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It's funny 'cause I've always dreamed of me and you
Now here we are
Staring at the stars
It takes some coaxing and positive reinforcement, but Sirius relearns how to chew and swallow by himself. They stick to soft foods for the time being, and Sirius still rests his head on Remus’s shoulder as he eats.
Remus loves watching him eat. It’s admittedly odd, yes, but he can’t get the image of his emaciated body out of his mind, and he knows he never will be able to. He never, ever takes food away from Sirius, no matter how much Sirius asks and reaches for. Remus just watches to make sure what he eats is healthy. After months of nutrient potions he looks much healthier physically but there’s an edge to his skinny body that will likely never fade after a decade of hunger.
So Remus watches him eat, takes comfort in every bite Sirius takes. It’s an odd sort of comfort but they’re an odd sort of people, and after fighting through unimaginable pain and war Remus thinks that it doesn’t matter how weird it may be.
(Molly seems to share the same thing, but about him. The amount she spoons onto his plate when he spends dinner at the Burrow is nearly obscene. He’s gained back some of the weight he’d lost over 16 years of being near-homeless and living from job to job, but she still looked at him like he was a poor stray. She… wasn’t entirely wrong.)
Sirius starts to talk in November.
Short words, spoken as if they’re not the right size or shape for his mouth, gawky and ungainly like a child learning to speak for the first time.
It sounds heavenly to Remus, Sirius’ hoarse voice saying a quiet ‘thank you, ’ or an ‘okay .’
Remus has never been much of a talker, but now that’s all he does. Chats about the weather, about the garden, about nothing at all, just to hear Sirius’ quiet responses.
Sirius fades out more often than not, shifting back into his usual state, far away and barely able to communicate, and Remus will just bite his lip hard enough to draw blood, tuck away his grief, and cradle him in his arms until he returns.
The time it takes for Sirius to return from spacing out grows smaller every day. Barely, but it does.
There’s no fire. Nothing of what makes Sirius Sirius and it might be like this forever but Remus is too damned grateful for what he has now to grieve it. Sirius is here, in front of him, and it’s no help to either of them to mourn who he used to be.
He mostly ignores the magic that Remus casts, and never attempts or accidentally creates any himself. Remus is almost absurdly grateful, because accidental magic in this state could be disastrous for the progress they’ve made.
Sirius explodes, sometimes, like a bomb’s escaped its casing. It’s unprecedented and loud and exhausting. He screams nonsense, mouth unable to form the words his brain cannot construct. It can be triggered by anything, but usually it happens directly after loud noises, like an owl running into the window or thunder when it storms.
Remus, guiltily, likes this more than the quiet.
Sirius spends his days outside even as the leaves turn red and gold and flutter down to the ground. He picks one up with clumsy hands and gives it to Remus.
“Oh, thank you,” Remus says, pulling off his dirty gardening gloves so he can look closer at the leaf. “It’s beautiful,” he compliments, and Sirius reaches out and hugs him. Remus is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to cry. “Thank you,” he breathes.
Sirius doesn’t say anything from where his head is buried into Remus’ shoulder.
That’s the first moment that Remus can say for certain it turns from loving Sirius because that’s all he really knows how to do to truly falling in love with him all over again.
Sirius is so different and so, so similar and still Remus loves him so much that sometimes he can’t get in enough air to properly breathe.
Sirius ribs gently, cautiously, instead of loud and boisterously like he used to; it makes Remus laugh and scoff all the same. Sirius robs all of the blankets at night— somehow, by morning, every single one is just wrapped around him like a cocoon.
In the mornings, when the sunlight filters in and paints Sirius’ face in peaceful slumber, he watches Sirius, watches him sleep. Painfully young and yet so, so old, with premature wrinkles and grey lining his hair. He wants to cup the memory in his hands and hold it close to his heart.
Sirius blinks awake blearily and meets his eyes. His hair is mussed from sleep.
Remus’ lips curl into a soft, embarrassed smile. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and turns his gaze to the ceiling.
A moment later, Sirius rests a hand on Remus’ chest, splayed out above his heart. Remus breathes, feeling the rise and fall of Sirius’ hand.
“You… say you… love me,” Sirius says slowly, his voice slow and cautious and slurred, and Remus stops breathing.
“I— I’m sorry. If that makes you uncomfortable. I can stop. You don’t have to…”
Sirius curls his fingers, and Remus stammers into silence. “I— love you too,” Sirius whispers, and his voice saying he loves him— Remus bites his lip and resists the urge to gather him into a hug and pepper him with kisses. “I do. J-just— please. Time.”
“All the time you need,” Remus promises, looking over at him.
And for the first time, Sirius smiles.
Luckily for you, I'm patient
I'm okay with your making me wait
And as long as you're near, I'll be here
Even if it takes ten years