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Kids were kids, and a lot of kids at their age were products of their upbringing. He understood it was a pathetic excuse on their part, but of all the things Remus was happy to spend his time on, delving into the motives and reasons behind the actions of some seasonal bullies was not one of them. All Remus knew, in his own mind, was that he wasn’t going to rise to the occasional bouts of derogatory crap he found himself the target of when they had nothing better to do with their time.
He had faced bigger challenges, dealt with far harsher restrictions, and from a young age had been preparing to fight his corner when it came to his “condition”. Fifteen-year-old boys throwing around slurs was irritating but mostly ignorable. He knew what he was and so did the family he’d made for himself there. Everything else could remain speculation and everyone else could remain guessing, or assuming, or stirring. or pushing, pushing pushing.
He'd become practiced at gritting his teeth behind closed lips and smoothing his face into something that resembled passiveness; roll with the punches, bounce back, look bored. Behind closed doors, it weighed heavy on him. His muscles strained with the stress of pretending the words weren't like barbed vines tightening around him with every thoughtless, sneer.
Then there was Sirius, who’d never quite learned how to let it hit him without recoiling from the blow. Hitting him with words was like hitting him with a fist; if you weren’t close enough to him to pretend it was a quip then you were going to get hit back. He knew him well enough to know it wasn't in his nature, not really. He was perpetually indignant with a pulsing vein of rebellion holding him together as though he was some broken British boy version of Kintsugi, but in his nature he was soft... until it came to his friends.
“Ignore it,” he tells him again. It's permission he knows the other won't accept. If Sirius could see the bone-deep exhaustion lingering in the slow shifts of his body, then he could see the sheen of clammy bitterness building up on Sirius' skin.
“I am.” But Sirius is glaring at them from the side of his eye and his jaw is tense. Remus couldn’t see his fists but he could place a winning bet on them being clenched, white-knuckled, and itching with the effort to say nothing. Everything about Sirius is tightly wound, ready to spring; he has been in one too many confrontations with Sirius to know he wouldn't literally pounce.
Then Sirius is asked if he fancies him, in that jesting spite bullies use when they think they have you in a corner. They chortle in a group, closing ranks, knowing that their power only comes from being a part of the collective. "Fucking shirt-lifter," one says. They make gestures with their hands and comments about what they suspect they get up to behind the closed curtains of Remus' four-poster-bed. "Always knew you were queer for him," another says. "Do you think his family knows he's taking it up the arse from scar face," another adds, gyrating his hips as if his point wasn't satisfactory on its own.
And everything about Sirius says no- from his confrontational stance and squared shoulders, to the slight grimace only given away by the gentle press of his eyebrows under his scruffy black fringe; everything says no but his mouth, and it rips the air out of Remus’ lungs in the way which is so often described as pleasant in books. To him, it feels like choking on a mass of nothing, like trying to breathe in airless space.
“So what if I do?” Shameless to the core, thoughtless beyond that. Anything to stir up those he thinks need to be stirred and shock those he thinks need to be shocked. Remus is starting to think he’d do or say anything to shed himself of the reputation that follows him with his name subconsciously, without meaning to, and in spite of everything else.
Of course, Sirius didn’t want him. Not like that. Sirius didn’t want anyone like that. He’s not surprised at the confession or how little he means it; he’s choked by the fact that had he been there to hear and not see, without the screaming truth to his friend’s entire demeanor, he could almost be fooled by the raw honesty in his voice... He choked with the ease at which Sirius says it; rehearsed and perfect, but not. Something that shouldn't have been fake. Something which Remus feels like he should have heard over and over again in sincerity and bravery. Defending him. Defending them.
Sirius is poised to pounce, he can see it clearly in the roll of his shoulders as he steps in front of him. “So what if I kiss him? Or let him fuck me? Or let him braid my hair? What business is it of yours, huh?” His voice comes out hissed and tight, as if his teeth would rather be tearing out throats than spitting out his possessiveness.
He feels like he should move, intervene, because he knows Sirius and he knows that Sirius will take it as far as he needs to, even if that means someone getting hurt. Especially if that means someone getting hurt. But his body is slow at connecting thought with action, and he stands there a moment longer with his mouth slightly open and his head feeling as heavy as his chest. His cheeks are hot but he doesn’t know whose attention to accredit it to.
"I heard the queer spreads."
He doesn't have time to hesitate in putting his hand on Sirius' shoulder as the other lurches forward. He's almost surprised a simple touch is enough to stop him. His voice cracks only a little on his first few words when he says “Come on Pads, he’s not worth it.”
"Yeah Pads," came another mocking jaunt amongst a cacophony of coos and 'awws'.
Sirius doesn’t turn to look at him, which he thinks he is grateful for because he truly doesn’t know how he would have felt if he’d been looking into his friend's grey eyes when he bites out “well maybe you are.” And there it is again: the void in his lungs, throat collapsing in on itself. He pants out a breath that anybody else could mistake for frustration. But not the two of them. That’s what it takes for Sirius to finally tear his eyes away from the boys and their attempts to gain some control in their boring, structured lives.
Sirius’ eyes dart over his face, his own expression morphing from confusion, to concern, to a sinfully soft understanding. He doesn’t need to be a Legilimens to read Remus, he knows him and sees him. He always has. He can see how overwhelmed he is, how much it hurts, how much he wants it, and how guilty he feels for wanting it. To everyone else they are as they have always been: a little too close and staring a little longer than they should, faces focused in silent communication, only this time it’s something new, and something neither really understands.
“We’re going to be late,” Remus affirms because it's clear that Sirius is unsure how to progress past simply looking at him. Whatever is going on in his head has him paralysed. “Sirius...” this time the move is not tentative when he places his hand back on the other’s shoulder, pressing firmly to bring him back to the present “...let’s go.”
Sirius gives a small plastered-on smile; he doesn’t try to make it convincing, there would be no point. “Come on then babe,” he reaches forward to shamelessly take his hands, his fingers warm and firm as they entwine with his “let’s get to Divination.”