clunky and lopsided. Sirius smiles back, or at least he hopes he does —he honestly feels a bit sick, like his insides are being strung out and festooned across the Potter’s hallways, tied into a knot at every curve.
Mindlessly, he nudges Remus with the popcorn bowl he got for him and Remus looks down at it and then back up at Sirius. “Thanks,” he says, leaning forward so that they’re now flush ankle to shoulder.
Sirius nods once and then Remus pulls away.
Sirius watches Remus as he turns his attention back to the telly, as he pops a few flakes into his mouth, as he nudges Liam with his elbow and offers some to him. Sirius watches as Remus places the bowl between them, balancing it precariously on top of both of their knees. He watches as they both place their hands into the bowl, their fingers brushing over one another. And then the laugh track goes off and Sirius flinches at the abrupt sound and then Liam is laughing right along with the track, all roisterous and asinine, and Sirius bites down on his cheek, the grip on his own popcorn bowl growing considerably.
James joins them a few minutes later, passing a bowl to Pete and then claiming the empty armchair. After he settles, he turns to look at Sirius, squeezed uncomfortably at the end of the couch, folded in on himself, his elbows against the front of his stomach, but when Sirius catches him staring he looks away.
The five of them sit there watching the TV for another half an hour. A half hour of Liam and Remus brushing hands, of Liam leaning into Remus to whisper into his ear, of Remus responding everytime with a tutt and a coquettish jab of the elbow into Liam’s abdomen, of Liam smacking his lips together as he eats Remus’ cinnamon popcorn, of Liam laughing exorbitantly at every stupid joke on the telly, of Sirius grinding his molars, of Sirius’ popcorn going uneaten.
Sirius looks down at the floor, notices his and Remus' socked feet are side by side, looks over to see that Remus and Liam’s socked feet are also side by side, and then the laugh track comes on again and Liam is chortling.
“It’s not that funny,” Sirius mutters once it grows quiet.
“Huh?” Liam asks, leaning forward to look over Remus.
Remus turns to Sirius, looking a bit startled. Sirius ignores him. “I said it’s not that funny,” Sirius says a bit louder. Liam frowns at him.
“Sirius…” James warns. But Sirius ignores him too. “You’re a bit over doing it mate. And it's a bit rude to keep whispering things into Remus’ ear, don’t you think? And would it kill you to chew with your mouth closed? You sound like you’re chewing on cud.”
Without planning on it, Sirius finds himself on his own two feet, standing up and over everyone else.
“Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to strike a chord,” Liam says, sounding a bit uncomfortable.
Sirius looks at Remus who’s staring up at him, his eyebrows lowered and his mouth held slightly open. And then he looks over at Peter, who’s stress-shoving popcorn into his mouth and pointedly staring at the carpet, avoiding eye contact. And then he turns around to face James, who’s looking at him with so much disappointment that Sirius blinks and then turns on his heel to leave.
He makes his way to the room at the end of the hall. When Sirius was sixteen, he came out and his parents took the opportunity to finally wipe their hands clean off him, promptly throwing him out onto the streets. And when he had come to James’ house with a rucksack thrown over his shoulder and a few bruises hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt, Mrs. Potter had cleared out their home office and turned it into a bedroom for Sirius. And that’s where he’s headed now.
Once inside, he closes the door roughly behind him and sinks into his mattress, face in his pillow.
***
About twenty minutes later, the door to Sirius’ room opens and closes. Without looking up Sirius can already tell it’s Remus, just by the sound of the footsteps, by the way Remus only ever picks his feet up halfway off the floor.
“That was rude,” Remus says, stopping in front of Sirius’ bed.
Sirius turns his head to look up at him. “Sorry.”
“I’m not the one you should apologise to.”
“He’s your friend.”
Remus frowns and then he ducks down to lie next to Sirius, who turns on his back and shuffles over to make room for him.
“You’re a right tosser, you know that?” Remus says, voice soft.
Sirius hums quietly, eyes on the ceiling.
“A right fucking tosser,” Remus repeats.
Sirius turns on his side, facing Remus. “The worst,” Sirius says.
Remus shakes his head. “No, not the worst. High up there though.” And then he lolls his head to look over at Sirius, the corner of his mouth tugging ever so slightly, and then he turns on his side to face Sirius too.
They lay like that, facing each other, just breathing. It’s like when they’re on the phone; comfortable silence between lulls in conversation; Remus’ breath in his ear. And it’s calming and it gives Sirius enough courage to close his eyes and say: “Remus, are we friends?”
When Sirius opens his eyes, there’s two creases between Remus’ eyebrows. “Of course we’re friends,” he says.
Sirius bites his lip. “Like how you and Liam are friends?”
“What do you—”
“Because on the phone you said ‘he’s just a friend,’ and you keep saying that, that he’s a friend, and it just seems like an odd thing to keep making a point out of.”
“We are friends.”
“You and Liam?”
Remus hesitates. “Yeah.”
“Like how you and I are friends?”
Remus pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“You can tell me about you and Liam.”
Remus drops his hand. “What?”
“You know I don’t have a problem with it. Hell, you know I’ve kissed plenty of boys. Gideon Prewett last night at the party, for example. And no one at the party even batted an eye.” And because Remus looks like he’s getting progressively greener as Sirius talks, like he might be sick, Sirius scrambles to get to the point, his words spilling out of his mouth hurriedly: “It’s normal, I mean obviously you know it’s normal, but I mean I guess what I’m trying to say is you can tell me about this stuff. You shouldn’t feel like you have to keep it a secret from me, from your friend.”
“We’re not.”
“Not what?”
“Friends.”
Sirius frowns. “You and Liam?”
“No. Me and you.” And at Sirius’ hurt look, he adds: “Or, well, we are, but not like how Liam and I are friends.”
Sirius nods. “Right, yeah—”
“No, not ‘right, yeah.’ We’re not friends like Liam and I are friends because I’ve been pining after you like some pathetic dog since I was fucking twelve years old . ”
Sirius’ mouth falls open at that, his jaw just hanging there dumbly and Remus lays there staring at him.
Sirius can hear the clank as Remus jaw tightens, molar against molar, and then Remus breathes sharply through his nose and turns over on his back, blinking a few times at the ceiling before moving to get up, and Sirius scrambles forward to grab a hold of Remus’ wrist, his thumb on his pulse point.
Remus freezes. “You like me?” Sirius asks, voice creaky, like splintered wood.
“Don’t make me say it again,” Remus says, not looking at him.
The corners of Sirius’ mouth turn upward. “But I wanna hear it again.”
Remus jerkingly pulls his wrist out of Sirius’ grip. “It’s not a fucking joke, Sirius.”
“Hold on,” Sirius says, sitting up, “I want to tell you something.”
Remus turns towards him, not looking happy about it; his posture stiff, his mouth in a tight line, his eyes like a fire poker searing right through Sirius.
“I hate Liam.”
Remus rolls his eyes. “Noted,” he bites. And then he makes to leave and Sirius reaches out again.
“No, wait a minute. I hate him and I don’t even know anything about him. I just— I thought that you and him were, you know, and it made me— I didn’t like it,” Sirius finishes lamely.
“I’m not Gideon Prewett,” Remus says, looking somewhere behind Sirius’ shoulder.
Sirius blinks. “What?”
“I don’t want to, I don’t know,” Remus waves his hand around frustrated, “make-out in the hallway and then forget about it the next day or until the next party. I want the whole— I want the whole thing.”
“Okay.”
“ Okay? ”
Sirius shrugs. “Yeah that sounds alright to me.”
“That sounds alright to you,” Remus repeats, exasperated. And then, bitingly: “Fuck off.”
“You’re frustrated.”
“Of course I’m fucking frustrated.”
“No, you’re frustrated because you're pinching your right trouser pocket. And you’re nervous when you scratch at the freckle behind your ear. And you’re happy when you do that thing where you smile while biting down on the inside of your cheek like you’re trying to contain it. And you’re confused when two creases appear between your eyebrows, like how they are right now. And it’s just— I mean— why do I know these things? I don’t know these things about James and Peter or anyone, really.”
Remus blinks down at him, looking like he’s in a great deal of pain. “Sirius, you don’t have to—”
“I know there’s a freckle behind your ear,” Sirius cuts him off, “and on the side of your throat and at the base of your right thumb and your left elbow and the back of your left thigh where your shorts ride up in summer and the inside of both of your ankles. And I just, I know these things. They’re locked into my head, couldn’t get them out if I wanted to, couldn’t get you out if I wanted to. And I don’t. I don’t— I just… every time I hear a song I’m thinking , ‘would Remus like this?’ and when I hear a joke I’m thinking, ‘would Remus think this is funny?’ All week I have all these things stored up to tell you, because I want to tell you everything. And just, Friday is my favourite thing, talking to you is my favourite thing, the highlight of my week.”
It’s silent then. The walls feel like they’re caving in around them, like a black hole, and Sirius wishes the room would just get on with it and swallow him whole.
“Sirius,” Remus says, “are you taking the piss right now? Because it’s really not funny.”
Sirius jerks his head back, rattled. “What?”
“I just, I need to know if you’re taking the piss right now.”
“No,” Sirius says, voice raised at the end, like a question. “No, Remus I really do— did you hear anything I just said? I—”
But he’s cut off abruptly as Remus surges forward, his lips clumsily colliding with Sirius’ and Sirius scrambles back to make room for him on the bed and Remus crawls forward until his knees are on either side of Sirius’ hips, not once breaking contact. And it’s messy —hands up shirts and pulling on hair and there’s teeth involved. And when Remus bites down on Sirius’ lip while simultaneously rolling his hips, Sirius jerks back, his head hitting the wall with a thud. “Fuck,” he says.
“Sorry,” Remus mumbles around a kiss.
Sirius scoffs. “No you’re not.”
“No,” Remus agrees. “Not at all.” And then he’s kissing him again, standing on his knees for leverage, pushing Sirius further against the wall, and Sirius’ neck is tilted up at an awkward angle, his muscles a bit strained, and he just doesn’t care, doesn’t care at all. He just kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until Remus eventually pulls a bit back.
“We should maybe talk about this,” he says.
“Later,” Sirius all but whines, his hands on the small of Remus’ back, pulling him closer.
***
“You know,” Sirius says, some time later, the both of them laying on the bed, facing one another, cheeks red and legs tangled, “you ruined my moment. I gave a whole speech about my undying affection for you and you just go, ‘Sirius, are you taking the piss right now?’”
Remus wrinkles his nose. “You ruined my moment. I basically told you I’ve been pathetically pining for you for my entire teenage life and you just laid there with your mouth hanging open.”
“I was in shock!”
“Me too.”
Sirius smiles softly at Remus. Remus smiles back. And it lasts all of a few seconds before Remus’ facial expression turns threnetic.
“What happens now?” Remus says.
“Well, I don’t want to, but I suppose I’ll apologise to Liam. And then we’ll probably tell James and Pete about—”
“No. I mean I have to go home tomorrow.”
“Yeah…”
Remus frowns. “So I mean how is this going to work when we’re miles away.”
Sirius leans in closer, his knees bumping into Remus’. “We’ll still call every Friday,” he says, matter-of-factly, “and Monday too and maybe also Wednesday and Saturday, probably. And you came today, you can come again and I can come to you.” He reaches up to tuck one of Remus’ curls behind his ear. “And we’re graduating next year anyways and you’ll be off to some swotty university and I’m already planning on taking a gap year so I’ll just follow you wherever you go.”
“What?” Remus says around a laugh. “You can’t just follow me to university.”
Sirius’ forehead creases. “Why not?”
“Because,” Remus says exasperated, “you have a home here and, I don’t know,” he fishes around helplessly, “you should be looking for a job or an internship or figuring out what you want to study, not following me across the country.”
“I am not,” Sirius emphasises, “staying at the Potter’s when James leaves for university. They’ve done enough. I don’t want to burden them further.”
“Sirius, you know they don’t see it that way. You’re as good as their son.”
“Yes, yes,” Sirius waves him off. “Okay. But I’m still moving out after I graduate.”
Remus narrows his eyes at him and Sirius grins. “Maybe into an apartment with my swotty university boyfriend.”
Remus sighs. “Sirius, I really think—”
“Remus,” Sirius interrupts, “are you kidding me? I just called you my boyfriend and you completely ignored it.”
“Mm yes that was nice,” Remus says, distracted, “but I just think—”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Sirius cuts him off. “We could be kissing right now. We could fucking be kissing right now.”
And apparently he puts up a good argument because Remus grins at him all resplendent-like before leaning in to close the distance.
“You’ll call on Monday?” Remus asks between kisses.
“And Wednesday and Friday and Saturday,” Sirius agrees and then he pulls back. “We’ll take it one day at a time, yeah?”
Remus sends him a ludibundus grin, eyes shining with amusement. “Stop worrying so much about it, Sirius. We could be kissing right now if only you’d shut up.”
Sirius kicks at him. “You,” he says, “are the worst.”
“You’re the second worst,” Remus whispers, his hand tangling in Sirius’ hair as he pulls him in.