Work Text:
one: ...the spleen?
x
“Oh, no…”
Remus stills briefly in the classroom doorway, stomach clenching at the sight that greets him.
Supplies for the lab have already been distributed, and atop each table is a pair of worksheets and tin of required materials. Professor Slughorn stands at the front of the room, eyes bright with an expectant sort of glee that fills Remus with acute dread – or perhaps it is the dozen metal trays that does it. The trays are covered in thin blue sheets, but there’s still enough of a visible lump protruding from them to make Remus want to turn and bolt straight from the room. If this class weren’t already the sticky and relentless thorn in his side then surely he would be, but as it stands…
“Go on and take your seats, class,” calls Slughorn as they shuffle in. “I have quite the exciting surprise for you today!”
“You’ve been fired, and we never have to see you again?” Sirius asks under his breath. His elbow knocks against Remus’, and Remus isn’t sure if it’s intentional or not. He’s never sure, but it would be ridiculous to ask.
James snorts and Peter’s eyes shoot fearfully to Slughorn to check if he’s heard (he hasn’t of course, and either way it’s not as though he’d actually reprimand Sirius, of all people) before he laughs, too. Remus only manages a weak smile.
Lab partners have been pre-assigned by alphabetical order, but Remus is still too distracted by those metal trays to realise what this means. It’s only when Gilderoy Lockhart is pulling a chair out, legs scraping painfully across the floor, and dropping into the seat across from him that Remus properly comprehends the depth of his misfortune.
“Lupin!” bellows Lockhart. He is really quite aggressively loud, something Remus has never noticed before. “Looks like it’s you and me today, o-ho! I better watch myself, wouldn’t want Black to take a swing at me.”
“Which one?” drawls Regulus, sliding into the vacant seat at the other end of the table. He’s meant to be up at the front of the room – splitting a work station with Anderson and Abott – but Sirius has already claimed the spot next to Remus, impatiently shooing away its intended occupant, and the rest of the room has rearranged themselves accordingly.
James and Peter are conveniently partnered, and no one has even bothered to try sitting on Regulus’ other side. James settles in, grinning as he throws an arm over the back of Regulus’ chair, and says, “Worry not, Lockhart; all bark and no bite, these two!”
Sirius and Regulus shoot him near-identical glares. Glares that no doubt have as much to do with James’ words as it does the way he’s grouped them together. James only laughs.
A moment later, Lockhart glances suddenly again at Regulus, as if he’s only just realised something.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be in this class?” Lockhart asks. He’s frowning, and it’s in an exaggerated, theatrical sort of way. Remus imagines him standing in front of his mirror, practising for hours to get it just right. “I thought you were meant to be the year below us.”
“I was,” replies Regulus, not looking up from his notes. “And now I’m here.”
“His exam scores were the highest recorded, so they bumped him up,” James explains, grinning like a proud mum. “He’s brilliant.”
“He’s a swot,” Sirius corrects, rolling his eyes. “He spends more time in the library than Moony even, which is just ridiculous. Moony loves the library.”
Remus would argue that assertion, but there wouldn’t be any real point. He does love the library. It’s nice and spacious and always smells of musty books and warm cinnamon (which shouldn’t be a pleasant combination, but it really rather is) and it’s also notably less distracting than the dormitory he shares with Sirius, James, and Peter.
But there is another small reason why – though he’d never say this out loud – and it’s that he loves the way Sirius will often join him, on late evenings after most of the place has long cleared out, and plant himself in the chair across from Remus at the round table in the corner, just next to the window. Sometimes Sirius will bring a textbook of his own, sometimes he’ll steal one of Remus’ to flick through, or sometimes he’ll just sit there, still and quiet in a way he so rarely is, until Remus is ready to go. And if Remus occasionally prolongs those nights – staring blankly at his books long after his eyes have gone blurry – only to keep feeling the way Sirius’ knees knock against his own under the table, the way their ankles have found their way wrapped around each other, the soft smile Sirius sends him every so often when their eyes meet… Well. That’s nobody’s business but his own.
The last of their classmates are finally filtering in, just as Slughorn finishes outlining their assignment on the board with a flourish. Remus’ eyes skim over the words ‘frog’ and ‘dissect’ and ‘large intestine’ before he has to abruptly turn his gaze to his lap. He stares intently at the pilling sleeves of his jumper, yanking at loose green threads, trying to focus on deep breaths and counting sheep and every other nonsense trick his mother has given him over the years.
“Moony?” Sirius nudges their shoulders together, leans in close. His breath hits Remus’ cheek; he is close and warm and altogether distracting. Remus loses track of the sheep. “You alright?”
Remus manages a jerky nod. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, no, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Cause you don’t have to be partners with him, you know,” Sirius says, not bothering to keep his voice down. “I can go talk to ole Sluggy right now, and–”
“It’s fine, Sirius, really. Lockhart’s not an issue.”
The corners of Sirius’ mouth turn down. He glares across the table at Lockhart, who is busy holding up a scalpel to his face and preening at its reflection.
“Right,” Sirius says tightly. “Sure, of course. I’ll leave you two to it, then.” And then he turns pointedly away, hunching over his and Regulus’ tray.
Remus stares at him for a minute, the twitching muscle in his jaw, and wishes he could get away with sliding his foot over and maybe even hooking it around Sirius’ shin. But that has never been his move. He has never once mustered the courage to be the first to do so, not in all of those library nights, and he’s certainly not about to find it now, amidst the stiffened set of Sirius’ shoulders and the thunderous look on his face.
Instead, he turns back to Lockhart, who apparently decides his hair has reached the proper level of primping and finally relieves the scalpel of its vanity-serving duties.
“Er,” Remus says to him. “Would you like to start?”
Lockhart’s grin is wide and instant. Much like his frown, it looks entirely manufactured. “You know, Lupin,” he says, “I’ve already completed this lab so many times I can hardly keep track! So, in the spirit of furthering your education, I think it best if you lead this one, eh? I’m more than happy to offer my expertise whenever you find yourself stuck–” Gilderoy leans closer, though his voice remains at the same volume, “and I’m not ignorant of your struggles in this class, so don’t be shy about asking for my help, alright…that’s why I’m here, after all!”
Remus blinks, taken aback. This is, by a good margin, his worst class, and yet he is certain his average is still a good fifteen points higher than Lockhart’s.
“Erm, alright…” Remus says slowly. He stares Lockhart a long moment, contemplative, until something nudges at his shin. He glances over, expecting to find Sirius glaring at Lockhart, but Sirius’ eyes are locked on him. Remus, heart thumping, lifts a brow in question. They pass a long moment, and heat begins to crawl up Remus’ neck, his cheeks, and it truly is unbearable whenever Sirius does this. It has to be intentional, and it’s entirely unfair because surely Sirius knows – surely he knows –
Embarrassment is what finally allows Remus to break their staring contest (he was losing, badly) and refocus on the assignment. He’s certain his face is tomato red, but he can’t exactly do anything about that, so he clears his throat twice, swallowing past the lump that has formed there, and picks up the scalpel firmly.
“Alright,” he says again, not moving his gaze from the table. He slides the edge of their metal tray nearer to him – trying to ignore the churning sensation in his gut – and whips off the blue towelette in one motion.
The frog's insides, having already been thoroughly prepared for the lab, are open and laid bare for all to see.
A truly apt metaphor.
Fighting his twisting discomfort, Remus glances at their worksheet and then points the tool’s metal tip against the first organ from their corresponding diagram. “So, erm, here we have–”
He is not able to finish his thought, before Lockhart’s voice is trampling over him.
“The lung, certainly!” says Lockhart, after little more than a cursory glance. “Yes, yes, I’m sure of it. You know, my uncle is a surgeon, and he’s invited me to assist on several of his more complicated procedures – he’s not technically supposed to, but I’ve got such an eye for these things that he makes an exception – and while the human lung is much larger than a frog’s, of course, there’s not a single doubt in my mind–”
“I believe that’s the spleen, actually,” Sirius cuts in drily, peering over. He then points to a pair of organs that are significantly larger and nowhere near where Remus’ scalpel rests. “Those,” he says, smirking, “are the lungs.”
Sirius is right in Remus’ space again, the tie of his uniform loosened at the collar and forearms leant across their table in a way that would ordinarily be distracting, but at the moment Remus is feeling lightheaded for a very different reason. The room has begun spinning and suddenly it requires every ounce of his focus just to stay upright in his chair.
Remus’ hand trembles, just slightly, and it makes the spleen – because it is the spleen, undoubtedly, which anyone with access to a textbook and half a brain could see – move under the scalpel’s touch. “Right, okay, so that’s…that’s…”
The words die on Remus’ tongue; his tongue which feels much too heavy and swollen for his mouth. His stomach jolts with a stark bout of nausea as black dots filter over his vision. The alarmed widening of Sirius’ eyes is the last thing Remus sees just before he loses consciousness altogether.
two: monster voice
x
Remus is not unfamiliar with sickness and injuries. Most of his youth was spent in and out of the hospital, undergoing various treatments and procedures, and while it is certainly not something one ever quite gets used to – the poking and prodding and discomfiting feeling of your body being not entirely right – the whole ordeal of it becomes a bit less surprising after awhile. It does help, though, to have coping strategies on hand.
Remus’ mother is the one who came up with monster voice.
It was something she’d do to ease the taste of unpleasant medicines, or the unwelcome feel of a needle pricking his flesh. A deep, silly, overly affected voice, complete with Frankenstein arms and an exaggerated funny face. She’d say things like:
Remus drink cure, Monster saaaave Remus! or, Needle drain poison, little blood, Monster saaaave Remus! or, Remus sleep good, Monster watch him … Monster saaaave Remus!
The monster was always saving Remus. He has only ever told Sirius about that.
When Remus’ eyes flutter open he finds himself staring right up into some very harsh, very fluorescent lighting.
“Mmph.” He squeezes his eyes promptly shut and tries to roll over, but something there’s something hard blocking him. “What–”
“If you want a cuddle, Moons,” drawls a very familiar voice, “you know you only ever need to ask.”
Remus reluctantly opens his eyes again and this time, instead of the ceiling, it’s Sirius grinning down at him. Remus has curled the upper half of his body over Sirius’ lap, his head pressing into Sirius’ hip bone, face horrifyingly close to his crotch. “Oh, Christ–” Remus abruptly tries to sit up, but a wave of dizziness overtakes him, and he collapses back down.
Something warm is there to cushion his head from the ground. Sirius’ balled-up leather jacket.
“Alright, love, let’s not get crazy just yet,” says Sirius. He’s laughing softly, but if Remus’ vision weren’t so unreliable at the moment he’d say Sirius’ cheeks looked a bit pink.
“What happened?” Remus manages to ask. His voice is a bit croaky, but it’s his woozy stomach that seems to be the main issue.
“Ah, well, it seems Mr Frog here had your number today. You were hardly out a few seconds, though, not to worry.”
“Oh, sure, now it’s nothing to worry about,” mumbles a voice just outside of Remus’ peripheral. Regulus. “After you bit my fucking head off for telling you that same thing.”
Remus blinks up at Sirius, who has plastered on an overly innocent impression.
“You bit his fucking head off?” Remus asks drily.
Sirius grins. “All bark my arse.”
Suddenly James’ face appears next to Sirius’, eyes wide. Both of them are peering down at him, and Remus is starting to feel a bit ridiculous now.
“Hiya, Moony,” James says brightly. “Don’t feel bad, alright? Pete was a goner just seconds behind you, even knocked our tray off and hit his head on the way down. Caused a bit of a mess.”
“Christ–” Remus blinks in alarm. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” Sirius says, eyes rolling, just as James confirms, “Sluggy’s bringing him to the hospital wing now, but he came to just before you! Sends his love, well wishes, etcetera. Also, I brought this for you, so–”
James holds up a bag of ice then, which Sirius snatches from his hands.
“Great, cheers, Prongs,” says Sirius quickly. “You can run along now. And take my limpet little brother with you, won’t you please?”
The rest of their classmates are already being herded out the door by Lily – Remus can see her red ponytail swinging, and her Prefect Evans voice is in full effect – and James stands with a groan, knees crackling. He flicks Sirius’ forehead, right between his eyes.
“Feel better, Remus,” James says, grinning, and then winds an arm around Regulus’ shoulders, practically dragging him from the room.
It goes quiet, then. The woozy feeling in Remus’ gut has receded, which is helpful because it means he manages to sit up without any issues, but unhelpful because it means he feels the full press of Sirius’ hand on his back as it reaches out to steady him.
“Feel stupid,” Remus mumbles awkwardly. He pats a hand through his hair, grimacing slightly at the matted feeling of his curls. “Was just a frog, don’t think it needed to be this much of an ordeal.”
“Lockhart wanted to start doing compressions on you.” Sirius’ jaw is tight, but he also looks as though he’s fighting a smile. “Compressions, Moons. Said his surgeon uncle taught him how, it was bloody ridiculous.”
Snorting, Remus says, "Should’ve taken you up on that re-pairing offer when I had the chance.”
“You never listen, Remus,” Sirius says airily, “but I’m always looking out for you.”
Sirius smiles and Remus smiles back and then they are two people just…smiling. At each other.
Remus clears his throat after a minute. “Er, right, so, I think I’m fine now, actually, feel much better.” He nods to the ice. “You can toss that, I didn’t even…” Now Remus frowns, trying to remember. He pats his head again carefully, but there doesn’t seem to be a bump of any sort. “I, erm, didn’t hit my head, did I?”
“Of course not.” Sirius sounds offended. “Would I ever let that happen?”
“Then what’s with the ice?”
Sirius’ eyes clear and his smile grows wider then, slanting with a familiar edge. “Well, you see,” he says, “it all happened so quickly, and while now it’s clear you’re fine that might not have been wholly obvious at first. And so someone – not me, of course, but someone – might have, erm, very politely asked Prongs to get you some. You know, just in case.”
Remus presses his lips together to tamper down his smile. “You bit James’ fucking head off, too, didn’t you?”
“You fainted, Moons! And then you were just lying there, all pale and sweaty like some sort of sickly Victorian heroine! It was all very dramatic, and surely never would’ve happened if you were partnered with me, like you ought to have been in the first place.”
Remus doesn’t say that there was no part of his fainting spell that had anything to do with Lockhart. He thinks it, but is suddenly too distracted by the way Sirius is tilting his head at him, dark hair curling down his jaw. There’s a pair of freckles on his neck, just at the spot where his shirt is opened – two buttons more than regulation – and Remus has spent a lot of time over the years staring at those freckles, that patch of skin, this boy in front of him. It’s never gotten much easier.
“We should…erm…” Remus’ voice has gone hoarse, and it’s surely obvious. “Class?”
“You’re in recovery, Remus,” says Sirius, mock-somberly. His lips are quirked and his cheeks are pink and they are sitting much too close together. “And I need to be here to supervise you, so I think it's best we take the day. But we'll really have to sell it, alright, or Minnie’ll have my head. Brace yourself…”
Sirius leans forward then, and Remus' heart goes so weird in his chest he worries he might actually need those compressions soon. Any second now. Sirius cups Remus’ jaw with one hand, and quicker than Remus can follow he’s pressing the ice bag right against Remus’ head with the other. Remus gasps at the shock of the cold, and Sirius’ thumb swipes softly across his cheek.
Sirius grins, his mouth moving to brush the shell of Remus’ ear.
“Remus head bad, cold soooo good!” Their temples knock together and Sirius’ voice has gone croaky and ridiculous. “Monster saaaave Remus! ”
three: it is a truth universally acknowledged
x
It’s a week later when they’re sneaking into the kitchens. It’s well after hours but only a few seconds pass before Sirius re-emerges from the communal pantry, arms laden with biscuits, chocolate cake, and more crisps than they could possibly eat in one sitting.
The air is finally warm enough to sit outside so they park themselves in the grass, backs against the housing building, snacks spread across their laps.
“We should beg off tomorrow,” Sirius says. He has his head tilted, staring sideways at Remus. Remus is doing a poor job of pretending not to notice. “Go down to the lake. James says he’s in, and he’ll convince Reg and Peter easily.”
Remus frowns. “We can’t, we have the–”
“Oh, come on, Moons, exams can be retaken; your precious Austen will still be waiting for you on Monday. But the lake? Well, that could dry up before the weekend and then how would you feel!”
Remus doesn’t bother poking holes in that logic, it is paper-thin as is. “McGonagall will gut us if we skip,” he says flatly. And it’s true, she will. She had not bought Remus' supposed head injury for even a second.
“Irregardless–”
Remus lifts a brow. “Not a word.”
“Well,” Sirius huffs, waving a hand, “irregardless of that, I want to swim in the lake! Don’t you want to swim in the lake, Remus? What if I promise to play mermaids with you, will you say yes then?”
Remus snorts, eyes rolling. “Just because you didn’t read the book, doesn’t mean–”
“Remus, please,” Sirius says suddenly, turning to him with wide eyes and a burning sort of urgency. Remus can only stare back, startled. Sirius swallows thickly, and says, “In vain I have struggled.”
“Oh, Christ,” Remus’ stomach unclenches, and he shoves him away, “you are so bloody rid–”
Sirius grips both of Remus’ hands between his own, and presses their foreheads together. He’s grinning maniacally, and it is rather at odds with his imploring words. “It will not do, Remus. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Remus bites his cheek. His chest tightens painfully, but he manages to lift his mouth into some semblance of a smile. “Have you no compassion for my poor nerves?” he murmurs finally, knowing it would be too strange not to play along.
It is, after all, not Sirius’ fault those words feel like a punch to the gut.
Sirius releases his grip then and Remus’ skin burns all along the palms. He flexes both hands in his lap, trying to be subtle about it.
Picking up his fork, Sirius stabs an enormous bite of chocolate cake and waves it around in the air. “Oh, on the contrary, my darling…”
four: lemonade mouth
x
They skip class and spend the day at the lake.
Upon their return, McGonagall promptly gives the five of them a month’s detention and makes them sit for the exam that very minute.
Halfway through, Sirius glances up from his paper and catches Remus’ eye. His hair is even darker than usual – still wet, dripping from the ends – and his mouth spreads into a slow, lazy grin.
Remus thinks of how he’d looked just hours earlier, water sliding down his bare torso, pooling in the divots of his collarbone. How they’d laid out in the sun afterwards, passing around the food they had (yet again) swiped from the kitchens. The pink of Sirius’ mouth as it curled around a bottle of sweetened lemonade, and the bob of his throat as he swallowed.
The way their knuckles brushed together as they made the long trek back to school. The surprising, vaguely nervous look Sirius wore after the first time it happened.
The pleased, pink-cheeked smirk he wore after the fifth time.
A month’s detention is rather a lot, Remus supposes.
But undoubtedly worth it.
five: a pinecone's fate
x
Sirius gets the spliff off a guy he and James play footie with. He shows up to their dorm with it after practise, grin bright, rolled paper brandished in the air like a trophy. He throws open the window, plops himself down on Remus’ bed, and is lighting up in seconds.
Two hits in before he’s holding it in Remus' face, who only frowns back at him.
“I’m studying,” Remus says, lifting his textbook pointedly. There are several more sprawled across his lap which Sirius pushes impatiently away as he scoots closer.
Remus sighs. It is – or was – a rare quiet day in the dorm; James has presumably gone off with Regulus somewhere, and Peter is down by the lake chatting up a cute brown-haired girl named Eunice who sits in front of them in maths and last week changed the bands of her braces to purple after Peter offhandedly said it was his favourite colour. Remus is meant to be spending this free time revising, but one look at Sirius’ pleading eyes and he can feel those plans slipping away.
It’s pathetic, really, how easily he gives into Sirius. He should be learning to set boundaries, protecting what little (nonexistent) self-respect he has left. What he shouldn’t be doing is letting Sirius arrange himself so their limbs are tangled together, a messy tetris stack of teenage boy. What he shouldn't be doing is letting Sirius stick the spliff between Remus' lips, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. What he shouldn’t be doing is dropping his palm to Sirius' hair, fingers carding through the strands with entirely too much care. And what he certainly shouldn’t be doing is letting Sirius strip himself of his jersey – I'm sweaty, d’you really want that all over your sheets? – and tuck his hands under Remus’ jumper – for warmth, Moons, I’m bloody freezing – and then collapse right back down to lying, now shirtless, with his body draped all over Remus’.
But Remus does this all anyway. He does this because he is, as already noted, pathetic. And weak. And so alarmingly in love with Sirius it’s starting to get embarrassing.
(This is a lie, of course. Remus is quite positive he passed embarrassing about three years back.)
So he sucks an inhale, shoves the rest of his books to the floor, and tries to ignore the wild thrumming of his pulse as Sirius lolls his head back, grinning at him crookedly.
Forty-five minutes later they’ve smoked their way through a quarter of the joint, managing to contemplate the unexplored expanse of all known universe, rank which of Sirius’ laughs sound most like a dog and which sound most like a racecar (they move on, only after Sirius complains his throat is starting to hurt), and argue over the true and proper way to pronounce the word ‘bird’.
“You’re just saying it odd, Moony, dunno what to tell you,” says Sirius. He’s turned on his front so that their stomachs and chests are pressed together, his arms spread out to the side, face tucked somewhere between Remus’ neck and collarbone.
(Remus is not thinking about the fact that, in this current position, their hips are also aligned. That would be an issue for Sober Remus, and he floated far out the window several drags back.)
“Bird,” Remus mumbles quietly to himself. Their dorm room looks nice like this, all hazy and orange-hued from the afternoon sun. “Biiiird. Bird. Buuuuuuur–”
“Remus?” Sirius’ voice is muffled, his mouth now pressing into Remus’ neck, but Remus can still make the words out perfectly. He is a very good listener; his mum always says so. “Do you think we’ll still be friends?”
Remus frowns slightly. “When?”
“Just…I want to always be your friend, alright?” There’s a tight pressure around Remus’ waist now, Sirius’ hand, squeezing. “You’re the best one I've got. D’you promise?”
It is marginally more difficult to swallow than it should be. “Yes,” says Remus quietly. “Yes, alright, I promise.”
He doesn’t tell Sirius that he’s already made this promise. That he made it on the first day they met at eleven years old, and that he’s continued making it every day of every year since then. Sirius is his friend. And Remus knows he would rather let the twisting, aching pressure in his ribs grow and grow until he finally suffocates with it than to ever risk losing Sirius altogether.
His arms are wound loosely around Sirius' waist and he traces slow circles up and down his back, watching, fascinated, as goosebumps appear in a patchy trail.
Sirius shifts his hips slightly, and Remus has to squeeze his eyes shut. He tightens his grip, trying to hold Sirius still.
"Stop squirming," he says (pleads, really), but Sirius only does it again. Remus can feel his smile against his neck.
“Tell me a story, Moons,” Sirius says hoarsely, after a minute. He's finally stopped moving. “A nice one.”
Remus is not surprised by the change of subject; this is a regular request Sirius asks of them all.
James, when it’s his turn, likes to make up outlandish, fairytale-esque stories, each one featuring a handsome prince and detailing his endless string of heroic acts. He often acts them out with a makeshift sword (pair of socks, dirty) and a crown atop his head (boxers, clean…hopefully). Peter leans towards ghost stories, though it’s never clear why as he only ever seems to frighten himself. Regulus refuses on principle – you’re not a child, Sirius, just close your eyes and think of Queen and country – and Remus usually just picks whichever paperback happens to be nearest him and starts from the middle (at Sirius’ request – the build-ups make him restless).
But at the moment, Remus doesn’t particularly want to lean over for his current read (Orlando; he felt the need for something which he could attach his floating heart to) and risk displacing Sirius. They’re still high enough that this can be easily written off in the morning. Not that there’s anything to write off on Sirius’ end.
Sirius nudges him then. “Go on, Moony, anything you like.”
There’s something about Sirius’ hair – the smooth, shiny quality of it – and the way he still smells faintly of grass, that calls something to mind.
“Alright,” Remus clears his throat, “erm, well.” And then he stops, chewing on his mouth awkwardly. This is quite a bit easier to do with the protection of a book in front of his face. Like this, Sirius’ attention entirely on him, Remus feels a bit too much like that frog; all laid bare and…stared at.
The silence drags and Sirius lifts his head, pokes him again. “Once upon a time…” he prompts.
“Right,” Remus scratches his nose, and shifts slightly to get more comfortable. “So, once upon a time, there was a naiad called Daphne, and she was incredibly beautiful–”
“Uh oh,” says Sirius.
“Well, yes,” Remus agrees.
And then he continues the story, right through Apollo’s unwelcome advances, Daphne’s frightful race for escape, and how at the last second her father – a river god – turned her into a laurel tree in order to save her.
When Remus finishes, Sirius – who has been a very rapt audience, gasping in all the right places – lifts himself onto one elbow, and says, “Christ, I asked for a nice story, Remus, not a fucking depressing one.”
His eyelashes are long and dark and casting shadows across his cheeks. He looks amused.
Remus picks at the skin by his nails just for something else to focus on. It's raw and pink. “Well," he says, "it’s a nice finish at least. She got her freedom in the end, didn’t she?”
“She was turned into a tree!”
“She became one with nature,” Remus insists, trying to appear solemn. It’s difficult, in the face of Sirius’ burgeoning grin. “It’s an enviable fate.”
Sirius snorts loudly. “A pinecone’s fate, more like,” he says, and Remus huffs but doesn’t reply.
Eventually, Sirius shifts off Remus and rearranges himself so they’re lying beside each other on the mattress, heads on their own pillows. Remus tries not to feel bothered by it. And he’s much more comfortable like this, anyway, without Sirius kicking him every two seconds and his bony elbows digging into Remus’ stomach, right into his – er, spleen. Lungs. All of the above.
Carefully, Remus tugs the blanket up until it covers both their shoulders. He watches Sirius’ eyes flutter shut.
Neither of them speak for a while and Remus’ eyes begin to grow as heavy as the rest of him feels. He thinks Sirius has already fallen asleep, his breaths going slow and even, but a few minutes later he suddenly murmurs,
“I would still love you if you were a tree, Moons.”
It takes Remus quite a long time to fall asleep after that.
+one: you drool in your sleep
x
Remus is having a pleasant dream. More than pleasant, really, though it’s the sort of dream where he isn’t entirely sure what’s going on, or who he’s with, only that it smells like forest pine and spiced apples and everything feels warm and slow and syrupy and his limbs have gone heavy and unmoveable. This is unfortunate, because he’d really quite like to move them. He has the absent sort of notion – even in this hazy, abstract state of semi-consciousness – that being able to shift his body, even an inch or two, would exponentially increase this nice feeling. Prolong it even.
Something brushes near Remus’ waist – a bird, he imagines, for what else would be so light and feathery – and Remus distantly hears the soft exhale as it leaves his mouth. Warmth pools in his abdomen, and it must be obvious because the bird seems to follow it, sweeping its touch along his stomach, his ribcage, pressing into the knobs of his spine. Remus wonders, vaguely, how a bird has managed to get itself stuck inside his jumper, and then he wonders how Sirius has managed to turn himself into a bird.
Remus wants to laugh at the thought, but the sound that leaves his throat is decidedly lower and rough. Almost instantly, the pressure leaves his skin, but Remus only has a second to mourn its absence before it’s back again, growing steadily harder now, and that previous pleasant feeling promptly somersaults into something closer to electricity and heat. It fizzes right down Remus’ spine, and everything is suddenly quite urgent, burning, and Remus thinks he should really start to run now because it’s all building much too fast and that warmth in his abdomen is spiking painfully and–
The same moment Remus regains use of his limbs is the same moment he bursts through those last dredges of sleep and into consciousness. His hands curl into fists automatically, and a second later he forces his eyes open to see what it is he’s clinging onto.
Sheets are wrinkled beneath one hand, but it is decidedly not fabric he holds in the other. Sirius is blinking back at him, his eyes silver and sleepy in the weak morning light, and Remus’ fingers are digging into his shoulder blade, thumb brushing the edge of his collarbone.
Remus feels his cheeks flush and he immediately makes to pull away, but Sirius grabs ahold of his wrist, right at his pulse point.
“Your heart is racing,” Sirius says softly, after a moment. He turns Remus’ hand, gaze trained on the spot where his thumb brushes those blue-green veins crawling down Remus’ palm. And then Sirius mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Knobby, baby-bird wrists,” but Remus isn’t quite sure.
Remus' head feels as though it’s been wrapped in cellophane and he can hear nothing but the blood rushing through his ears, and see nothing but the soft parting of Sirius’ pink mouth; the fullness of his lips, how they glisten slightly.
Sirius looks up then, and when their eyes meet everything goes so hazy Remus wonders if he’s somehow, impossibly, still high. It’s hard to think, it’s hard to remember why he can’t trust the look on Sirius’ face, and why he can’t trust the hope bubbling up in his stomach. He tries to remind himself of the string of boys and girls that have passed through Sirius’ attentions over the years, always so fleeting, but for some reason all that's coming to mind is the time last term when Fabian Prewett left a mottled hickey the size of a fifty pence coin on a very visible patch of Remus’ neck and everyone saw it and part of that ‘everyone’ included Sirius. And how Sirius didn't speak to him for two whole weeks after that incident, not a single word.
It's impossible not to think of the night Sirius finally crawled into Remus’ bed again, tail between his legs, whispering a forlorn-sounding sorry in Remus’ ear and curling their bodies tightly together. Those were two of the longest and most agonising weeks of Remus’ life, and he'd ended things with Fabian the very next morning without a second thought. But it's also hard not to remember that it has been six months since then, so surely if Sirius actually wanted-
“Remus,” says Sirius. They’re so close together that Remus can feel each of Sirius’ exhales hit his mouth. “Moony, can’t you just–” Sirius is not whining, but his bottom lip does jut out. It’s so pink and so shiny.
There’s a damp spot on Sirius’ pillow, right where his face would’ve been.
Sirius’ hand slips under Remus’ jumper, palm flattening against his stomach. Remus sucks in a sharp breath and his skin is on fire , or maybe even the entire room is. Sirius’ other hand is at Remus’ hip, pulling them flush together – a bolt shoots straight up Remus’ spine – and Remus registers that his hands have somehow buried themselves in Sirius’ hair, and when Remus fingers clench, just barely, he feels a shiver wrack through Sirius’ body. A small noise escapes his mouth, falling right between Remus’ parted lips.
Remus is hardly holding onto sanity. Their noses brush together. Sirius is tilting his head, his jaw, and their mouths rest just on the cusp of touching, barely a whisper of separation.
Between (mortifyingly loud) breaths, Remus manages to say, “You drool in your sleep, you know.”
“Do I?” Sirius asks roughly. He’s smirking against Remus’ cheek when he murmurs, “You moaned in yours,” and then promptly closes the remaining distance, capturing Remus’ lips between his own.
That first press is gentle, searching. It doesn’t last long, barely a second, before they’re pulling back. Remus’ heart is thundering in his chest and he licks his lips, imagining he can taste Sirius there still, the earthy taste of weed and sickly-sweet lemonade. Sirius’ eyes bore into his, and it takes only a second before they’re crashing together again, mouths hot and open and slick.
The slide of their tongues feels like – like Remus is going insane, maybe. He’s delirious on it, and can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed by the sounds he’s making, the way he can’t help but push into Sirius, closer, wanting to feel him against his hip, his thigh. And it helps that Sirius is even louder than he is, letting out noises and whimpers that combine feverishly with each meeting of their mouths, the frantic slide of their tongues.
It is quite messy and uncoordinated and Remus feels close to bursting with it. At one point, Sirius hooks his knee over Remus’ hip, and the angle of their bodies sends sparks colouring his vision. He genuinely worries for a moment that he’s going to pass out again. And then Sirius is pulling back a moment, eyes bright and hair mussed, and his lips are so red and swollen that Remus’ worries get upgraded to death. He might die, here in this bed.
A hysterical, half-baked thought of ‘Lockhart’ and ‘compressions’ enters his mind, but exits just as fast when Sirius ducks his head, latching his mouth onto a spot on Remus’ neck. Sirius mutters something that sounds vaguely like, “fucking Prewett,” before scraping his teeth, sucking hard. Coherent thought devolves quickly after that.
It is minutes, or perhaps hours, when they finally pull back. Remus is breathing hard, and he’s sure his cheeks are at least as red, hair at least as wild, as Sirius’. He has never cared about anything less.
They stare at each other a long, drawn-out moment. Remus isn’t sure what to say. He isn’t sure what this is – to Sirius, anyway – and finds himself too afraid to ask.
Lucky, he supposes, that Sirius has never minded being the verbose one.
“Fucking hell, Moony,” says Sirius, collapsing flat on his back. He stares up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. “Could’ve had this so much sooner if you weren’t such a closed fucking book all the time.”
Remus frowns. He grabs his pillow and wraps his arms around it. “Me? ‘S not as if you said anything either…”
Sirius’ laugh is sharp and sudden. “You’re joking, right?” He sits up again, bright eyes and disbelieving smile. “Remus, I’ve been saying it for years, but you’re always so– Christ, you’re thick, truly, all those hours in the library have absolutely fried your brain. I could not have been more obvious than if I crawled under that desk and–”
“Alright!” Remus’ voice comes out much higher pitched than he’d intended. “Alright, I get it.”
“Do you?” Sirius is smirking at him, and it makes Remus’ heart speed in a very familiar way. “Do you really, because I’d be happy to demonstrate, if you like.”
“I’m going to the kitchens now,” Remus says, hardly aware of the words or their meaning or anything except the mental image of Sirius on his knees– “I’m going, and I’ll bring back food-"
"Cake!"
"-right, sure, cake. And then when I get back we're going to just...sit. Because Peter and James and your brother will surely be back any minute, so maybe we'll put on a film and you're going to sit and watch it and be quiet, alright?"
Sirius leans back against Remus’ headboard and mimes zipping his mouth shut. Then he folds his hands behind his head, grins lazily.
Remus clears his throat, turns to go.
“Oh, wait, Moony?” says Sirius, before Remus has even made it off the bed. His voice has turned strangely sombre. “There is just one quick thing I need to ask you.”
Remus turns back, trying not to look as nervous as he suddenly feels. “What is it?”
Sirius tilts his head. His eyes are wide and there’s an odd set to his mouth that does nothing to help Remus’ worry. Slowly, Sirius asks, “Would you still love me if I were a tree?”
The pillow hits Sirius right in the face. Remus doesn’t even remember throwing it.
“Absolutely not,” Remus says firmly.
He is a terrible liar.